#batfam fluff

　　FIRE CRACKLING IN THE BACK, muffled by the sounds of Christmas carols playing gently above the mantle piece. Chatter and laughter filled the Wayne manor, as it has done the last few Christmas'.

　　However, this Christmas was different than the others. The Christmas tree had the usual presents underneath, all neatly wrapped. All box shaped, like usual. But to the side were oddly shaped gifts in paper different than the others. Paper that said "First Christmas!" written repeatedly.

　　A baby bag rested on the floor beside the sofa. A play mat laid out with the small infant dressed in clothing her grand-father gifted her. Small teal eyes scanned the room, every adult bar her parents hoovered over her, doting on her. She was the centre of attention. She was the gift of the year.

　　Sitting on the sofa wearing a red (outfit) was her mother. Curled on the sofa with a freshly made cup of tea in her hands, loving eyes watching as her daughter was being showered by the love of her family.

　　Beside her was the second youngest of them all, sitting up in his tuxedo. Damien had his eyes on the baby but refused to go up to her while everyone was here. He didn't like the ideal on people believing he was going soft or had a soft spot for the Todd offspring.

　　"I do not see why a baby who can't sit up on her own needs this amount of gifts" Damian was talking about the many presents the Bat family had bought for baby Martha. You and Jason also bought gifts but they were technically also for one another. You had gotten Jason a baby carrier but wrapped it in the paper Bruce had gotten custom made.

　　Both agreed to make it appear as if they were for baby Martha, but in reality they were actual for you two.

　　"Well, sometimes people will buy gifts for the baby to use the following year." You tried to explain the idea behind it to Damien. "Like. Say if Dick had gifted her a rattle. As the months go on and as she learns to sit on her own, she would show interest in the rattle."

　　"So it becomes useful at a point" Damien summoned down the example.

　　You nod your head. "yes. She would use the rattle at a point"

　　As you both spoke, you noticed how his eyes never left Martha. He always had his attention on her and when she began crying and wiggling on her back, you saw his fists grip the edge of the sofa, like he was about to leap off the sofa and push everyone out the way.

　　He wanted to hold her.

　　"Why don't you go say hi" She nudged him with her heel, her head jerking to the play mat. "She's very fond of her big brother"

　　"I would rather not" Even though he said it and you should take his words as the truth, something about the way he still kept his eyes on her made you believe otherwise.

　　After five months, Damien was still putting this façade up that he was uninterested in the child.

　　Setting your cup of tea on the table side, you got up from the sofa and made your way towards the play mat. Everyone made way for you, allowing you to kneel down and scoop the infant up in your arms, her teal eyes lighting up in an instant to see her mother. "Hi baby girl" You whispered before standing and walking back to the sofa.

　　"Remember what I said?" He didn't even need a reminder because as he saw you walking towards him with the baby, he sat further back into the sofa. His posture as straight as he can make it be.

　　Baby Martha was placed in Damien's arms and everyone watched as the baby smiled. Sure, she was smiling at all her other family, but this was a smile of fondness. Teal eyes sparkled as she reached up to Damien's face, just poking his cheeks. Her giggles filling the room and everyone's hearts.

　　"Told you she was fond of her big brother" You sat down beside Damien, watching the interaction happen. Even when you opened your arms for Martha, she didn't move. She was happy sitting on Damien's lap.

　　"And she'll be very fond of the gift you got her" That caught Damien by surprise. He turned to you with dusty rose cheeks. #

　　"I. . I didn't buy her anything" He stumbled on his words. Something you wouldn't typically see Damien do. Only something he did when he was caught in a lie.

　　"That gift hiding behind the tree isn't from you?" You made it appear as a question, but you knew it was from Damien. He always tried to be secret about his likeness for your baby.

　　The gift was wrapped in "first Christmas" paper like the rest were, but while those were typically red, green and gold. This gift was only black and gold, almost like a certain someone's cape. It was also tucked in the far back of the massive Christmas tree.

　　Almost like it was hiding in shame.

　　"That. . . ." A lost for words. Damien huffed, leaning back into the sofa. Little Martha falling forward so she was resting on his chest, her baby face squished up against his tuxedo shirt. Eyes staring up at Damien. Her stupid smile brought out a smile of his own.

　　"Maybe"

Dick let out a knowing hum that made Jason prickle. He hated that noise as it usually preceded an embarrassing observation of Jason’s actions. Last time he heard it was when Dick revealed that he knew, for a fact, that Jason listened to Chappell Roan despite denying ever hearing of her to Stephanie’s face earlier. (It was from your influence of course, though in his defense he doesn’t pay attention to artist’s names often.) Dick leaned all the more closer, his eyes peeking over Jason’s shoulder to see where his eyes were fixated on, though he knew the answer already, “I dunno Jay, you’re staring at (Y/N) pretty hard there. People might get the wrong impression.”

“That impression being?” Jason asked, his eyes never faltering from you as you laughed at something Stephanie said that made Tim grimace. His mouth twitches as he tries to suppress his smile at the sound.

“That you’re in love with them.”

Dick was expecting Jason’s head to snap towards him, his expression surprised and embarrassed as red takes over his entire face as he attempts to deny his very obvious feelings for you. Instead, Dick is met with a halfhearted shrug as Jason replies, “You’re not wrong.”

Dick blinks. Twice.

“That’s it?”

Jason’s eyebrows furrow as he forces himself to look away from you to look at his older brother with annoyance, “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“Well, I just–” Dick gestured at him, “expected more of a reaction to it, that’s all.”

If Dick had called him out a few months ago, he definitely would have gotten it. When Jason realized he was in love with you he couldn’t look at you straight for a week. Though it helped that you were doing the same as the realization occurred to you at around the same time. It took weeks for Jason’s blushing at the slightest actions of intimacy to get under control. Though, even now, his ears turn a bright red if you manage to fluster him when he’s unguarded. But at this point, Jason was well aware of his love for you and basked in it. So no amount of teasing would fluster him anymore, even from his most annoying brother.

Jason shrugged again, “It’s old news, Dickie. I expected better from you.”

Dick scoffed, crossing his arms to pout over his failed attempt to embarrass Jason, “It would help if you two were around longer than once a night every other week.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

Jason returns his attention back to you. You’re nodding along to whatever story Stephanie has you wrapped into, your emoting makes it hard for Jason to keep a straight face knowing Dick is standing right next to him psychoanalyzing his every move. But when you catch his gaze and your eyes noticeably soften as you send a soft smile his way…yeah, he couldn’t stop himself from returning it even if he tried.

“You should ask them out,” Dick mentioned once your attention returned to Stephanie’s story. He gave Jason a nudge with his elbow, “They’d say yes.”

Jason scoffed, playing along for the hell of it, “You think so?”

“Yeah. You two would look good together.”

Jason straightened a little, looking over, “Yeah?”

Dick met his surprised gaze and gave him a pat on the back, “Yeah. You’d have my approval.” He raised his hands in surrender before the words could leave Jason’s mouth, “Not that you need it, obviously. But we’d approve. Greatly.”

Jason fought the smile rising on his face and lost, turning his head away instead, “Good to know I guess.”

Dick smiled. Being in love was a good look on Jason. Made him look younger, softer; more like a boy than a man roughened by life and its shortcomings. He gave Jason another teasing elbow, “So? You gonna ask them out or what?”

Jason looked back towards you. He was hit by the memories of this morning. He woke up before you, mid-morning sun blinding around the edges of your blackout curtains as you slept soundly next to him. He woke you up with a gentle brush of his fingers on your cheek, your nose wrinkled as you smiled, barely opening your eyes before he leaned over to kiss you.

He remembered breakfast in your kitchen and your discussion over the latest chapter of the book you were both reading together in between quick kisses that Jason couldn’t help stealing. He could still feel your smile against his lips. He remembered spending the afternoon on your couch, your legs over his lap as you both silently read. His hand gently moved up and down your leg as soft music played through your TV. He remembered you two discussing plans for a movie night later that week as you both got ready for patrol with his family, arguing over watching Ms. Congeniality again or if he would finally cave and let you show him Sixteen Candles.

If Jason a few months ago were to see how the pair of you were like now, he’d probably close you out for good. He was never good at being vulnerable around people, not even his friends and family get to see him completely raw. But thinking about it now, he could see himself being vulnerable around you. Eventually and over time. Like how he fell in love with you.

Jason smiled softly, his gaze full of a love and acceptance that made Dick smile with him, “Yeah…I think I will.”

It wouldn’t be until your movie night later that Jason would remember his conversation with Dick. His arm would be across the couch behind you, bowl of popcorn in your lap, he would look over in time to watch you shovel a handful into your mouth. You would miss the soft look in his eyes as you gesture to the screen, “Yeah you can totally tell the script was written by a man, because there’s no way someone could be that out of it on just Midol alone. I would know.” You lean your head against his shoulder, “Unless her chaser was a whiskey.”

Jason snorted at that, his smile soft before he nudged you lightly, “Hey.” You look up at him with a hum, “I got that monthly family dinner at the manor coming up.”

You nod, already aware as it's on your calendar in the kitchen, “Yeah, I know. “

He nudges you again, almost shy, “You wanna crash it with me?”

You stare at him for a good minute. You two have known each other for over three years and have been dating for four months at this point and this was the first time he’s ever invited you to come to the monthly dinner at the manor only meant for family and their partners. Even though some partners came and went, it was a pretty big deal to bring a partner to the family dinner. It was practically a declaration of how serious the relationship was. You straighten as the realization hits you and Jason grins as he said, “There it is.”

“You mean it?” you ask, your hand on his chest as you lean over him to stare directly into his eyes. “You don’t gotta. I don’t mind staying home.”

He presses your hand further into his chest, you can feel the rapid thump of his heart, “I know. Just…can’t think of anyone better I wanna bring.”

You smile, leaning towards him.

 “They’re gonna be so annoying about it,” you say, referencing his family.

“Don’t remind me,” Jason groaned, making you laugh.

As you kissed him slow and sweet, he couldn’t help smiling at the mental image of a shocked Dick when you tell him you two have been dating for over four months under their very noses. And who knows. Maybe your presence would make the monthly dinners all the more bearable from now on.

Dick Grayson (wc: 3k):

It was no secret that Dick liked to date around, especially through his friend groups and teams. He has gotten better about it now that he was older but in his late teens and early twenties, he was a homie hopper. He never hid that part of his past from you. It was hard not to considering that most of your team ups with him involved teaming up with a former lover or one-night-stand of his. Which was why Dick was so surprised when you accepted his confession despite all of the evidence of his romantic shortcomings. Though of course you were no idiot, only agreeing to something casual and unofficial for the time being, fully prepared for Dick and his wayward heart to turn a different direction in a few months time.

Only it didn’t. Dick’s heart stayed where you could see it, where you could hold it. And somewhere along the line, your heart started to stay with Dick too. Whatever you two were now wasn’t “official” but it was definitely beyond casual dates and sleepovers. Neither of you dared to broach the obvious shift towards something more out of fear of rocking the boat. Not to mention that a relationship between the two of you becoming official would cause a rather big wave in the life of a young Damian Wayne.

“Teacher,” Damian said as he walked up to you. He stood straight in a posed stance, chest high and arms folded behind his back out of respect for you. A habit he has refused to break despite your insistence, “I have finished polishing and sharpening the blades.”

In the League of Assassins, you were one of the best in terms of skill and discipline, beating out adults even at the age of sixteen. When Damian was born, you were instructed by his mother to aid as an instructor and mentor when she wasn’t present. She believed that having a sibling figure as perfect as you would further develop his skill.

When he left the league to join his father, all the blame was put onto you. You were starved and beaten for months, years, but you never blamed Damian for that pain, only yourself. When you were sent to bring him back and failed, you were ready to die at his hands. But Damian had changed since then, his father’s teachings gave you the mercy you needed to start over. Bruce kept you under careful watch for many years, only letting you train his wards and his son under his careful eye but as his trust in you grew, so did your edges soften under his care.

It was surprising to no one that Gotham was a home to you now, though your stubbornness would make you claim you were still as nomadic as you were before. Despite the eighteen month lease on your apartment you just renewed.

You reach over and place your hand on Damian’s head, his head bowing under the weight as you praise him, “Good work. You are dismissed.”

Damian was always easy for you to read as someone you practically raised from birth, so it was rather obvious how thrilled he was by your touch and your praise as he seemed to preen under your palm. You can’t help smiling softly in response. When you removed your hand you returned your attention back to the files you were translating for Dick, you had expected Damian to hurry off to do his own work. The code was in Persian and the standard Batcomputer software didn’t account for the linguistic nuances needed for cracking it, it required your utmost attention and priority. According to Dick, anyway. Your bet was that he just wanted an excuse to work on a case with you, an excuse you gracelessly allowed him to have.

But as Damian hovered for several moments, you could tell without looking at him that he had something on his mind he wanted to speak with you about. You waited patiently for him to speak again, “May I speak freely, Teacher?”

You look over, a teasing smile meant to reassure him that he had nothing to be nervous about grew on your face, “You need not ask for permission, Damian.”

He waited silently without blinking, his face stoic as stone.

Oh.

This was serious.

You put the files to the side and turn towards him to give him your direct attention, arms crossed in a casual fashion, “You may speak.”

His stiffness relaxed, moving out of the posed posture with a wiggle of his shoulders and moving his feet though his hands stayed behind his back. His green eyes bore into yours as he asked you point blank, “Do you carry affections towards Grayson?”

Your training serves you well, your only tell being the tiniest twitch of your ear. A tell Damian has never been able to figure out even after years of training. You tilt your head as your heart races in anxiety, putting on an air of nonchalance as you choose your next words carefully, “Affections akin to a friend, perhaps. Or towards a fellow mentor of my student.”

“Nothing…romantic?” Damian questions, not bothered so much as with a slight concern.

On whose behalf, you’ve yet to guess.

“Would that concern you if it were?” you ask in return. When Damian avoids your gaze, you press on, “What troubles you, Damian? You can tell me, I won’t be insulted.”

There’s a long silence as Damian struggles to find the words to say. Meanwhile you’re trying not to noticeably sweat. You weren’t nervous often but you have learned to hide it well. Not even Dick knew you were nervous on your first date together until you told him about it later. Now he insists that he holds your wrist when you two are together, so he could feel how rapid your heart races when you’re near him. He embarrasses you to no end but you’d have it no other way.

“Grayson is…” Damian paused, “He does not have the best track record when it comes to romantic affairs.”

You blink in surprise, your nerves leveling out immediately out of shock.

“I am aware,” you reply, slightly confused as to why this was relevant, “I have worked with many of his former lovers before and he is very open about it.”

Damian furrows his brows, “Does that not bother you, Teacher? How he is still…amicable with his former lovers? How many former lovers he has? Is that not concerning?”

That’s when it dawns on you. He wasn’t concerned on Dick’s behalf, but yours. To him, you were in more danger than Dick was despite being a trained assassin with the number of murders you’ve committed pushing into the quadruple digits. You can’t help relaxing a bit at hearing the genuine concern in the boy’s voice. You don’t even hear his words as he continues to lay down evidence of his concern towards Dick’s intentions with you and how it could end up harming you more than him. All you care about was how touching it was to have him be concerned about you over something you were both taught to be trivial.

“It concerns you that greatly?” you ask, cutting him off mid sentence as your astonishment couldn’t wait another second.

“Of course, Teacher,” Damian replied as if it were obvious, “What bothers me most is your lack of awareness over something so important!” As if remembering his place, he quickly straightens into position again, “My apologies, I stepped out of line.”

