Bruce pulls a bag from the overhead bin and hands it over to Jason; the teenager is already plugged into his phone and they haven’t even been on the ground for ten minutes. “You aren’t going to be listening to that the whole time, are you?”
Jason just looks at him, swinging the over-packed duffle bag around his shoulders; Bruce sighs, resigned.
“Of course you are, why am I not surprised?” He passes Dick his backpack, stubbornly ignoring his eldest’s excited chatter.
“Who wants to surf? I want to surf! And there’s snorkeling and, Tim, do you know all the different food we can try?”
Tim scrubs a hand across his face and mutters something about caffeine; Bruce helps his free hand find the handle to his suit case. His three eldest kids taken care of, Bruce glances around for his youngest son; Damian is nowhere to be seen.
“Damian? Damian! Has anyone seen Damian? Jason?” When the teenager doesn’t look up from his phone, and Bruce waves his hand in front of Jason’s face; finally, he looks up, obviously disinterested, and Bruce waves about the cabin. “Have you seen Damian?”
A shrug—and then he’s right back to scrolling through his phone.
“Roy couldn’t have texted you that much, Jason.”
“I have more friends than just Roy, Bruce.”
Bruce looks around once more for his youngest; it’s not like Damian could’ve gone far. They’re on a commercial airplane, after all; Bruce is about to call out again when a backpack is shoved out of the overhead bin and Damian follows shortly after. Bruce ignores the judgmental stares from the other patrons on the flight. “How did you even get in there?” He’s not expecting an answer, especially not when Damian opens the front zipper on his backpack and pulls out his own phone.
“Alright,” he calls, pulling Jason’s headphones out—to an indignant “Hey!”—and tapping Damian on the shoulder to get his attention. “We’re going to walk off this plane as a group, and we are going to go to pick up our luggage as a group, and then we are going to go to the bathrooms as a group—”
“We go ba’room firs’?”
Bruce just stares at Tim for a moment, translating his sleep speech to English. “Alright, new plan! We are going to get off this plane as a group, we are going to the bathrooms as a group, we are getting our luggage as a group…”
Jason’s moving his mouth and flapping his hand mockingly, and Bruce frowns.
“And then we are going to pick up our car as a group. Any questions?”
“Seeing as how they’re all adopted, Father, can the group just include you and me?”
“No, Damian, it can’t.”
“You tried to ditch us at the last lay over!” Dick pouts. “Don’t you love us, Dami?”
The boy folds his arms and huffs; Jason’s already returned to his phone, and Tim tips forward to rest his forehead against Bruce’s arm. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t forget something—or someone. “Alright,” Bruce says again as the door in the front opens and passengers begin moving forward. “Look at your seats one last time; did you leave anything? Pick up your trash!”
Jason taps an empty soda bottle against his shoulder; Bruce knows his jacket and leather gloves will be shed as soon as the Hawaiian heat hits them. He’d told the boy to leave his fashion statement in Gotham…
Finally, it’s their turn to get moving and Bruce puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder and pushes him forward; the processions is Tim, Bruce, Damian, Jason, and lastly Dick. Dick’s still chattering excitedly, Jason still won’t look up from his phone, and Damian occasionally makes a quip about Dick’s inability to shut up. Bruce sighs; at least the only worry with Tim is if he’ll fall asleep on his feet. Bruce adds finding a Starbucks on their itinerary; he could go for some coffee too.
“But we love you, Damian! Why do you want to get rid of us so much?”
Jason takes too big a step and catches the heel of Damian’s sneakers, which makes the boy whirl a glare on him. “Watch where you step, Todd!”
Jason glares. “Move faster.”
“I’m moving at an appropriate pace; your limbs are too long for a normal person.”
“Who wants to try Huli Huli chicken?”
Damian sniffs, focus still on Jason despite Dick tapping excitedly on his shoulder. “You must be a monkey.”
“Boys, keep moving.” At least they’ve emerged from the terminal; bathrooms next. Bruce scans the signs for restroom directions.
“I’m not a monkey! You’re the monkey.”
“Only an imbecile would be unable to come up with his own insults.”
“I wasn’t the one climbing all over the storage bins in the plane!”
“I hope we get a chance to eat some taro bread too.”
Bruce spots the bathroom; “move out, troops!”
They all shuffle after him, still bantering and chatting; it isn’t until they’re leaving the bathrooms that the silence that’s descended becomes a little suspicious. Bruce turns around to do a quick headcount; yeah, all three are standing there, with the fourth—Tim—at his side. Except…
Dick, Damian, and Jason are staring at Tim and Bruce with wide eyes.
“What?” Bruce asks.
Jason suddenly bursts out laughing, practically doubling over, and he whips his phone camera out quick to start recording; Dick flexes his neck muscles and thins his lips in his classical “oh my god, this is not good” look; Damian makes eye contact with Bruce and points to Tim’s feet.
“Drake forgot his shoes on the plane.”