You shake your head, a fond smile on your face as you reach out a hand towards him, “Come here, rohi.”

Damian lets you embrace him, something the both of you rarely did in your past. When Damian was younger, he would often come to you during the night in tears, scared from visions of the day's lessons. That would be the only time you would hold him was when he cried. Neither of you spoke of it as it was a shameful act. But now that you two were reformed, embracing was still something you both struggled to get used to without the shame attached to it. It was because of Dick’s constant physical affection that the both of you were able to hold each other without shame.

Damian’s arms circled around you, his face pressed against your chest as your chin rested on his head. After a moment, you spoke, “Damian, your concern is warranted and will be carefully considered going forward. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

His hold tightens if only for a moment, “I do not like how close Grayson gets to you, Teacher. His intentions are clearly more than platonic.”

You hum, a cheeky smile growing on your face knowing he can’t see it, “I am inclined to agree.” You pause before adding, “Not that I mind his intentions.”

At that, Damian moves back slightly to look up at you, disgusted, “You find his intentions…worthy?”

You shrug, “If he has the courage to attempt, who am I to deny it?”

“Teacher,” Damian all but pleads.

“I promise to be cautious,” you respond, cupping his face as tenderly as a parent would their child. “If his intentions prove to be less than pure, then I shall deal with it.” Damian opens his mouth. “Alone.”

He grimaces, jerking his head out of your hands to pout, “Very well. But I cannot promise that I will be cordial with him if he proves my cautions correct.”

“I would expect nothing less from my dearest student,” you reply with a warm smile. After a pause, you ask, “Do I have your blessings then?”

His eyes narrow, “You are not the one who should be asking that of me.”

“He is your brother, is he not?”

“Yes, but you are my teacher,” he replies, “Teacher is greater than brother. So if his intention is pure, it's only right that he asks me first.”

You laugh, “Of course.”

Damian looks up at you, still in your arms in a loose hold. He always knew that Bruce Wayne was his father and thought of him as such even now. He took Damian under his wing like a duck to water. But you…you raised him to be the person to make the choice to be better. He was always grateful to you for that.

“If I give permission,” Damian says, eyes fixated on yours, “would you accept his courtship?”

You smile before you pull away, running a hand through his hair soothingly, “I guess you’ll have to allow it and see for yourself, rohi.” You give him a pat on the back, “If that is all, run along. I have translating work to do.”

“Yes Teacher,” he replies with a bow in your direction before he hurries off, a small smile on his face and you can only assume what kind of plans start to form in his mind.

By the time you finished translating and decoding the files for Dick, it was late in the evening. You figured Dick would be in the cave by now as he usually was most evenings before patrol. He was the only one other than Bruce to want to be in the cave earlier than he needed to be. His head rose when he heard you walking down (a courtesy after you snuck behind the Bats and Birds one time too many), he sent you a sweet smile that made his cheeks dimple. Dick’s blue eyes flicked around to check for watchful eyes, before he laid on the charm, “Missed me?”

“No more than normal,” you effortlessly reply. You hold out the folder towards him, “Translated and decoded.” As he accepts it you add, “I believe payment was dinner at Giovanni’s, I was thinking next weekend.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, turning back towards the table he was sitting at. He flipped open the folder to give the message a read, “I’ll have it ready for pick up at seven.”

You can’t help lingering. You lean your rear against the edge of the table next to him, watching Dick read over your translation with a hand over his mouth. You watch his eyebrows furrow as his mind starts to run rampant with connections to other evidence and information, weaving together the truth like a tapestry in real time. It was beautiful to watch.

Dick notices your far off stare and he looks over, a smile on his face despite the slight concern in his tone, “Everything alright? Did something happen during your training with Damian?”

You pause for a moment before a small embarrassed chuckle leaves your throat, “Damian claims you carry affection towards me akin to your past lovers.” You break your gaze from his, “He’s worried on my behalf.”

“Oh,” came Dick’s lame reply.

The file lay forgotten now as tense silence filled the air between you. You could hear Dick fidget his fingers against the table. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

You bite the bullet.

“Do you?”

“Sorry?” Dick’s head snapped in your direction.

You hate feeling nervous, you hate it when your body reacts physically to things in a way you can’t control. You were taught to be that control, to be obedient in the mind, body, and soul. But you can’t help loosening the reins if it meant you got to feel the rush Dick’s presence gives you. It makes the horrid feeling almost worth it.

You look over, trying to be casual though you can feel your mask slipping due to his presence. He always had a way of seeing parts of you you’d rather not show. Your mouth goes dry, as it always does around him out of the nerves he causes. You swallow before saying, “Do you hold affection towards me like that?”

Dick studies you for a moment. Your eyes seem more flickery than usual, bouncing around between his eyes like you can’t bring yourself to stay fixed to just one. Your throat bobs when you swallow again. Your cheeks look flushed.

Dick jumps to his feet when he realizes you're nervous. That you’re showing him that you were nervous. You were being open with him for the first time. He takes your hands as he stands in front of you, gripping them tight with sincerity, “Does it bother you that I do?”

You pause for a moment.

“Not…necessarily,” you confess. “Your affection doesn’t trouble me so much as your commitment. If your affection towards me is no different than towards others in the past, my mind compels me to draw from your past failures as warnings. Even so,” your grip tightens on his hands, “I can’t convince my heart to turn away from you. I’m not usually one to trust so blindly–”

“It’s not blindness if I’m right here,” Dick said. He takes your hands and presses them to his chest, to his racing heart. “(Y/N) my love for you is different than with the others. If it’s about trust, let me earn it. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. My eyes won’t wander, you can have access to my phone, I will only be around my exes if you’re there, whatever you need I’ll do it because…” Dick swallows, his eyes staring directly into you to breathe the next words into your soul, “because I’m in love with you and I want to be yours. Exclusively. Officially.”

You are stunned, but touched by Dick’s words. His commitment is true, you can feel it in his chest and through his gaze. When you smile at him, Dick smiles back. You lean towards him, “Are you certain? I come from a very traditional background.”

“Very,” Dick replied breathlessly as you inched closer, his gaze focused on your lips. “Anything you need to prove myself to you, I’ll do it.”

Before Dick could lean in and kiss you, you press your fingers to his lips and back away. He blinks at your smile before you say, “Then I ask for you to get approval from my family.”

Dick blinks again, confused, “Your parents are dead.”

“I said family, Grayson,” you reply with a playful touch to his nose. “Not parents.”

He tilts his head, much like a puppy trying to figure out a command for the first time. Then it dawns on him, “You’re not talking about Damian are you?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No! No, never,” Dick reassures you. He leans against the table casually, pointing a finger gun at you with all the confidence of a man in love, “I’ll get his approval no problem.”

You cross your arms, amused, “Do you not recall that he was the one expressing concern over your intentions with me?”

“It’ll be fine,” Dick replied. He drops the charismatic air for a moment, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “You’d be worth it.”

He takes you in. When he first met you, you had a knife to his throat and a message for Damian you wanted him to pass on. You were rough and cold and, in all honesty, totally not his type. But then he saw you with Damian, guiding him through drills with the softness of an older sibling. Praising him in a way he would genuinely accept, even though it was only ever barely a word of praise. He’s fought with you, has seen your cruel skill soften with mercy much like how Damian softened his. You were dangerous. But beautiful.

Not to mention you admitted on record in the presence of multiple witnesses that you find his jokes and humor actually funny. (The word you used was “delightful” said with all the dryness of the Sahara but that was practically a compliment coming from you.) Dick loved all his past partners, that was without a doubt. But you. You were deeper than any love he felt before. And if he had to beg and plead on his knees for the permission of a pre-teen to date you, then so be it.

You smile, it's shy and warm and meant only for him. You begin to walk away, a playful air to your gait, “I look forward to it.”

Tim Drake (wc: 2.2k):

Tim Drake is both a technological genius (his words) and a social media boomer (your words). It wasn’t his fault. Unlike you and all your friends, Tim was raised on CCTV footage and newspaper articles of Batman rather than Youtube videos and Instagram feeds of the internet. So you all gave him the much needed slack when it comes to internet culture and all of its societal taboos.

You still have war flashbacks about the time you, Tim, Steph, and Cass were teaching Tim about Insta-stalking on Steph’s account and he accidentally liked her crush-at-the-time’s four week old post while scrolling through it. Steph’s scream is still ringing in your ears and you still have the scars on your arms from her nails when she tried to wiggle out of your grip to, understandably, choke Tim out.

That mistake made everyone agree that Tim was on his own when it comes to social media, for the most part. You still had to teach him what a story was and how that’s different from posts on Instagram but for now, he was getting the hang of it even if his posts were straight from a screenshot from the early 2010s. Because you were always more open about helping Tim with social media etiquette, he’d always come to you with questions about what others were doing and what it meant.

You two were chilling in his bedroom at the manor, already dressed up in your suits for patrol but the masks were still in the Batcave. You didn’t mind the chaos that was the rest of Tim’s family but you preferred the quiet sometimes before going out to do your job. Tim understood that, offering you his room to get the much needed silence you required while also silently giving you company through his presence. That was how the pair of you were now. You are laid out on Tim’s bed, scrolling through Instagram and fast-liking posts you only catch glimpses of while Tim sits at his desk chair, also on his phone but scrolling much more leisurely.

The silence between you is warm, just two people waiting until they are called to get up and go to work. After a moment, Tim spoke up, “Is this hard launching?”

You turn your head, squinting your eyes at Tim’s phone screen as he turns it towards you. He rolls closer so you can see it better. It’s from Cassie’s story, the back of a boy with black hair that you both recognize to be Conner, holding her hand with the text “im totally gonna kiss him later <3” over it. The story disappears and you return your attention to your own phone, “Nah that’s a soft launch.”

Tim furrows his brows, looking at his screen only to see the story is gone and pulls it up again to stare at it for a moment.

“But it’s Conner.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So it’s a hard launch because we know who it is,” Tim argued.

“Not so fast, poindexter,” you reply, pointing your finger towards his face, “Cassie didn’t explicitly say that she and Conner were on a date or that he is the one she’s dating, therefore,” you gesture with your palm facing up, “soft launch.”

Tim only looks more confused, “But anyone who is on their friend’s list would know it’s Conner.”

You laugh, not to be cruel but because you find his cluelessness very charming, “It’s more about the teasing of a relationship. Kinda like a ‘we still wanna keep things private but I want to show you off so bad’ kind of thing.”

“Oh!” Tim nods, “I get it.” There’s a very brief pause where he looks at his phone then back at you, “Should we be soft launching?”

You laugh again.

If anyone were to ask you two a few months ago if you would ever see you two dating each other, your answers would have been childish gags and a loud “fuck no”. It wasn’t so much that you two got on the wrong foot so much that you were both raised on opposite sides of the tracks. While Tim had Batman as his mentor and Dick as his brother-figure, you had Red Hood and Jason Todd for both. Jason wasn’t looking for a ward but much like a stray cat caught in the rain, you were rather pathetic when he first took you home and became downright loyal with a warm bed and food to look forward to.

For many years, no one knew Jason had a ward under his care. He made sure to keep you far away from any team ups with his family or anyone outside of The Outlaws. But when Jason went missing for over two weeks without a check-in, and with The Outlaws disbanded, you had to reach out to his family for help. Never Batman, you knew better than that. But Nightwing was fair game in your mind.

It didn’t take long for your mere sighting in Bludhaven to get the hero’s attention. You were insistent that you just needed Nightwing’s help, no one else. But Nightwing had other ideas. Afterall, you were an older teenager worried about his “I can do this myself” little brother. There had to be a reason for that. You were able to stay stern on your “no Batman” rule but Nightwing made you flex enough to include everyone else on the Bat team in Gotham.

When you rescued Jason, he was furious. More with you than his family as he expected you to obey him. It took Nightwing to talk him down and make him see that you were worried about him but knew you couldn’t run in alone. That made Jason forgive you enough to let you join him on his occasional team ups with his family. It took a whole three months before Jason even allowed you to be on missions separate from him. It took an additional two for him to be okay with trusting your safety to Batman.

Needless to say a lot of Jason’s opinions on his family were yours at first. You found Nightwing annoying, Batman unreliable, Robin was a bratty devil, and Red Robin was an incompetent scab with an ego bigger than the Gotham tristate area.

For those many months, those opinions remained unswayed. But as they wore you down with conversations during patrols or missions that painted them as more competent than you thought, you began to like them more. They were still most of the things you thought but now you had more words to describe them based on your own experiences.

Your opinion of Red Robin, however, was practically unchanged. That was because unlike the others who at the very least tried to be polite towards you, Red Robin hated you just as much as you hated him. It was a wonder you two got along on anything, much to Jason’s amusement and Batman’s annoyance. It got to the point that Batman forced the pair of you to go on a month long mission together with no outside contact unless it was an emergency.

No one knows what happened on that mission other than the two of you and you both refuse to talk about it, even to your respective mentors and closest friends. But it worked, you two were on neutral terms. Dare I say you two were even friendly.

It was only natural for that friendship to bloom into something more, something just for the two of you to witness. And even though you were both okay with keeping your relationship low key for now, you understood where Tim was coming from about “soft launching” as a way of claiming each other in a subtle way.

You couldn’t even begin to count the number of times a civilian got handsy with your boyfriend during a save, you literally had to punch a light post just to get the jealousy out of your system. You wouldn’t be surprised if Tim had similar spouts of jealousy that he has to keep tight lipped.

You sit up, swinging your feet around the edge of his bed with a teasing smile, “You wanna show me off that badly Red?”

“Who wouldn’t?” he effortlessly teased back, leaning towards you. “Wanna shout it loud and proud from the rooftops.”

“Oh yeah? What would you say?”

“Something poetic, probably,” he claimed, intentionally vague with a shrug that made you laugh. He gets closer, eyes down at your lips, “It’d earn me a kiss for sure.”

You hum, delighted at his proximity, “Mind if I put down a deposit?”

“That was so corny,” he laughed.

“You want a kiss or not, Drake.”

He kisses you, pulling away to murmur a teasing “Grouchy” in the space between, before kissing you again as you smile. It was hard not to get lost in Tim, in the safety he gives you and the warmth he brings to your chest. It’s addicting for someone who grew up with nothing. You want to take and take and he lets you. Every time.

You make out with Tim for several minutes, only pulling away when you have to on Tim’s behalf. He’s gotten better over time at keeping up with your kisses and stolen breaths, but he still has that dazed look in his eyes and ruby dust on his cheeks. It makes your heart flip every time without fail.

You never pull away too far, more than ready to start again once Tim catches his breath. His eyes are lidded as he takes in heavy breaths. He swallows before whispering, “I want to show you off as mine. No one else’s.” When your mouth only hangs open in response, he sheepishly looks to the side, “That was a little corny, huh?”

You shake your head as your grip on his shoulders tighten, “Not at all.”

You yank him towards you, mouth open to stroke against his tongue as you lay back on his bed. Tim follows, always eager to please as he’s careful to hold up his weight as you kiss him with a possessive hunger. Your hands cup his face, so soft in contrast to the bites and licks from your kisses. You feel Tim bending towards you, lost in the feel of you and never wanting to stray too far.

It takes both of your phones buzzing away on his bed for you two to finally pull away from each other. The string of spit between your lips breaks before either of you move, your hands moving to tame the mess you made of his hair as you say, “What if we ditch?”

Tim laughed, “Pretty sure the city will burn to the ground without either of us there.”

“Fine,” you groan. You pull him back towards you, “One more, for luck.”

“For luck,” he agreed with a knowing smile.

That one turned into two, into three, just like you both knew it would. It would take Tim pulling away to say between kisses, “They’re gonna come looking for us.”

You groan, disappointed but relenting as you allow Tim to slip out of your arms. You feel colder without him over you. You stand up and straighten out your costume as you watch him look at his phone and a thought occurs to you. You yank off one of your gloves, “Take off your glove for me.”

“Huh?”

Tim watches as you walk over, yanking off his glove for him before intertwining your fingers together. You pull him over to his desk, putting his hand facing up before holding out your free hand, “Phone please.”

He obeys wordlessly, handing you the phone to watch you as you open up the camera app. You get the angle just right, make sure the lighting is okay, before taking a picture of both of your hands intertwined. You let him go and handed his phone back to him. He stared at you for a minute, confused, before you clarified, “For the soft launch.”

His eyes widened as he stared at the photo again with blush growing on his face, you laugh a little at the sight. When a soft smile grows on his face, it makes your heart flip again. He looks at you, “Should I send it to you to post too?”

“That’d make it too obvious,” you tease with a smile, bumping your shoulder with his. “But don’t worry, I’ll come up with something.” You grab your own phone, already opening up the fifteen messages from Jason and responding to them as you walk towards the door, “See ya in the cave, Red.”

Tim waits for you to leave his room before staring at the photo you took again. With his hand on top it wasn’t immediately obvious whose hand it was he was holding so tightly. Maybe if they knew your nail polish this week was a burgundy red they would know. Or the fact that it was on his desk and only you two were in there at this time. But it didn’t matter to Tim if anyone immediately knew or not just from the out of context picture, him knowing was enough. And even though he could post that photo right now, he waited until you left to return to Crime Alley with Jason after the night was over so you could see it when you got home.

So you know he misses you already.

Bruce Wayne (wc: 2k):

It was literally your worst nightmare. Okay, maybe not the worst considering you literally put yourself in high risk situations as a nightly pass time. But for civilian you, it’s a real fucking nightmare.

“Can’t you sew it back on?” your assistant asks as your stylist fiddles with your outfit.

“This is fucking mesh, you idiot, I can’t just fucking sew it–shit, fuck,” he cursed as he dropped several hundred dollars worth of crystals into the carpet of your car. Again. He runs a hand through his carefully styled hair, ruining it with his stress, “This is the worst fucking day of my fucking life.”

While usually you would be fine cancelling an event at the last minute to stay home for the evening, this was quite literally the biggest night for the Gotham elite and your lack of appearance would basically cause your stock to drop overnight. Not to mention you’re one of three people giving a speech tonight, you can not be having a wardrobe malfunction right now.

“Can you put me in something else?” you ask, trying to stay calm as you hold up the fabric that tore across your chest.

“Oh yes let me just pull an entirely new outfit that’s worthy of this event out of my fucking ass,” your stylist scoffed before hurrying away to find something amongst his fellow stylists. Or to take a much needed tequila shot, it was anyone’s guess.

You let out a tired sigh and lean sideways towards the headrest of the backseat, your assistant sitting behind you fussing over your shoulder, “I’m so sorry (Y/N), I didn’t mean–!”

“It’s okay, Lena,” you say, giving the young nervous girl a smile over your shoulder, “You didn’t know that loose thread was important. Plus I asked you to pull it, so really it’s my fault.” You give her a conspiratorial wink with a finger to your lips, “Just don’t tell Guerrero, alright? I think he’ll take my head off with his bare teeth if he finds out.”

Lena is eased by your humor, giggling as she matched your motion, “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Lena was probably the best assistant you've had by far. Despite being only in her late twenties, she understands discretion and privacy better than previous assistants in their forties. She’s seen every behind the back expression, she’s seen you without your makeup and dressed down in sweats and a stained tank top, she’s picked up every late-night-at-the-office take out–she even caught you and your secret big shot billionaire boyfriend having a moment alone in your office and didn’t even blink.

Lena could ruin your entire life with a drop of a hat but doesn’t, as all good assistants should. Your small talk with Lena is interrupted by a sudden shadow over your open door, followed by a voice, “Are you alright?”

You look over, a soft smile growing on your face at the sight of Bruce. He’s dressed as he usually is at these types of events, black tuxedo and white shirt. Painfully boring but a classic. And Bruce thrived in a classic. His eyes look over you, taking note of your arms holding up the top half of your clothes, eyebrows furrowed with concern, “Margo said Guerrero was freaking out looking for something?”

“Just a replacement,” you say with a laugh, “The whole top half came apart.” You move your hands slightly, showing how the fabric immediately slips down your collarbone and exposes more of your chest, “Can’t very well give a speech like this, can I?”

“Hm,” Bruce hummed, his eyes never leaving your chest. He leaned in closer, hand on the frame of the car door, “Mind moving your hands for a second?”

“Oh no you don’t,” you say, shoving his face back with one hand as he laughs against your palm, “I’m not flashing you in the back seat of my car.” You give a cheeky smile, jerking your head backwards to the other person in the vehicle, “Not in front of my innocent assistant, you dog.”

“Oh!” you laugh as Bruce’s eyes flick behind you to Lena as if just now noticing her. He removed his head from your hand and gave her a polite nod and smile, “Hello Lena.”

“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” she replied politely though you could tell she finds the interaction between you two amusing. “You look very nice this evening.”

“Ah, thank you,” Bruce said, eyes flicking down to his clothes as if he forgot what he always wears to these things. He looked back at Lena, “You look nice as well.”

“Thank you!” she said, brushing down her skirt. She gives you a smile, “I’ll go see what’s taking Guerrero so long.”

You don’t miss the cheeky wink she sends you before getting out of the car on the other side. Once she’s gone, Bruce leans back in, “Now can you move your hands?”

“Were you always such an animal?” you ask with a halfhearted glare as he laughs. You lean towards him, “Besides, it’s not like it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He hums in agreement, “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate seeing my favorite piece of art in person.”

“Oh? My chest is art now, is it?” you tease.

His eyes look up to meet yours, half-lidded and heated, “Darling, your whole body is a work of art.” He leans in closer, eyes fixated on your lips. His cologne washes over you, a woody scent that isn’t strong enough to make you sick but it does make your head spin a little, “I could worship every inch of you. Lay you out on the prettiest sheets, ruin them as I study every part of your body.”

You inhale sharply…before managing to put a hand to his chest and push him back slightly with an airy chuckle, “Careful, we don’t want to start a scandal between close friends do we?”

“I’d argue we’re closer than most,” Bruce replied with a murmur.

His eyes flick to your lips, slightly opened as you watch him with bated breath. “Close friends” that’s how the media describes your relationship to each other. Bruce Wayne and (Y/N) (L/N) seemed to hit it off almost immediately after your company decided that Gotham would be your next city to build a satellite office in. The corporate headquarters will always be in your home city, but it seemed that your company’s CEO found most of their time in their newest satellite office and spending time alongside Gotham’s wealthiest bachelor.

But you and Bruce knew each other for years before that. The team up was accidental, a faux pas on your part since there wasn’t exactly a vigilante etiquette book back when you first started. You were following a trail that led you into Gotham and into the path of Batman and Robin. It was rather obvious that your two cases were related and a brief team up was established. It was quick and painless but Batman made it very clear that you were to never show up in his city unannounced ever again.

You respected his rules. You always contacted him when a case led you in the direction of Gotham or gave him information about your weekly villains if they decided to cause trouble in his neck of the woods. And even though you two collaborated on cases many times, it still surprised you when you got a personal invitation from him to join a new team he was founding with other big name heroes like Superman and Wonder Woman called the Justice League.

You two have had each other’s back for so long, it wasn’t all that surprising when the pair of you found yourselves swept away into each other’s arms. Outside of your friends and family, no one knew the two of you were dating. It was better that way. If Batman was found out to be dating a fellow hero, that would put a target on the both of you to be used as potential hostages. And Bruce would rather die than have you get hurt because of him.

As for why your civilian selves weren’t openly dating, that was more an issue with the Gotham media than anything else. You were still relatively new to the media circus here in Gotham and if your relationship with Bruce was exposed too soon, you’d be dragged under the water and be torn to shreds for “seducing” Gotham’s favorite bachelor. You were following Bruce’s lead on everything, what he said goes and you were okay with that. You actually found the secret moments together to be the highlight of your day.

Bruce let out a long breath, as if trying to control himself, “You look good, by the way.”

You laugh, the tension only growing thicker with each passing second, “If you’re quick about it I’ll let you steal a kiss–”

You didn’t even need to finish your sentence before he’s leaning in, a quick kiss to your lips that made him let out an anguished sigh against your lips, “You should come over tonight.”

You smirk as he pulls back, returning to a friendly distance as you tease, “I’ll think about it.”

Before Bruce could respond, he was rudely shoved to the side by Guerrero who was incredibly distraught as he leaned against the open car door and said, “I couldn’t find anything in your style. This is literally my waking nightmare.”

“Not even something you could cover me up with?” you ask, “Like a jacket or–”

“Honey, cropped jackets are all we got,” he said as he shook his head, “That’s not gonna cut it for a night like this.”

Okay now you’re freaking out. But before you could spiral too far, Bruce began to shrug off his tuxedo jacket, “You can wear mine.”

He goes to hand it to you but Guerrero snatches it, inspecting the jacket closely as he turns the expensive fabric over in his hands as if trying to see if it was worthy of you (or him) to use. You look at Bruce, “You don’t have to–”

“Think nothing of it,” Bruce said with a smile. He shrugged nonchalantly but the glimmer in his eyes told you something else, “Consider it a gesture of our friendship.”

More like a subtle claim of possession.

You shake your head with a smile. You had a feeling that Bruce’s sudden increase in lunch meetings in very public restaurants after your very public outing with another Gothamite elite got major attention in the press were related. Seems like Bruce was wanting to stir the rumor mill pot some more tonight.

“I can work with this,” Guerrero decided, he shooed Bruce away, “Go, go, I have a night to save.”

You wave Bruce off as Guerrero puts his jacket around your shoulders, “Thank you Bruce, I’ll see you inside!”

He nodded, a pleased smile on his face as he began to roll up his long sleeves and walked back towards the venue to meet up with you again later.

The next morning, the Gotham Gazette put a picture of you, front and center, giving your speech at the event on the front page. Bruce’s jacket would have swallowed your form entirely if it wasn’t for Guerrero’s careful pinning and the addition of a belt. You would end up starting a trend amongst the Gotham elite, oversized jackets with the sleeves cuffed at the wrists but pinned flatteringly against the body.

No one seemed to notice how Bruce Wayne was missing a jacket the whole night. Or that his eyes very rarely left you during the whole event, a coy smile on his face the entire time.

Duke tilted his head, visibly confused, as if the title was a trick question. “Um, what is this?” 

Bruce picked up the remote off the podium. “For weeks, I’ve heard my sons insist that I am a total pushover who spoil my daughters. For the past several months, I ignored it at first. But after hearing the claim in multiple rooms of this house and, apparently on an open comms channel to the Watchtower”—his eyes cut pointedly toward Dick, who suddenly couldn't meet his father's eyes—“I’ve decided the narrative requires a slight correction.” 

Tim leaned back in his chair, completely unimpressed. “You really made a whole PowerPoint presentation just to prove you're not a total girl dad?” 

"No, I definitely am." Bruce picked up the remote. “And I don't care.” 

Damian crossed his arms. "Well if you don’t care then what is this?” 

“This,” Bruce began, “is about accountability.” 

He clicked a button on the remote. The title slide flickered to life, bold and damning. 

Jason Todd: Exhibit A – Weapons Customization 

The projector flared to life behind Bruce, revealing two photographs: Cass’s knife set, sleek and black with a subtle blue luminescence, and yours—pale pink with rose-gold handles, each blade resting in a velvet-lined case embossed with your initials. Both sets looked less like weapons and more like luxury items sold to assassins with impeccable taste. 

Bruce looked directly at Jason. "Care to explain what these weapons are?" 

Jason slouched as far as gravity would allow. "Those aren’t weapons. They’re works of art.” 

“This art was forged on the black market,” Bruce said flatly. “By a man on the FBI watchlist.” 

Before Jason could respond, the screen shifted to grainy security footage—just the first of many incriminating clips… 

…Rain hammered against Jason’s apartment windows in the video. Inside, you and Cass stood around his kitchen table, a tarp spread across the surface like you were preparing for either a craft project or a murder. Jason gently set down two long black cases like he was presenting sacred relics. 

“You guys are gonna love this,” he said, wearing the kind of grin that usually preceded some kind of explosion. 

You groaned. “Half the time you say that, something explodes.” 

“Well not this time,” he said. "Not tonight at least." 

He opened the first case. Cass leaned forward, her eyes brightening at the sight of the knives. A set of twelve, sleek, balanced, and absurdly beautiful. 

Jason gently handed her one. "I know I said no when you first asked, but once I met the guy who makes these? No way I was walking out without a couple sets.” 

He turned to you, flipping open the second case. Your set shimmered gold under the light, delicate etchings winding along the blades. 

“Hope you don't mind, I made them a matching set,” he said proudly. “Nice and lethal, and very sparkly.” 

You twirled one experimentally. “They light up in different shades under the light. Just like we wanted!” 

Cass tilted hers to watch the silver shine trace the edge. “Jason, they’re beautiful. Thank you.” 

Jason smirked. “You can thank me by telling everyone I’m your favorite brother.” 

You carefully rubbed your thumb along the blade, feeling the metal without cutting yourself. “Does Bruce know about this?” 

Jason hesitated. “Bruce knows a lot about a lot of things, but he doesn't need to know everything.” 

Cass snorted. “So no.” 

You shook your head but failed to hide your amused smile. “He’s gonna get you for this if he finds out.” 

Jason shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “He won't. Trust me.”… 

…Back in the theater, Bruce folded his arms. “You paid six figures for glowing blades.” 

Jason shrugged, but his body was too rigid for him to come off as nonchalant as he wanted to look. “They asked for them Bruce. And it's not like I emptied my bank account. I mean c'mon, a crime lord filing for bankruptcy, how lame is that?” 

Bruce’s jaw flexed. “These are not legal purchases.” 

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Neither are half your gadgets, old man. Would the GCPD be okay with you having a batarang if you were just a regular civilian?” 

“This isn’t about me.” Bruce took a long, judgment-flavored sip of his coffee. “Moving on.” 

Jason Todd: Exhibit B – Banned Breakfast Run 

Bruce pressed the remote, and the next slide appeared: a grainy late-night security photo of you, Cass, and Jason, squeezed into a cherry red vinyl booth at Rudy’s 24-Hour Diner. The waitress—hairnet, bright smile, decades of diner-wisdom—handed you a mug of hot chocolate almost the size of your head, topped with a mountain of whipped cream,  as Jason smiled like he’d just gotten away with something. 

“Surveillance footage, one-thirty a.m.,” Bruce said evenly. “Reported gunfire three blocks away.” 

Jason lifted his chin, wearing arrogance like armor. “That gunfire had nothing to do with us. We were refueling.” 

“On coffee and waffles?” 

Jason’s grin widened. “You clearly never had Rudy’s waffles.” ...

…It had been a long patrol that night—cold rain, slick rooftops, and freezing winds didn't make the night any easier. 

Cass's voice crackled through comms: “Patrol complete. Mission accomplished. Time for phase two.” 

Jason frowned from his perch on the edge of a rooftop. “Phase two?” 

You smiled, already knowing. “The phase where we get waffles and hot chocolate.” 

Jason exhaled through the comms, half-amused and half-disbelief. "We need to head back to the Batcave and give Bruce a status report. So no late night waffle run this time." 

Seconds passed when Jason heard soft footsteps behind him. When he turned, he found you and Cass standing side-by-side, masks adjusted just enough for him to see your eyes. Wide, hopeful, pleading, and devastating. 

It was a coordinated, silent assault. The infamous duo puppy-dog-eye attack. Jason has survived  gunfights, assassins, and vindictive younger brothers. He can survive this. He won't be defeated. 

Nope. 

No way. 

Not happening. 

Twenty minutes later, you were tucked in the corner booth of the greasiest diner in Gotham, still in costume. Cass pouring a generous amount of syrup on her chocolate chip waffles, Jason poured half the sugar jar into his coffee, and you tried to use your tongue to tie a knot with the cherry stem that topped your hot chocolate. 

“Intel gathering,” Jason said. "We'll just tell Bruce we are gathering extra intel." 

“Right,” Cass nodded. “Gathering syrup intel.” 

You nodded once, sharp and serious, fully committed to the bit. “High risk. High reward. Very important.” 

The waitress brought another stack of waffles. You leaned back against the booth, the hum of the city fading into background noise… 

...Bruce planted a hand on his hip, the posture of a man clinging to the last thread of patience. “That establishment is routinely raided by the GCPD for numerous illegal activities.” 

Jason lifts both his hands up like he's a hostage . “They said Rudy's serve the best waffles in Gotham. I had to taste for myself." 

Dick laughs under his breath. “That's an interesting way of saying that you surrendered to a pair of puppy dog-dog-eyes.” 

"It is an effective weapon I'm telling you!" 

Bruce exhaled slowly, muttering something that sounded vaguely like counting to ten. "Let's just…move on." 

Tim Drake: Exhibit A - Retail Therapy 

The screen behind Bruce filled with rows of order receipts, a spreadsheets of pure financial havoc. With each click of the remote, more spreadsheets appeared, each slide showcasing a new cluster of purchases. And with every slide, the dollar amounts climbed higher. 

Amazon, Etsy, TikTok Shop, luxury jewelry, high-end fashion, and dozens random websites — all neatly itemized under a single billing name:  

T. Drake. 

Duke leaned forward, eyes widening. “Look at all those plushies.” 

Bruce's remained locked on the screen. “Plushies. Candles. Skin care. Clothing. Art commissions. A handmade night-light shaped like a bat.” 

Dick grinned. “That’s kind of sweet.” 

Bruce turned his head. “It cost two hundred dollars.” 

“Damn! Less sweet.” 

Tim sat frozen, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “It’s not what it looks like…?”...

…Large beams of sunlight shined through the window as you were curled up on the couch with Cass one day, the two of you deep in your sacred ritual known as online retail therapy.  

Cass has been dancing until her feet bled because of an important ballet performance. Over three hundred girls tried out for the part of Princess Odette in Swan Lake, and Cass was the one who got the part. She was ecstatic of course, but she put a ton of pressure on herself to perform excellently. Suddenly even basic moves like a jeté, fondu, and changement were off and imperfect. 

You weren't much better. You were nose deep in your studies for the Bar Exam. The one last obstacle in your way of becoming a lawyer. You were desperate to pass the exam on the first try. Yes, New Jersey didn't have a hard limit on the amount of times you can take it like other states did. But no one wants to take the Bar Exam six times to become a lawyer. Especially since you studying for the first attempt had cost you food, sleep, and sanity. 

Eventually Tim came along. Like the good brother he is he sat you both down and gave you the reassurance you both needed. Even suggesting some sister time since that always put you both in a good mood. And generously offering up his credit cards and bank account numbers to fund it.

Well, who could say no to a shopping spree on their kind billionaire brother's dime? 

Cass showed you her laptop. “This candle says ‘Sunset Lover.’ It's corny and I like it.” 

You nodded. “Add to cart. Oh—look at this shark plush.” 

Cass grinned “Therapeutic. Approved."

Three days later, the front hall of Wayne Manor resembled a shipping distribution center. Boxes were stacked shoulder-high, arranged with the chaotic precision of a natural disaster. Alfred signed for the last delivery with the expression of a man who’d seen too much. Tim took in everything like he was in a museum. 

"Master Tim," Alfred walked around towers of boxes, careful not to knock anything over and cause an expensive avalanche. "Care to explain the reasoning for such an excessive haul?" 

Cass appeared in the doorway holding a tapestry twice her size. “We decorate now.” 

"Never mind," Alfred said expressionless. 

Just as Alfred left the room, you came in, arms full of boxes labeled with a multitude of different shops printed on them. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “You two could bankrupt a small country.” 

Cass smiled sweetly. “And it's all thanks to you.” 

You dropped your boxes and came up behind Tim, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders. "We're going to take our stuff now. Thank you Tim." 

A small smile crept on his face. "You're welcome."… 

…The screen froze on a receipt for a $200 hand-knitted blanket. 

Bruce folded his arms. “Your personal corporate account shows 312 transactions this quarter.” 

Tim abruptly stood up and yelled, “I was optimizing workflow!” 

Damian narrowed his eyes. “For who? The plushie-economy?” 

"[NAME] AND CASS CAN'T FOCUS UNDER PRESSURE," Tim declared, dropping back into his seat and crossing his arms with all the anger of a wronged Victorian child. "If a shopping spree is what they want, a shopping spree is what they get!" 

Dick chuckled. “You’re basically a subscription service now.” 

"SHUT UP!" 

Bruce took another slow sip of coffee, silently relishing in his point coming across. And he wasn't even half-way done. “Next.” Bruce clicked the remote.  

Tim Drake: Exhibit B – The Drone Incident 

The next slide appeared with a soft click: grainy rooftop footage of you and Cass mid-patrol, bubble tea in hand, while a sleek black drone hovered above you. Its single red lens glowed, and one mechanical claw held a small pink box and a drink tray like a waiter with impeccable balance. 

Dick's jaw dropped. “Are you serious!?” 

Bruce didn’t hesitate. “The B-D Seven prototype. A Wayne Enterprises drone. Whose purpose was for agricultural tasks, is being used for simple deliveries.” 

Tim winced. “It was for data analysis.”… 

…It had started on an unusually quiet patrol night. Gotham’s skyline stretched wide and glittering, the city humming far below. Cass stood at the roof’s edge, mask up, dark eyes scanning the streetlights. You sat next to her, casually swinging your legs as if the boredom of the night wasn't getting to you. 

“I want tea,” you said simply. 

Cass nodded. “Me too. Tea and donuts.” 

Over the comms, Tim’s voice came through. “Stay put. I’ll handle it.” 

You frowned. “Handle it how?" 

He didn’t respond—but fifteen minutes later, you got your answer. A compact black drone zipped over the rooftop, and gracefully hovered in front of you two. Its claw lowered, presenting two perfectly sealed cups of boba and a pink pastry box. 

Cass studied it. “You stole the Wayne Enterprises prototype drone.” 

Tim’s voice carried a hint of pride. “I'm optimizing it's response time and speed capabilities. ” 

Cass laughed, taking a donut. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I'm efficient,” Tim corrected. 

You noticed the small camera lens pivot towards you. “Is it taking pictures?” 

“For documentation,” Tim said. "We need to know if it's working. Obviously." 

The drone clicked softly—then projected a live preview on your comm display: you and Cass, perfectly framed against Gotham’s skyline, boba and donuts in hand, looking like a mysteriously well-funded indie magazine photoshoot… 

…Back in the theater, the image on the screen lingered—you and Cass mid-sip. Two masked vigilantes enjoying boba like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Damian shook his head in utter disappointment. "Weak and shameless. Blatant favoritism is unacceptable." 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Is that so Damian?" 

Click 

 Damian Wayne: Exhibit A – Taking the Blame 

The theater screen lit up with a blurry, crazy freeze-frame: Dick Grayson mid-fall, flailing through the air in perfect Nightwing panic, illuminated by security footage as he plummeted off a four-story rooftop. 

Duke snickered in to his palm. “Is that—did he fall into a dumpster?” 

Jason leaned forward. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” 

Bruce cleared his throat. “Footage: Tuesday night. Downtown. Four-story drop. Resulting in one dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, and—according to the EMT—‘the most offended expression they have ever seen.’ ” 

Dick whined. “We’re really doing this...” 

Another frame appeared. It as an image zoomed in on you and Cass, crouched behind an air vent, hands over your mouths, eyes wide with the exact level of panic reserved for realizing a joke went a little too far. 

Tim whispered, “Oh my god. What did they do?” 

Bruce didn’t bother answering. He simply pressed play… 

…It had been supposed to be a harmless prank. A simple scare. 

You and Cass had spent the entire afternoon planning it—testing tripwire angles, timing the hologram projector, arguing whether the jump-scare should be a clown, a ghost, or a giant spider. You both settled on an angry pigeon. 

Night had fallen by the time Dick arrived for rooftop patrol, humming to himself, escrimas spinning as he landed on the roof. 

“Alright, team,” he said into comms, “who’s ready to—” 

The motion sensor triggered. 

A gigantic luminescent pigeon erupted from behind the air-conditioning unit, wings flapping with unhinged fury and a speaker blaring an ungodly honk. 

Dick screamed, it was high-pitched, girly, deeply embarrassing. He backflipped so far he overshot the ledge. 

“Oh shit,” you yelped, scrambling forward. 

Cass lunged too late, fingers grabbing empty air as Dick disappeared over the ledge. A metallic thud echoed from the alley below. You and Cass peered over the edge and saw Dick lay in an empty dumpster. 

He groaned. “Why… does everything smell like cabbage?” 

Cass squeezed your arm. “We run?” 

You nodded. “We run.”… 

…Back in the theater, the video replayed Dick’s miserable dumpster fall at multiple angles on a loop.

Dick didn’t fall so much as he cartwheeled into disaster. 

He hit the metal bottom face-down. His head and shoulders went straight into the dumpster first, his spine curving backward leaving his legs hanging over his head like a scorpion's tail. 

Jason wheezed. Tim wiped tears from his eyes. Duke looked physically pained from trying not to laugh.

Dick’s jaw dropped. “Those two did that!?” 

Damian, who sat perfectly straight. Perfectly composed. Not at all guilty. 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You told everyone you set the trap.” 

Damian looked at the floor. “I did.” 

Jason barked a laugh. “We just watched those domestic terrorists build a holographic murder pigeon.” 

Dick looked personally betrayed. “Damian. You let me believe you tried to assassinate me with a holographic bird.” 

Damian folded his arms, voice cool and clipped. “I merely allowed you to assume.” 

Duke wheezed. “You blatantly took the blame.” 

Damian exhaled sharply, cheeks warming in the faintest, tiniest way possible for him. “They felt remorse because you were injured. They didn't want you to be upset with them." 

Dick stared at his younger brother, eyes softening just enough to be visible. “Damian… you didn’t have to cover for them.” 

Damian huffed. “They are—” His jaw tightened—then relaxed. He corrected himself. “—family. They should not endure your wrath over a prank that went awry.” 

Jason snorted. “Translation: he’s a big softie.” 

Damian shot him a death glare sharp enough to slice through Kevlar. 

Tim shook his head, grinning. “This is actually the nicest thing you’ve ever done.” 

Dick let out a sigh equal parts impressed and exasperated. “I wasn’t going to yell at them, you know.” 

"Oh we know," Bruce said. "Because you're one of the biggest spoilers in the house. But we'll get to that after Duke." 

 Duke sat up in his seat. "Say what!?" 

 Duke Thomas: Exhibit A – Joyride 

The projector flickered, revealing a crisp security photo of the Batmobile zooming through empty streets for ten minutes before parking beneath a garish neon sign that read Gotham Night Market. 

Jason ran a hand through his hair. “I know a joyride when I see one.” 

“Repeated joyrides and food stops over the course of a week,” Bruce confirmed. “Under the guise of testing the new GPS calibration.” 

Tim immediately lost it, laughing so hard he had to brace himself on the armrest. “Testing! Oh, that’s what we’re calling joyriding and late-night snacking now?” 

Damian squinted his eyes at Duke, clearly judging the poor boy. "The Batmobile has thirteen gears and this is what you do with them?" 

Bruce clicked again. A voice recording played this time—the Batmobile at a curb in an alley… 

…Patrol had wrapped early. You, Duke, and Cass were still pumped up from the adrenaline, too restless to call it a night just yet. You spun the Batmobile keys on your finger and grinned. 

“Alright,” you said, “The Batmobile's new GPS needs to be tested. Wanna ride along?” 

Cass jumped into the passenger seat through the open window. "I'm in." 

Duke raised an eyebrow. “Again? We've done that four times this week." 

“But this is the best time to test,” you replied. “Less traffic, more scientific accuracy.” 

“Navigation responsiveness,” Cass said quickly through the window. “And maybe brake control. It's standard maintenance.” 

"I still say we just head back to the Batcave," Duke argued.

You dangled the keys inches from Duke's face. "What if I let you drive this time?" 

Duke's eyes stayed on the keys as they quickly swung back and forth, desperately trying to resist it's reckless temptation.  

But your impromptu hypnotisms worked, because for the next thirty minutes Duke expertly maneuvered the car around tight corners, weaving and dodging anything that came in his path. Gaining more confidence and tossing any insecurities as you, Cass, and any excited civilians watching cheered and encouraged him. 

Soon the city's lights disappeared behind you as the Batmobile rolled into a quieter strip of neon market lights. Locals talked and laughed freely, music buzzed through cheap speakers as late night partiers danced without a care, and the steam and smell of sugar and spices from the food stalls ran through the streets like a fog. 

The three of you stopped and ended up walking through the night market—still in costume—eating skewers and ice cream while the Batmobile sat in the background like a bodyguard. You all paid in cash, waved off the confused looks, and proudly declared the “field test” a success...

…Tim shook his head in disappointment, like he wasn't in the hot seat earlier. “Every drive is recorded. But you logged it as calibration data.” 

Dick grinned. “You’re lucky Bruce didn’t send an airstrike.” 

Bruce looked at Duke, voice perfectly even. “Next time I won't let you off so easily.” 

Duke's shoulders slumped in guilt and defeat. "Understood." 

"Now," Bruce announced slowly. "We've come to the worst offender." 

Everyone's eyes shifted to Dick. His eyes were wide with fear. The same kind of fear that a kid gets when they know they messed up, and their parents know. 

Dick Grayson: Exhibit A – Training Vacation 

The screen shifted to a slideshow of suspiciously scenic photos.  

The first showed Dick on a tropical beach, sunglasses perched in his hair, smiling with a bright pink smoothie in his hand. The second featured Cass in yoga gear, mid-stretch, the ocean shimmering behind her. The third one of you, coming out of the ocean, surfboard in tucked under your arm, casually moving your hair out of your face like you were starring in a tourist commercial. 

Jason glared at Dick. "A vacation in the Maldives? And you didn't invite the rest of us big bro?” 

Bruce’s tone was dangerously calm. “According to Dick, it was a ‘physical conditioning retreat.’ ” 

Tim tilted his head. “With smoothies?” 

Bruce continued, “The vigilante expense log includes resort accommodations, private instructors, and spa treatments—all filed under 'Tactical Training and Endurance Recovery.' " 

Dick raised both hands. “Okay, hold on—context matters!” 

Jason snorted. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”… 

…It began with Dick leaning over the Manor breakfast table, a brochure in hand and his most disarming smile, loaded and ready. 

“Alright, ladies,” he said, sliding the glossy paper between your plates. “How do we feel about a weekend retreat?” 

You looked up from your food. “Retreat?” 

Cass leaned closer, reading the brochure cover. “ ‘Ocean breeze and holistic balance?’ ” 

Dick nodded eagerly. “Don’t let the branding fool you. It’s cross-disciplinary conditioning. Improves balance, coordination, inner focus, and much more. Very essential for combat.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “So… yoga.” 

“Combat yoga,” he corrected instantly. “It’s a thing, look it up.” 

Cass smirked. “Do the others know?” 

Dick hesitated. “They will… eventually.” 

A week later, the three of you were standing on a sun-bleached deck overlooking turquoise water. A serene yoga instructor bowed politely. “Welcome, Mr. Grayson and guests. Drinks are this way.” 

Cass turned to Dick. “This is not training.” 

He shrugged, slipping off his shades. “We’re building endurance. Emotional endurance.” 

You stood beside them, the ocean wind in your hair. “Endurance feels like vacation.” 

“That's a good thing,” Dick said brightly. “We don't have to suffer to learn.” 

For the whole weekend, Dick tried to justify room service as “nutritional recovery," but how nutritional can Mai Tais and Mojitos be? He added “aquatic acrobatics” to the itinerary, which was really just swimming and stealing towels shaped like manta rays.  

Bruce called once, voice clipped. “Status report.” 

Dick grinned at the phone. “Flexibility at 110%. Morale excellent.” 

Bruce paused. “Are you on speakerphone?” 

Cass answered immediately. “Yes. We are stretching.” 

“Stretching for what?” 

“An intense nature hike,” you said confidently. "Which we're late for. Love you!"

Dick hung up the phone and dodged any calls from Bruce for the rest of the weekend… 

…The silence in the theater carried weight. The image on-screen—the three of you posing with a dolphin—did all the damage for him. 

Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You turned a tropical resort into a deductible expense. And now you're trying to spin the story in a way that makes it seem like a business investment, and not a way for you to mess around on the vigilante credit card." 

Dick shrugged, feigning innocence. “They needed rest. I needed a tan.” 

Bruce didn’t blink. “You submitted an invoice labeled ‘Rehabilitation and Strategic Breathing.’” 

“Which,” Dick said smoothly, “was very strategic.” 

"Not as strategic as the next offense," Bruce glared at the screen. 

Dick Grayson: Exhibit B – Gala Getaway 

Bruce pressed the remote once more. The screen lit with a still from a Wayne Enterprises security feed: an empty ballroom entrance, doors swinging wide, and the faint blur of three figures slipping out into the night. 

Duke groaned. “I remember this gala. It was the most excruciating gala we've went to!” 

Damian rubbed his temples. "It was as if every infuriating socialite on planet Earth attended that night." 

Bruce spoke up. “A Wayne Enterprises charity gala. Formal attire required. Attendance mandatory.” 

Tim frowned. “And what did everyone's one and only Boy Wonder do?” 

“They lasted twenty-seven minutes,” Bruce said. “Before Dick decided to make a hasty retreat.”… 

…The ballroom had been suffocating—blindingly bright gold chandeliers, polite laughter echoing in forced waves, and donors discussing quarterly earnings like it was a competitive sport.

Bruce was cornered by greedy businessmen and benefactors. Tim was answering a barrage of unwanted tech questions. Damian was intimidating a senator’s son into tears. Jason was trying to outrun a trio of drunken socialites who kept calling him “mysterious and broody.” Duke was nodding along to an elderly veterans long and nonsensical war story, occasionally trying to recruit Duke into a regimen that no longer existed. 

You and Cass lingered by the far wall, trying to look awake. You both managed to scare away anyone attempting to speak to the two of you with uninterested glances and sharp glares. 

Cass swirled her drink in its glass, it was the only thing entertaining to her right now. “This is boring.” 

You exhaled slowly. “Bruce told us it builds character.” 

She frowned. “Character is tired.” 

Before you could respond, Dick drifted to your side like a well-dressed phantom, grin sharp and dangerous. “Ladies,” he whispered, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I have a proposal.” 

Cass raised a brow. “A proposal?” 

“Think of it as a tactical maneuver,” Dick said, leaning closer. “Operation Sanity. High-value objective: escape. Preferred outcome: freedom. Extraction window opens in thirty seconds.” 

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you actually suggesting we ditch the gala?” 

“I’m not suggesting,” Dick corrected, “I’m initiating. Blüdhaven is thirty minutes from Gotham and Kori made cookies. So it's either stay here and suffer in heels with your bobby pins pulling your hair, or dress in comfy pjs at my place while eating cookies and watching movies." 

The choice was beyond easy. Five minutes later, the city lights blurred past as Dick drove through Gotham with the windows down. Your heels lying abandoned on the floor, while the music from the speakers blasted. 

You rested your bare feet on the dashboard. “Target achieved.” 

Cass pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and dropped it on the seat next to her. “Bruce will notice the absence.” 

Dick waved that off with a flick of his wrist. “Please. He’s swimming in donors. He’ll be busy until dawn.” ...

…Dick smiled faintly at the memory. “Best decision I made all year.” 

Jason gripped the armrest as he shot his brother a dirty look. “You ditched the rest of us without so much as a warning?” 

Dick shrugged, palms up. “I extended a private invitation. They looked like they were seconds away from a spontaneous boredom-related collapse.” 

Tim's voice jumped an octave. “We were all seconds away from collapse, Dick! Misery was a group project.” 

Bruce kept his expression neutral, but his tone sharpened. “I was in the middle of giving a speech when the three of you disappeared.” 

Damian snapped. “You ditched father alone with the board members? The board!? Dick, those people eat feelings for breakfast!” 

Dick shrugged again, entirely unapologetic. “He’s Bruce Wayne. I assumed he could handle a room of people.” 

Duke gestured wildly. “Handling them isn’t the point! You could’ve at least signaled us to follow. Thrown a rope. Sent a bat-shaped smoke signal!” 

Damian crossed his arms. “Father was humiliated.” 

Bruce deadpanned. “I was not humiliated.” 

Jason gave him a sympathetic look. “Bruce, my man, you looked so miserable I considered calling for medical assistance.” 

Bruce shot him a flat look. “We were all miserable. The gala was a success financially, but truly unfortunate emotionally.” 

Dick leaned back, hands behind his head, fully satisfied. “Exactly. Which is why our strategic retreat was the right call.” 

Bruce's jaw locked, his cheek muscle twitched. "This one we all know. A blast from the past if you will." 

Dick Grayson: Exhibit C – Birthday Overkill 

Dick threw his hands up at the screen, genuinely offended. “Another one? Come on—there’s no way I'm this bad.” 

Tim gave him a smug, knowing smile. “You gave him material for a full trilogy, Dick. This is your fault.” 

The photo on-screen could have easily been stolen from a luxury event planner’s portfolio: balloons cascaded from the ceiling, tables overflowed with catering trays, string lights crisscrossed the garden, and an avalanche of confetti blanketed every visible surface. 

Bruce clicked through multiple slides from that night. “That was a joint birthday celebration for your sisters, since they were born so close together. The same ‘small get-together’ I was promised, had escalated into renting a whole circus, a fireworks permit, and a live DJ in the garden.” 

Dick smiled faintly. “In my defense—” 

“Don’t even try with your bullshit!” Jason yelled. “You threw a Wayne-scale spectacle in the backyard!”...

…It had started quietly—like every major Dick Grayson scheme. Two weeks before the birthday, he’d overheard you talking to Alfred in the game room. 

“It’s just another day,” you said, waving it off. “Seriously, no fuss. No big deal.” 

Cass nodded, completely engrossed in her video game. “Birthdays…are…overrated.” 

Dick paused in the doorway with a protein bar halfway to his mouth frowned. Overrated? No big deal?! 

Incorrect. Unacceptable. Sacrilegious. 

Three hours later, he was on speakerphone with five vendors, pacing the gym while muttering in a low, decisive voice: 

“No, I said a temporary stage. Yes, it needs confetti cannons. At least two. Preferably three—mm-hmm—yes, synchronized pyrotechnics are essential. Bring all the elephants ya got, i'm good for it." 

By the night of the party, the manor looked like a festival had invaded the garden. Circus performers entertained and delighted all who watched them. Colorful lights made the even look like a dream. Dessert tables bent under the weight of finger foods and pastries.

You and Cass stepped onto the patio…and immediately froze. 

“Dick,” you whispered, staring at the spectacle, “what did you do?” 

He held up a pair of sparklers and beamed. “Surprise!” 

Cass gave him a flat stare. “This looks like carnival.” 

“Exactly!” Dick declared, utterly triumphant. “You both deserve joy. Uncontrollable, over-budgeted joy.” 

The fireworks launched mid-sentence, erupting over the gardens in a colorful spectacle. Cass was actually startled—then slowly relaxed, a small smile forming. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your drink. 

Halfway through the event, Bruce appeared in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides as his body barely managed restraint. 

“Richard.” 

Dick turned, completely unfazed. “Hey, Bruce! Want a cupcake?” 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “How did your small get-together turn into a Disney sized theme park at our house!?” 

Dick grinned like a child. “Resourcefulness. You always said it was one of my strengths.”… 

…The final photo lingered on the screen: the three of you in motion—Cass smiling with frosting on her cheek, you biting into cotton candy, and Dick glowing with the self-satisfaction of a man who had absolutely committed a crime he would absolutely repeat. 

Damian frowned. “The Batcave alarms went off from the noise.” 

Bruce exhaled through his nose in a long, irritated breath. “The party caused three security alerts, four noise complaints, and a brief power outage on the east side.” 

Dick leaned back, still smiling like this was all complimentary press. “And yet—they had fun.” 

Duke whispered to Tim, “He’s not even remotely ashamed.” 

“I know,” Tim muttered. “It’s horrifying.” 

"Not as horrifying as the last one," Bruce stated grimly. 

Dick Grayson: Exhibit D – Concert Fiasco 

A hectic video played on the screen: a packed arena pulsing with laser lights, confetti raining down, thousands of fans screaming. The video zoomed in on you, Dick, and Cass front row center, waving lightsticks as the performance went on. 

Jason pointed so hard he nearly dislocated his shoulder. “Hold up—is that NewDenim? You took them to a NewDenim concert!?” 

Bruce's gaze lingered on Dick. “He claimed it was a tactical exercise in crowd navigation.” 

Tim lunged over the seats and grabbed Dick by his collar. “You know we love NewDenim in this house! It's one of the few things we agree on!” 

Duke looked genuinely betrayed. “We made a pact. A blood oath. We promised to go on their tour together. And. You. Lied. To. Us!” 

“He bought them merch and the official glowsticks,” Bruce added dryly. “Observe.”… 

…Dick strolled into the Manor’s living room holding three concert tickets between his fingers like they were top-secret mission orders. 

“Team bonding,” he announced. “High-energy environment. Great for situational awareness.” 

You gave him a long, incredulous look. “By going to… a concert?” 

“Yes. An immersive tactical experience,” he corrected. 

Cass leaned in to examine the tickets. The moment she read the print, her eyes widened. “NEWDEMIN. FRONT ROW.” 

You snatched the tickets so fast you nearly airbent them out of his hand. Holding them inches from your face, you hissed, “Dick, if this is a joke, I will personally feed you to the bats in the cave.” 

“It's not a prank. They're one hundred percent real.” Dick said proudly. “This will be the perfect vantage point to observe crowd behavior, light synchronization, and rhythm-based coordination. Super necessary and beneficial to our mental health.” 

Cass plucked one ticket from your hand. "Sounds like a plan!" 

The night of the concert, you and Cass followed Dick into the arena, the noise and lights hitting like a physical force. People screamed. The floor shook. Dick was dressed as Nightwing, he talked his way past all of the starstruck security until ended up backstage, with the members. 

Cass held up her phone, displaying the selfies with the band members triumphantly. “Evidence of the greatest night of our lives.” 

“For the report,” Dick said with a straight face. 

You held your light stick close to your heart, like it would disintegrate if you didn't. “Best mission ever!" 

When the concert started, Dick put on his civilian clothes and met you and Cass at the front row. When the lights shut off, the energy changes. None of you move. None of you spoke. You just soaked it all in. Then the beat dropped, and lights flashed. Your screams and cheers fused with the crowds as you sang every lyric of every song until your voice cracked. 

Between songs, Cass leaned over. “This good training.” 

You grinned. “Yeah! Endurance and happiness achieved as planned.” 

Dick wrapped his arms around your shoulders. “Exactly what I wanted.” 

The three of you spent the rest of the night dancing, laughing, and pretending it was all for “field coordination.” 

When Bruce called an hour later, Dick silenced the phone without even looking. “We’ll debrief in the morning,” he said. “After the encore.” 

"Because you know if the others found out they'll never forgive us," you called out. 

Dick shrugged his shoulders and immediately started dancing to the next song. "Good thing they won't find out." … 

…The room was silent for all exactly seven seconds. 

Then Tim lunged. “You absolute traitor!” 

Dick dodged him with practiced acrobat reflexes. “Whoa—easy! No need for violence—” 

Jason grabbed a couch pillow and swung it like a medieval weapon. “Violence is EXACTLY what’s needed!” 

Damian stormed forward, brandishing a printed photo of the concert like damning evidence. “You secured front-row seats!” 

“They were for research!” Dick shouted, dodging sideways. 

Dick barely dodged as Tim tried to smack him with the nearest throw pillow. Jason immediately joined the assault, grabbing another pillow with a war cry. 

Duke came from the side, swinging his slipper at Dick repeatedly. “You got the light sticks, Dick! THE OFFICIAL LIGHT STICKS!” 

“They were necessary!” Dick insisted, weaving between blows. 

“Were they?!” Damian yelled. “Were they, Mr. Tactical Confetti?!” 

Tim swung again. “We promised we’d all go when they came to Gotham! You're dead Grayson!" 

Tim swung his fist at Dick but connected with the back of a couch cushion when he dodged, and another shout erupted as Jason vaulted up, pillow already in hand. Duke lunged in next, now wielding both slippers in each hand. Damian launched himself off the arm of the couch with zero hesitation and full intent—tackling Dick straight to the floor. 

They hit the carpet with a thud that shook the projector stand. 

“Get off me!” Dick wheezed, trying—and failing—to roll free. 

“Face your consequences!” Damian barked, knees digging into Dick’s ribs like he was restraining a war criminal. “You betrayed familial trust!” 

Jason swung his pillow at both of them. “Move over, Demon Spawn, I want a piece of him too!” 

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Damian snapped as he struggled to wrestle Dick into total submission. 

“Everyone stop!” Bruce shouted, stepping forward. But he might as well have said it into a wind tunnel. No one listened. 

Tim jumped onto one of the chairs, using it as a launch pad. Duke ducked beneath him, slippers flailing in a blur of fuzzy vengeance. Jason went for another swing but hit the back of Tim's head instead, knocking him to the ground. 

“Ow! Man fuck this. I'll just hack all his tech. It hurts less.” Tim grumbled from the floor. He ducked between the chairs and began furiously tapping his phone screen. "What's the meanest thing I can say to Kori that won't get someone killed…?" 

“Enough!” Bruce’s voice boomed, but his kids were already in a full-scale battle. He waded in, trying to physically separate them. One hand caught Jason’s arm; the other yanked Damian backward by the collar. Dick twisted free choking on carpet fuzz.  

Bruce hauled Damian off him like a furious housecat—only for Damian to immediately turn and latch onto Bruce’s torso, and attempting to climb over him to reach Dick again. 

“Damian! Stop that!” Bruce gritted out, trying to pry they furious boy off his back while keeping Jason in place. 

“I won’t until justice is served!” Damian barked, one hand braced on Bruce’s head, the other reaching for Dick’s hair. Bruce grabbed one of Damian's legs and pulled, but Damian wouldn't budge. 

“Justice?!” Dick yelped from the floor, scrambling backward. “You’re five foot nothing, get off your dad!” 

But Dick, too busy trying to swat Damian’s hands away, he didn’t see Jason got out of Bruce's grip. 

“Gotcha,” Jason growled, swooping in like an eagle catching prey. He caught Dick from behind, locking him in a full nelson before Dick could blink.  Taking advantage of the newfound closeness Damian grabbed a fist full of Dick's hair and relentlessly yanked on it.

“Hey! No!” Dick struggled, flailing his arms, feet kicking helplessly. “This is unnecessary roughness!” 

Bruce put Jason in a headlock with his one free arm, trying to subdue Jason but the man was stubborn, and Damian wasn't easing up on his assault. 

Duke raised both slippers dramatically. “Justice comes in pairs!” 

He lunged forward, slippers swinging in fast, ridiculous arcs. Dick shrieked—an actual, undignified, high-pitched shriek—as he kicked his legs wildly to block the onslaught. 

Jason tightened his hold, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “Keep struggling, it’s making it funnier!” 

Tim popped his head up from his hiding spot. Seeing the fight he couldn't help but record it all on his phone. “This is the most violent group hug I’ve ever seen.” 

Damian finally lost his grip on Bruce's head and fell backwards onto the ground, releasing Dick's hair in the process. But he wriggled his leg free of Bruce’s grip and stalked forward, fists balled.  

“Don’t you dare,” Bruce warned. 

But Damian dared. 

He dove back into the fray and held down Dick's swinging legs, just as Duke’s slipper connected with Dick's shoulder and the mayhem increased. Duke's slippers flying, Dick yelling, Jason cackling, Tim filming, Damian cursing, and Bruce in the middle of it all like he’d forgotten whatever the hell peace ever was. 

“I. Said. ENOUGH!” Bruce thundered, attempting to peel his children apart with the effectiveness of someone trying to separate five rabid angry raccoons. 

Among the disarray, the theater door opened. 

Cass stepped in first, a small duffle bag hanging from her shoulder. You were right behind her, setting down the grocery bags in your hands. You both of you gawked at the human disaster unfolding before you. 

Bruce had Jason and Duke in a double headlock, but it didn’t stop them. Jason had his arms locked around Dick’s waist locking his arms at his sides like a wrestling champ, while Damian clung to Dick’s legs, both refusing to let him escape. Duke, using both of his trusty slippers to repeatedly smack Dick on the head, shoulders, and back. 

Tim stood at a safe distance near the snack bar, phone out, recording the entire thing. “This is incredible,” he said cheerfully. “Finally, evidence that we’re a functional family.” 

“Timothy!” Bruce barked. “Stop filming!” 

Tim grinned, completely unbothered. “For posterity, Bruce. The people deserve to know.” 

"Are we interrupting something?” you asked. 

Just like that, all of the commotion stopped. 

Duke froze mid-swing, one slipper still raised above his head. Damian paused with both arms clutching Dick’s legs. Dick's eyes wide and hair sticking out in every direction. Tim lowered his phone, still recording but pretending not to. And Bruce looked like he’d just aged ten years. 

Cass giggled, the sound is soft but it cut through the tension like a bell. “You guys look like Titus when he got caught in the pantry.” 

Bruce released his hold with a long, tired exhale. The abrupt motion sent Jason, Duke, and Damian collapsing in a tangled heap on top of Dick, who let out a muffled groan from underneath the pile. 

“Did you need something?” Bruce asked, tying to sound soft and welcoming, but his tone dry enough to sand wood. 

Cass pointed to her duffle bag. "I want someone to take me to ballet practice." 

“And I’m meeting Ivy at her lab. She said I can help her feed her new carnivorous plant.” You nudged one of the bags with your foot. “She said it likes steak. The expensive kind." 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. Unfortunately I'm in the middle of a lesson. Can't you girls take your own cars." 

"They're at the shop for maintenance," Cass said. "And Alfred is still out running errands." 

Jason untangled himself from the pile and groaned. “I can take Cass.” 

Tim propped himself up on an elbow. “No, you can’t. You’re banned from the ballet studio after last time.” 

Jason glared. “It's not my fault the owner can't take rejection!” 

Duke pushed himself upright, one slipper still in hand. “I’ll take her. I can drive.” 

Bruce gave him a look. “You’re grounded from driving after the night market incidents.” 

Duke dropped into one of the chairs with a huff. “I brought the car back in one piece, didn’t I?” 

Dick opened his mouth to add something, but his phone began buzzing relentlessly, the screen lighting up with message after message. He frowned, swiped once…and visibly paled. 

“Uh… I have something to take care of.” 

Jason leaned over. “Is that Kori?” 

Dick didn’t answer. He just bolted upright and sprinted out of the theater, zooming passed you and Cass. 

Tim sauntered up to Cass, a huge grin on his face. "Well since Duke is grounded, Dick is in trouble, Jason is a heartbreaker, and Damian is a child, that leaves me. I'll take you to practice Cass." 

Bruce turned to you next, eyes narrowing at the grocery bags full of meat. “And you are not going anywhere near Poison Ivy’s lab alone. I'll go with you to monitor things." 

You smiled. "That's works for me. Now you can help Ivy if she needs help carrying stuff with your big Batman muscles instead of me." 

Bruce sighed, long and heavy, like he was expecting the universe to personally apologized to him. "Fine, let's just go. Tim, Cass, make sure your back in time for dinner." 

Tim straightened his jacket, grinning. “You got it, Bruce. We’ll even bring snacks.” 

Cass gave a small wave as the four of you headed out, duffel over her shoulder. The moment the door shut behind the two of you, the theater went quiet again. 

Jason looked at Duke and Damian. "Wanna eavesdrop on Kori cursing out Dick?" 

Duke was already running towards the exit, Damian and Jason running right behind him. "I became fluent in Tamaranean just for moments like this!" 

This part took too damn long but she's finally completed. I don't really have any other ideas for Spoiled Batgirls so if y'all have any ideas I'd love to hear them, requests are still open.

“Damian,” you say gently, “are you nervous?”

He pauses — that microfreeze he does when he’s caught.

“…No,” he lies.

Then softer, “…Perhaps.”

You kiss his cheek.

He melts instantly.

You don’t even make it through the foyer before things unravel.

Warm light spills across the marble floor, fireplaces crackling in distant rooms, the Manor smelling faintly of cinnamon, cedar, and wood polish—old money comfort wrapped around pure chaos.

Bruce greets you warmly, but Alfred is 0.2 seconds behind him scolding:

“Master Bruce, your tie is crooked. Do try to look like you’re hosting rather than being hosted.”

Tim walks by carrying three mugs of coffee and somehow spills from all three.

Jason calls from the kitchen,

“IF ANYONE TOUCHES MY ROLLS, I’M FIGHTING GOD.”

Dick runs through the hall wearing oven mitts, yelling,

“THE TURKEY IS ALIVE, THE TURKEY IS ALIVE—nope, wait, false alarm.”

Damian closes his eyes like he’s in pain.

“This is not how I wanted your introduction to go,” he mutters.

You squeeze his hand, heart fluttering despite the madness.

“Dami… this is exactly what I expected.”

He groans.

Dinner starts beautifully.

Golden light from the chandelier warms the long mahogany table, reflecting off crystal glasses and Alfred’s impossibly perfect place settings. The room smells like roasted sage, warm bread, and something sweet cooling on the counter — cinnamon, maybe.

For a heartbeat, you think: Wow, Damian really pulled this off.

Then the Batfam sits down.

Tim immediately nods off sideways against your shoulder, fork still in hand.

Jason swaps the regular butter for ghost pepper butter “as a treat,” and Bruce accidentally spreads it on his roll. His face does not change, but his soul briefly leaves his body.

Dick narrates the entire meal like it’s a Food Network special:

“And now, watch as Alfred delicately plates the mashed potatoes—look at that form, folks—”

Cass steals your napkin just to watch Damian react.

Stephanie asks loudly if you’re “planning to move in,” and in the chaos of everyone choking, no one notices Damian gripping his water glass like it personally offended him.

The silverware clinks, chairs scrape, someone knocks over the gravy boat, and Alfred appears beside you without a single sound to offer a fresh plate like a guardian angel.

Through it all, Damian sits beside you tense as drawn wire — but every time you glance at him, he meets your gaze immediately.

Checking.

Worried.

Hopeful.

Trying so hard.

You nudge his knee under the table.

His shoulders drop by a fraction.

He breathes.

“I intended something more dignified than… this,” he mutters under his breath.

You hide a smile.

“Dami,” you whisper back, “this is perfect.”

He groans again, but this time the corner of his mouth betrays him with the softest, smallest almost-smile — the kind he only shows you.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room — dimmer, warmer, lit by the soft glow under the cabinets and the faint amber flicker of the stove light. The air smells like cinnamon, roasted vegetables, and the faint smokiness of something Jason definitely set on fire earlier.

Damian is attempting to “assist Alfred,” which really means he’s stalking around the countertops like a hawk, trying to prove he belongs in a domestic setting.

You’re drying plates when you see it happen.

He reaches for a pan fresh out of the oven — bare-handed.

“Damian!”

You drop the towel and catch his wrist just in time, fingers wrapping around his pulse. His hand is warm, too warm, and you instinctively cradle it in both of yours, checking for burns.

He freezes.

Not from pain — but because you’re touching him.

The tension in his shoulders spikes, then melts in a wave so visible you almost see it travel down his spine.

“You cannot,” he says softly, voice a little unsteady, “simply grab me like that without warning.”

“You were about to burn yourself.”

You tilt his hand, examining the skin with gentle focus.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, too quickly, too low.

Then, quieter:

“I… am now.”

Alfred watches from the other side of the kitchen island, expression politely blank, eyes screaming finally before he drifts away like a benevolent ghost.

Damian shifts closer.

Not enough to crowd you — but enough to be unmistakable.

Your thumb brushes lightly across the heel of his palm, checking one last spot, and his breath catches like you pulled a thread somewhere deep.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

“I am not—”

He swallows.

“…Perhaps.”

You look up.

He’s already looking at you — eyes soft, guarded walls cracked just enough to see the truth underneath.

“You fluster me,” he admits, and the honesty in it hits you like warm air from the oven behind him.

No sarcasm.

No defensiveness.

Just Damian, raw and startlingly sincere.

You lean up just enough for your forehead to brush his — a small touch, a quiet promise.

His hand, the one you saved from the pan, curls slowly around your waist like he’s learning how to hold something precious.

The chaos of the Manor continues somewhere down the hall: laughter, arguments, something that sounds like Dick falling off a chair.

But in here, in the dim kitchen light, it’s just the two of you suspended in a calm, warm pocket of domestic peace.

The Manor is loud behind you — laughter echoing down the hall, the scrape of chairs, the familiar chaos of a family that’s never been quiet a day in their lives. But the balcony is still.

Cool night air wraps around you, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from distant chimneys and the crisp sweetness of fallen leaves. The grounds stretch out in a dark gold sprawl beneath the moonlight, the trees shifting like slow waves.

Damian stands at the railing, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect even now — except for the way his shoulders soften when he hears your footsteps.

“I apologize for earlier,” he says quietly, without turning.

“For what?” you ask.

“For the… disorder. For the lack of decorum. For Jason’s… existence.”

He exhales, jaw tightening. “I wanted your first holiday with my family to be dignified.”

You step beside him until your shoulders brush, gently.

“Dami,” you say softly, “this is your family. And I love every loud, messy part of it.”

His breath catches.

He turns his face toward you, and under the soft balcony lights, he looks younger somehow — open, hopeful, trying so hard not to show it.

“I have never brought someone home for this,” he murmurs.

“Not like this. Not someone who…”

He swallows.

“…matters.”

Warmth blooms in your chest so quickly it almost steals your breath.

Your hand finds his — tentative at first, then sure. He lets you take it, fingers curling around yours with a quiet kind of reverence.

“Damian,” you whisper, “you don’t have to make it perfect.

You just have to be here with me.”

His eyes drop to your mouth then, and the shift is palpable — a subtle pull, like gravity reorienting itself.

He steps closer, enough that the edge of his coat brushes your legs, enough that the heat from his chest seeps through your sweater. One hand lifts, cautious, fingers hovering just at your jawline.

“May I…?” he asks, voice low and breathless.

You smile — soft, certain.

“Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s memorizing something.

Slow.

Steady.

Warm as the golden lights glowing behind the balcony doors.

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you just a little closer, as if he’s afraid you might drift away with the breeze. The world narrows to the taste of autumn air, the warmth of his breath, the way he exhales against your lips like he’s finally releasing a truth he’s held too tightly.

When he pulls back, your foreheads rest together, breaths syncing in the quiet.

“I am grateful for you,” he murmurs — so soft, it almost disappears into the wind.

Your hand slides down his lapel, fingertips brushing the stitching he never lets anyone touch.

“I’m grateful for you too,” you whisper back.

Below the balcony rail, a gust of wind sweeps across the grounds, scattering the last leaves like glowing embers in the moonlight — a perfect echo of the warmth blooming between you.

The Manor has finally begun to quiet.

The laughter fades room by room, replaced by the soft click of doors, the shuffle of Alfred tidying what doesn’t even need tidying, the faint hum of the old heater kicking on for the night.

You and Damian linger outside the balcony doors, unwilling to break the moment. When you step in from the cold, he stays close — not quite touching, but hovering in that way he does when he wants to reach for you but hasn’t yet learned how to ask.

Inside, the lights have softened to a gentle amber glow. The long dining table is half-cleared, pie plates pushed to one end, napkins folded with compulsive Alfred precision. You can hear Dick and Jason arguing over who gets the last slice of pecan pie; Tim sleepwalks past holding a mug that is absolutely empty.

For the first time, you see it the way Damian must:

The Manor isn’t a museum.

It’s alive.

Messy.

Chaotic.

Full of love he pretends he doesn’t need but craves in every bone.

He walks you toward the foyer slowly, as if each step risks shaking something loose in him. At the doorway, he hesitates — not ready to let the night end.

You brush your hand against his.

He takes it immediately.

“Thank you,” he says again, voice quiet, steady now. “For today. For… navigating my family.”

“They’re wonderful,” you say.

Then, teasing: “Terrifying. But wonderful.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes him — that rare, unguarded sound you’ve learned to treasure.

Damian lifts your hand, kisses your knuckles gently — an old-world gesture, tender and deliberate.

“Then… I hope you will consider returning.”

He hesitates, breath catching just slightly.

“For Christmas.”

The words land with the warmth of a lit hearth — unexpected, earnest, vulnerable in a way Damian rarely allows.

You rise on your toes and kiss the corner of his mouth — a promise.

“I’d love to.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if letting the answer settle into places that once expected nothing good. When he opens them again, he looks at you like he’s memorizing the sight.

Outside the tall windows, the last leaves drift across the Manor grounds, catching the moonlight like tiny sparks — bright for a moment, then settling quietly into the grass.

Damian laces your fingers together as the door shuts behind you, the echo warm and certain.

“Come,” he says softly. “Let me walk you home.”

And for the first time all evening, he looks completely at peace.

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Bruce knocked on Dick’s door with the practiced patience of a man who hadn't already received twenty-seven texts from Dick that morning. He wore his fluffy white robe as his doctors coat, and a black surgical mask on his face.  Martha stood beside him, doctor kit rolling behind her, doctors coat buttoned to the top, mask slightly askew, and play clipboard clutched with Hello Kitty paper close to her chest.

“Come in,” Dick croaked, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.

He was a mess. Hair everywhere, wrapped in two blankets, a cold pack sliding down his forehead. One arm hung dramatically over the side of the bed.

Martha gasped. “Oh no! He’s very sick, Daddy.”

Bruce nodded gravely. “Critical condition.”

Dick peeked an eye open. “Is that my favorite doctor?”

Martha marched forward. “Yes! Doctor Martha Wayne. And this is Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

Dick grinned weakly. “You brought backup. Good. I wasn’t sure I’d make it.”

Bruce took out his phone and dialed your number. He put it on speaker.

“Hey, Doctor Wayne,” your voice came through the line, cheerful and steady. “How’s the patient?”

“Hi, Mama!” Martha chirped. “He’s very hot and sweaty,” Martha reported, pressing her toy thermometer to Dick’s forehead. “And his hair’s going crazy. That means fever.”

Bruce added, deadpan: “Fever of one hundred and… dramatic.”

Dick stuck his tongue out at Bruce and readjusted his ice pack.

You chuckled. “Understood. Doctor Martha, what do you think he needs?”

“Soup, juice, and snuggles,” she said decisively.

“Prescription approved,” you said. “Pharmacy will prepare chicken noodle and vegetable juice. Nurse Bruce Daddy, make sure he doesn’t leave bed.”

“Copy that,” Bruce said.

Dick pouted. "I don't like vegetable juice!"

You said a firm "Too bad." and hung up the phone.

"Who made her the boss?”

Bruce tucked one of the blanket around him, “Her doctorate.”

Martha peeled a sparkly unicorn sticker from her kit and stuck it carefully on Dick’s hand.

“There. That’ll make you brave. Because uniforms are brave."

Dick smiled, small and soft. “Already working, Doc.”

As they stepped out, Bruce texted you:

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Dick is stable. Diagnosis: severe silliness, light fever, 80% improvement after sticker treatment.

Your reply came quick.

From : "My Home ❤️": Pharmacy delivery driver (Alfred) will deliver chicken noodle soup in 20 minutes. Next patient.

Bruce glanced down the hall where the rest of the manor waited in various stages of misery. He sighed, adjusting the toy stethoscope hanging from his neck.

“Come on, Doctor. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Martha grinned, tugging his hand. “Let’s save more people, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

The next door was half-closed, a low voice grumbling from inside.

“Come in if you dare,” Jason muttered, muffled by a pillow.

Martha didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open, tiny doctor coat flapping dramatically. “Doctor Martha Wayne, reporting for duty!”

Jason groaned. “Oh no, they sent the tiny one.”

Bruce followed her in, phone in hand, expression neutral. “Nurse Bruce Daddy assisting.”

Jason peered up from his blanket cocoon. “You’re kidding me.”

Bruce started typing, voice flat. “No, but I will be documenting your symptoms for [Name].”

Marta climbed onto the edge of the bed, stethoscope around her neck, eyes sharp with professional focus. “How are you feeling, big brother Jay?”

He coughed once, wet, deep, and chesty. “Fine.”

She gasped. “Ew! That cough is not fine!” She pressed the plastic stethoscope against his chest, listening intently to absolutely nothing. “Hmm. Your heartbeat sounds… spicy.”

Jason squinted. “Spicy?”

“That means you’ve been eating too many chili dogs,” she said with great authority.

Jason's eyes narrowed at his sister. "Who told you!?"

Bruce called your phone immediately.

"Status report," you asked with a tone too playful to be completely stern.

"Doctor reports patient has "spicy heartbeat.” Likely due to diet of street food and vengeance," Bruce reported.

"Incorrect," Jason weakly pointed at a shaky finger at Bruce. "Street food and spite. Vengeance is your thing."

You let out an amused huff on the other line. "Understood. Prescription: extra-large super green smoothie and no chili dogs until he gets better."

Jason sat up. “Wait, no chili dogs? Don't I need, like, protein or something?"

Unfortunately for Jason, you already hung up before you could listen to his objections.

Martha scribbled on her clipboard, tongue poking out as she wrote. “What Mama says goes.”

Jason sighed, slumping back. “You're brutal like mama.”

Martha patted his arm. “That’s because I care.” She reached into her kit and produced a bright red sticker shaped like a lightning bolt. “You’re strong like Flash. You’ll feel better soon.”

Jason looked at it for a long moment before peeling it carefully off and sticking it on his bedside table lamp. “Thanks sis.”

As they left, Bruce sent one last text:

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient grumpy but compliant. Sticker therapy successful. Moral high.

From: "My Home ❤️": Sounds like you . Next.

Martha tugged Bruce’s hand toward the next hallway. “Come on, Nurse Bruce Daddy! We still have a lot of sickies to fix!”

Bruce smirked faintly. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

The door to Tim’s room was cracked open, the faint glow of a laptop screen flickering inside. Bruce sighed before even knocking. “He’s working,” he muttered.

Martha frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting!”

She pushed the door open and marched straight in, the toy stethoscope bouncing against her chest. “Patient Timmy!” she announced. “You are not allowed to do science when you’re sick!”

Tim turned in his desk chair, coffee mug in his hand, dark circles practically engraved under his eyes. “It’s not science, it’s—”

“Work,” Bruce finished sternly. “Is that coffee!?”

Martha let out a high pitched gasp. "I'm telling Mommy!"

Tim slumped. “Traitor!”

"Get him to bed Nurse Bruce Daddy!"

Bruce didn't hesitate. He rushed towards Tim, but Tim was stubborn. He jumped out of his chair and used it as a shield. "Cut it out Bruce! I'm fine!"

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Bruce pulled the chair away from Tim and tossed it to the side.

Tim lunged towards his bed and clumsily wrapped his duvet around his shoulders. "I'm in bed! I'm in bed! Layoff Nurse Terminator!"

Bruce gave a stern nod and went to pick up Tim's chair. Meanwhile Martha climbed into Tim's bed, wooden tongue depressor in her hand. "Say ahh Timmy."

"Okay, just not too far Martha. I almost threw up last time."

"Okay."

Tim opened his mouth, letting Martha slowly and carefully press his tongue down with the depressor. Tim was patient as she examined the inside of his mouth for…something.

Martha nodded like she suddenly got all the answers she needed. She dropped the depressor on Tim's bed and started scribbling on her clipboard.

Tim leaned over to see what she was writing. "Is it serious doctor?"

Martha didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Yes. Yucky breath and tired eyes.”

Tim groaned into his blanket. “Ruthless.”

Bruce thumbed his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Timmy diagnosed with ‘yucky breath and tired eyes.’

The reply came fast.

From: "My Home ❤️": Italian meatball soup, lots of water, and mint mouthwash before anyone else suffers.

Tim pulled the duvet higher over his head. “Tell Mom I’m not talking to her anymore.”

Martha smiled proudly, setting a panda sticker on his nightstand. “He’s getting better already.”

Cass’s door was closed, soft music humming from a speaker on the other side. She sat cross-legged on her bed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes closed as she breathed slowly through a sore throat because her stuffed up nose wouldn't allow something as silly as breathing.

Martha peeked in, whispering, “We have to be quiet, Nurse Bruce Daddy. She’s sleeping sitting up.”

Cass’s lips curved into a small smile. “Not sleeping,” she rasped gently.

Martha crept closer. “Hi, Cass. I’m Doctor Martha. You don’t feel good?”

Cass shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “No I don't Doctor Martha. Can you help me?”

Martha pulled out her trusty clip board. "What are your symptoms?"

"Sore throat. Stuffy nose. And I'm really tired."

Bruce stayed by the doorway, pulling out his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️":  Patient Cassandra reports fatigue, sinus congestion, and sore throat. Calm and cooperative.

The reply came a moment later.

From: "My Home ❤️": Apple cinnamon oatmeal with honey. Tell Doctor Martha to be extra gentle with her big sister.

Martha reached into her kit, placing a toy thermometer against Cass’s cheek. “Hmm,” she murmured. “You’ve got the sleepies. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Cass watched her little sister with patient amusement. “Sleepies, huh?”

“Yup. Doctor’s orders — oatmeal, snuggles, and a nap.” Martha opened her case and pulled out a small stuffed axolotl and gave it to Cass. Next she peeled a gold star sticker from her clipboard and pressed it gently to Cass’s shoulder. “For being the quietest patient ever.”

Cass signed thank you, her movement small and soft. Martha brightened and awkwardly mirrored the sign back, making Cass’s eyes glimmer with pure affection.

Bruce sent one last text before pocketing his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️": Stuffy deployed. Sticker therapy successful. Patient Cass resting.

From: "My Home ❤️": Good job! Previous patients received food and medicine. I eagerly await another update.

Cass reached over to squeeze Martha’s tiny hand. “Good doctor,” she whispered.

Bruce knelt beside her and whispered, “You’re four for four, Doctor. Who’s next?”

Martha’s eyes lit up. “Steph! She’s a silly patient. We have to hurry!”

Martha knocked three times before kicking open the door. “Doctor Martha Wayne!” she announced grandly. “House call!”

Steph, bundled up in a mountain of purple blankets, peeked over the top with mock fear. “Oh no, the doctor’s here! Everyone hide the candy!”

Bruce followed her in, phone already out with you on the other line. “Patient appears conscious and sarcastic.”

“Symptom confirmed,” you said seriously, the sound of a knife cutting something on the other line.

Steph laughed, voice hoarse but light. “You’re getting good at this, kiddo.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come on, Doc. You better check my vitals before I die of boredom.”

Martha climbed up, pulling out her toy stethoscope and placing it on Stephs back. “Okay. Deep breaths.”

Steph exaggerated it, huffing like she was blowing up a balloon. Martha nodded gravely and tapped her pen. “Diagnosis: funny lungs.”

You paused your food cutting. "So patient Stephanie exhibits excessive humor and mild congestion. Got it. Prescription: chicken and dumplings, orange juice."

Bruce dipped his chin once in acknowledgment. "Better add one less joke per minute to her prescription."

Steph blew a raspberry at Bruce. “You and [Name] are no fun.”

Martha gasped. “You can’t talk back to the pharmacy!”

Bruce added, “That’s an automatic fine.”

Steph chuckled, her laugh turning into a cough. Martha instantly reached for her toy thermometer and pressed it to Steph’s forehead. “You’re hot!” she blurted, eyes wide.

Steph smirked. “Thanks, I know.”

Martha blinked, confused. “No, I mean your head! You have a fever!”

Steph’s laughter broke into another cough, and Martha’s little hand flew to her back, rubbing in small circles. “Careful! You’re gonna choke on your funny!”

Bruce spoke into his phone. "Patient laughing through cough. Doctor applied small-hand comfort technique."

A kitchen timer rings mid-call. "Ah, the next round of food is done. Tell Doctor Martha she’s doing wonderfully. And remind Steph to drink her water."

Steph retreated back into her cocoon, only her sweaty forehead visible. "Yes ma'am."

Martha tore off a shiny purple cat sticker and stuck it right on Steph’s forehead. “For bravery and too many jokes.”

Steph gave her a weak salute through her blankets. “Best doctor I’ve ever had.”

Martha giggled and hopped off the bed. “Next patient, Nurse Bruce Daddy!”

"Yes Doctor Martha."

Martha didn’t even knock this time. She flung Duke’s door open like a superhero making an entrance. “Doctor Martha Wayne! And Nurse Bruce Daddy!”

Duke sat in the middle of his bed, oversized hoodie on, and a box of tissues balanced on his lap. “Wow, I got the A-team,” he said, voice stuffy but amused.

“You sure did,” Bruce replied, tone flat but eyes warm. “Let's get to work doctor.”

Martha squinted, studying Duke like a detective at a crime scene. “You sound funny.”

“Because my nose is broken,” Duke said with a sniff.

Martha gasped. “You broke your nose!?”

Duke chuckled. “I mean it’s stuffy.”

“Ohhh.” Martha nodded sagely and pulled a toy otoscope from her kit. “Hold still. Doctor Martha will fix it.”

Duke leaned forward obediently while she shined her little plastic light up his nose. “Hmm,” she hummed, dead serious. “Too much nastiness in there.”

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke experiencing nasal congestion. Doctor’s official diagnosis: ‘too much nastiness.’

Duke waved to Bruce to catch his attention. "Tell [Name] my head is pounding from the congestion."

Bruce did what he was asked, and got a text from you minutes later.

To: "My Home ❤️": Administer Pedialyte with emergency congestion and headache medicine set for immediate Alfred delivery. And tell our doctor she’s brilliant.

Martha beamed as Bruce read the text aloud. “See? Mommy thinks I’m smart!”

Duke gently pat Martha's head. “I’d trust you with my life, Doc.”

She reached into her kit and handed him a bright yellow sticker shaped like the sun. “For being the sunshine brother.”

He smiled, pressing it to his hoodie. “Best sticker ever.”

Bruce typed one more note.

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke stable, morale high. Sunshine sticker issued.

Duke raised an eyebrow. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Doctor’s orders. And I wanted to make sure everyone's okay.”

Duke looked down at his hands, trying to use his hood to hide his bashful smile. "Thanks Bruce. I appreciate that."

Martha clapped her hands together. “Only one left!”

Bruce glanced down the hall toward the last closed door. “Damian.”

Martha nodded with determination. “He’s the grumpiest patient of all. We have to be brave, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

Bruce sighed, resigned. “Lead on, Doctor.”

The door to Damian’s room was shut tight, a hand-written note taped to it: DO NOT ENTER.

Martha squinted at it. “He’s scared,” she said defiantly.

Bruce deadpanned, “That’s one interpretation.”

She knocked anyway. “Doctor Martha Wayne! Open up! I have to tell mommy you're sick and give you medicine!”

A muffled voice shot back, sharp as a blade: “Leave the cure by the door. I require no assistance.”

Martha stomped her foot. “He’s refusing treatment!”

Bruce sighed. “He’s refusing everything.”

She turned the handle and pushed the door open before he could stop her.

Damian stood near his desk, arms crossed, sword propped within reach—because of course it was. Titus lay nearby, ears back like he’d already accepted defeat. Damian’s voice was hoarse, his nose red, but his posture screamed battle-ready.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly.

“You’re sniffly,” Martha countered, marching right up to him with her toy thermometer in her right hand, and her toy otoscope in her left.

“That’s not a medical term.”

“You're not a doctor! You don't know!”

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian still in denial. Sword present. Proceeding with caution.

A second later:

From: "My Home ❤️":  Be careful. Apply stubbornness-countermeasures. Preparing emergency grilled cheese and tomato soup. Administer stealth affection STAT!

“Sit,” Martha ordered, pointing at his bed.

Damian scoffed. “You are not qualified to give orders.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “She has more medical experience than you do, son.”

“Because I trained with assassins, not—” Damian let out a hard sneeze, knocking the wind out of him so hard that he went into a coughing fit.

Martha pointed a finger at her brother dramatically. “Evidence! You are sick!”

He scowled. “That was dust.”

“There’s no dust in my patient rooms,” she said firmly, stepping closer to him and holding out her plastic thermometer. “Hold still!”

Damian dodged left. “I will not.”

She huffed, trying again. “Hold still or I’ll tell Mommy!”

Bruce said slowly, “That’s an effective strategy.”

Damian froze mid-step. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Martha tightened her grip on her thermometer. "Yes. I. Would."

Bruce jumped towards Damian, embracing the boy in a tight bear hug. "Gotcha."

Damian wiggled is shoulders and kicked his feet, but his congestion left him weak and breathless. He gave up his fight almost as soon as he started. He dangled helplessly as Martha stared up at her helpless brother.

Damian looked back at her, his expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "This isn't care! This is tyranny!”

She scribbled on her clipboard. “Diagnosis: very dramatic. Needs puppy snuggles.”

Damian sighed heavily. “Fine. Administer whatever treatment you deem necessary. Quickly.”

Bruce released his hold. When Damian silently climbed into bed, Bruce typed one last note:

To: "My Home ❤️":  Patient Damian finally compliant. Diagnosis: dramatic fever and acute denial.

From: "My Home ❤️":  Good work. I knew I could count on you.

Martha beamed, placing a tiny dinosaur sticker on his wrist. “For being brave and only a little grumpy.”

Damian studied it like it was radioactive, then muttered, “Tch. It’s acceptable.”

Titus barked once, tail thumping on the wood floor.

Bruce crouched beside his daughter. “That’s all the patients, Doctor.”

Martha jumped, proud smile still in place. “We did it.”

“You did,” Bruce said softly, kissing the top of her head. “Now let’s report back to the pharmacy. And tell mommy the good news."

For the first time all day, you weren’t juggling medicine bottles, boiling pots, or a buzzing phone. You sat curled up on the living room couch, a thick blanket on your lap, tea steaming between your hands, firelight flickering against the walls.

Alfred had taken care of the final deliveries himself — insisting that Doctor Martha’s patients deserved proper presentation. He’d left the soup trays and medicine bottles neatly arranged on a rolling cart and disappeared down the hall like the guardian of a very tired hospital ward.

A few minutes later, the familiar tread of heavy steps echoed across the floor. You looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway — hoodie rumpled, hair even more of a mess, and your daughter fast asleep on his shoulder. Her tiny doctor’s coat was crooked, her mask off, and her stethoscope and clipboard securely in Bruce's free hand.

“She insisted on checking Alfred one more time, even though he wasn't sick,” Bruce murmured, voice low so she wouldn’t wake. “Declared him fully cured.”

You smiled. “And what about you, Nurse Bruce Daddy?”

His mouth curved faintly. “Completely healthy.”

“Good,” you said softly, patting the couch beside you. “Because I’m prescribing rest, cuddles, and cookies.”

He set Martha gently in your lap, her tiny hands instantly finding you. “Mission complete,” she mumbled into your shoulder, half-dreaming. “All better.”

You gently kissed her head, your heart full of love and content. “Best doctor in Gotham.”

Bruce’s gaze softened. “No arguments here.” He carefully sat close to you. Allowing you to smoothly cuddle into his side.

You leaned into him as the fire cracked softly, the manor finally still — every tick of the clock a small, steady heartbeat of peace.

“Clinic’s closed for the night,” you murmured.

One week before Halloween.

The Watchtower conference room was the kind of place that made time feel optional.

The computers hum softly, the air filters hummed, and the polished metal table reflected the faces of the most powerful heroes in the world — all of whom who already looked absolutely done. And they've only been there two hours minutes.

It was, without question, the longest Justice League meeting of the year.

Bruce sat near the center, Batsuit pressed, expression unreadable. Clark had taken off his cape and hung it over his chair. Victor was staring blankly at the monitor in front of him. Diana was trying to focus. Hal was fiddling with his ring. Arthur has zoned out completely. And Barry had gone still — which was somehow worse than him vibrating.

And at the far end of the table, Oliver Queen was complaining. Loudly.

“Look, I’m just saying, maybe we don’t need a twelve-hour meeting about seasonal crime. We do this every year! Pumpkin thieves, drunk pilgrims, Joker gas at the Christmas parade,  — same problems, different October, November, and December!” He gestured dramatically with his bow, nearly whacking Hal in the face.

Hal caught the bow midair. “You say that like we don’t end up patching your city together every Thanksgiving.”

“Hey, Star City’s thriving, thank you very much,” Oliver said, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. “At least I don’t sulk on rooftops like a certain billionaire vampire.”

Every head turned toward Bruce.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “I’m not the one who built an arrow-shaped motorcycle.”

“It’s a branding choice!” Oliver shot back.

“A poor one,” Bruce said simply.

"Speaking of poor choices," Oliver gestured across the table, where the rest of the Batfamily was trying not to laugh. "Why are all of your kids here?"

"Some of them will be league members in the future," Bruce clarified. "It's only natural they get a taste of how we do things."

Dick had his chin propped on his hand, eyes sparkling. Jason’s grin was wide enough to get him punched. Tim was tapping something on his tablet that looked suspiciously like a mobile game. Steph leaned back in her chair, whispering something to Cass, who nodded and whispered something back. You were applying the top clear coat of nail polish on Duke's nails.

Even Damian managed to lose interest, seated closely beside you, lazily scrolling on his phone. “Father, may I suggest investing in a chicken coop?”

“No,” Bruce replied.

Duke kicked lightly at your boot under the table. “He doesn’t even know?”

You kept your voice low. “Not yet. We’re still on schedule. The costumes arrived at the Watchtower armory this morning?”

“Right on time,” Cass whispered.

The conversation between Oliver and Bruce was still going, somehow gaining volume (mostly from Oliver's side).

Clark rubbed his temple. “We’ve been at this for three hours now. Can we please circle back to the Central City report?”

“Happy to,” Barry said, slapping a thick folder on the table. “If everyone would just focus for five minutes, I can—”

The folder split open, spilling papers everywhere.

“...Right,” Barry muttered, glaring at the mess. “Pretend that didn’t happen.”

Arthur's lips twitched. “A fine demonstration of leadership.”

“I don’t see you filing paperwork for Atlantis,” he grumbled.

Arthur leaned back. “Because I actually get results.”

That earned a faint “Oooh” from Hal and Victor and a very quiet “ouch” from Clark.

It was the kind of slow-motion meltdown that would have driven any ordinary team apart — but for the Batfamily, it was the perfect warm-up act.

You could feel the air shift as the hour mark crept closer. Everyone at your end of the table shared a silent look — the same kind of unspoken synchronization that only came from years of working together.

A new tradition was about to begin.

“Five minutes,” Damian murmured.

“Showtime,” Duke said quietly.

You grin widened. “Operation Arrow Alliance is a go.”

Bruce didn’t look up from his notes, but the corner of his mouth twitched — just barely.

Outside the Watchtower’s observation window, Earth turned slowly below.

And somewhere in the endless hum of machines and tired voices, a trap was being set.

The instant Bruce called a ten-minute break, the Batfamily moved.

It wasn’t planned out loud — it never needed to be. Years of working together made every sidelong glance and subtle nod feel like code.

Steph and Duke slipped out first, joking about needing caffeine. Jason followed, muttering something about “sane people knowing when to leave.” Dick strolled after him, hands in his pockets, humming under his breath. Tim grabbed his tablet, mumbling about “data latency” like he was genuinely troubleshooting. Cass and Damian were the last to leave — silent and unnoticed.

You lingered a beat longer. “Bathroom break,” you said casually, rising from your seat. On your way out you gave Bruce a peck on the cheek, one more silent "thank you" for him for going along with his kids shenanigans.

The Watchtower’s storage bay was quiet, lined with metallic walls and faint blue lights that hummed beneath the floor. Between the crates of equipment and spare armor plating stood a single rack of identical forest-green uniforms.

Eight suits. Wigs. Masks. Goatees.

Jason let out a reverent whistle. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

Steph snorted, pulling one off the rack. “They even have the beard stickers. This is art.”

Tim rubbed the sleeves of one of the uniforms between his fingers. “All suits pre-fitted, non-restrictive, heat-resistant, and color-matched to Oliver’s latest model. Aluminum-resistant, too. Just saying.”

Duke grinned. “I don't think he'd shoot us with arrows.”

“You assume he’ll aim an arrow at us and not Bruce,” Jason said, already tugging his jacket off.

Cass moved quietly through the group, already half dressed. She adjusted her hood, fastened the belt, and looked around at the rest of you.

“You,” she said softly, eyes landing on you.

"Me," you smiled at her, already knowing that something is brewing in her head.

“You sit next to Bruce.”

You blinked. “Why me?”

Cass smiled faintly. “Because this is your idea. You should get the ball rolling.”

Dick laughed and began running his fingers through his assigned wig. “She’s right! It'll be poetic.”

Damian zipped up her jacket. “More like poetic justice.”

Duke adjusted his mustache. “Poetic chaos.”

You were already striking a pose in the mirror, your fake mustache perfectly in place. “Alright, Arrow Alliance — positions ready?”

Tim checked the camera feed. “Meeting’s still in session. Clark’s reviewing logistics, Diana’s keeping order, and Oliver is still complaining.”

Jason grinned. “Perfect.”

You tugged on your hood. “Let’s make history.”

Watchtower – Main Conference Room (Hours 1–2)

The meeting had been dragged on. Clark was doing his best to keep it organized, Diana was valiantly holding the agenda together, and Oliver was talking. Loudly. Again.

“Listen, I’m not saying Gotham doesn’t need help,” Oliver said, waving a hand in Bruce’s direction, “but maybe what it really needs is sunlight and therapy.”

Bruce didn’t look up from his files. “You’re welcome to open a clinic.”

“You're a real comedian, Bats.”

Before anyone could respond, the automatic doors hissed open.

The newcomer strode confidently to the table. “Sorry I’m late,” you said, tone easy and Oliver smooth.

Oliver froze mid-gesture, pointing at you. “What the-.”

Bruce looked up at last, completely serious. “Queen. You’re just in time.”

You nodded curtly, taking the seat beside him. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Clark blinked. “Bruce, he’s—he’s right there.”

Oliver jabbed a finger at you, then himself. “I’m him! That’s me! What is this!?”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “Duplicate field report. We’ll review both perspectives.”

Victor's brow furrowed. “Is… this a mission test?”

“Precisely,” Bruce said without missing a beat.

Barry’s lips twitched. “A mission test for what?”

Bruce folded his hands. “Patience.”

You turned slightly toward Oliver, giving him his own trademark smirk. “Don’t worry, fellow Oliver. Two of us are better than one, right?”

Hal leaned forward, barely containing a grin. “Oh, this is so much better than this snoozefest of a meeting.”

Oliver groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is identity theft, and no one here seems to care.”

Arthur coughed. “For what it’s worth, your double’s winning the room.”

Bruce nodded. “Agreed.”

You sat up straighter, matching Oliver’s exact posture. “That’s because I have presence.”

Oliver threw his hands up. “That’s my line!”

Diana’s voice was calm, amused. “Are you sure, Queen?”

Oliver looked ready to burst a blood vessel. And you're the first identity thief to make your debut. You pinched your thigh under the table in attempt to stop yourself from breaking character. If Oliver was acting like this now, he'll litter the Watchtower with his arrows by imposter number three.

You reached for a data-pad and started swiping through reports as if nothing was wrong. “Now, if we could get back to the Star City security proposals.”

Bruce, in perfect deadpan, nodded. “Go ahead.”

That was the moment the League realized: Bruce was in on it. For Oliver, this meeting was about to become a nightmare. For everyone else, this meeting was about to become the funniest thing they've seen all year.

Watchtower – Main Conference Room (Hours 2–3)

Break time couldn’t come soon enough. Victor and Diana stepped aside to talk logistics, Barry and Clark zipped down to the commissary for caffeine and snacks, and Hal and Arthur were still chuckling about the “two Olivers situation.”

You stayed where you were, leaning back in the chair beside Bruce, casually spinning in your chair as if you hadn’t just derailed interplanetary diplomacy just by existing.

Bruce took the opportunity to break from the charade. He leaned in close to you and whispered in your ear. "Still think I'm keeping you from my "super cool super fun hero meetings"?"

You leaned in closer and hissed "I would rather watch Gone With the Wind with thirty second ads every two minutes, than go to another JL meeting!"

Bruce didn't bother hiding his smirk. "I tried to warn you."

"Okay, well, warn me better," you quietly fired back. "I don't know how you do this and not leave here acting like a complete Lobotomite."

Bruce reached for your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Lots of practice and patience. You'll reach my level eventually."

Across the table, the real Oliver sat with his head in his hands. He looked like a man questioning every decision that led him here.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “Why is everyone acting like this is normal?”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Because it is.”

Oliver threw him a look that could have set something on fire. “How is this normal?”

Bruce flipped a page. “You underestimate how often things like this happen in Gotham.”

You fought down a grin. “He’s not wrong.”

Oliver groaned audibly, standing up. “I’m getting coffee. Maybe if I walk far enough, this nightmare will stop.”

He stalked toward the doors, muttering some not so nice things about Bruce under his breath.

The moment the doors closed behind him, the silence stretched. Diana was pretending not to smile. Victor looked far too composed. Bruce wrote another note like nothing had happened. You were fiddling with the data-pad, looking for games to play (there were none).

And that’s when the next set of footsteps echoed down the corridor. The doors slid open, and a tall figure stepped inside — green leather, hood, goatee, the works.

“Sorry,” Dick said, in his best Oliver impression. “Is this a bad time?”

Bruce didn’t miss a beat. “Not at all, Queen. What do you need?”

Clark came into the room and froze halfway through sipping his coffee upon seeing Dick. “...Bruce.”

You turned, hiding your smile as Dick walked up beside you, perfectly in character. “I was hoping to discuss patrol rotations,” he said, setting down a stack of important reports (apparently the first four books of Demon Slayer were very important). “I’ve been looking into expanding coverage in Star City.”

Bruce nodded gravely. “Good initiative.”

Diana blinked slowly. “Bruce… there are two.”

Bruce looked at her. “Two what?”

“Two Olivers!” Hal said, nearly choking on his laughter. “You’ve got a spare Arrow!”

Dick tilted his head, eyebrows raised behind the shades. “I prefer ‘improved model.’”

You folded your arms, glaring at him in mock offense. “A cheap knockoff. Which is sad considering you're a millionaire Oliver.”

“Please Oliver,” Dick said, perfectly mimicking Oliver’s smirk. “Petty jealousy is unbecoming.”

“Both of you stop,” Bruce said flatly. “You’re wasting time.”

Victor stared. “You’re encouraging this?”

“I’m leading a meeting,” Bruce replied. “They’re contributing.”

“Contributing?” Arthur raised a brow.

Arthur laughed. “They’re multiplying!”

You and Dick exchanged a synchronized nod — practiced, smug, and absolutely deliberate. At that exact moment, the door hissed open again.

Oliver returned with coffee in his hand and Barry at his side. The red-head was doing his best to comfort his friend while popping some gummy bears in his mouth.

"It's Spooky Season Oli. It's just some harmless fun," Barry gently told him.

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Yeah at my expense."

Both men froze in place. Oliver's cup slipped from his hand, splattering across the floor. Barry quickly retreated to his seat so Oliver wouldn't hear him laughing under his breath.

The two doppelgangers of him stared back.

“WHAT! WHY!?” he sputtered.

Dick lifted a finger. “I hope that was decaf?”

You shook your head. “Caffeine was bad for stress.”

Oliver looked from you, to Dick, to Bruce — who was calmly sipping his water — and made a strangled noise that sounded like pure existential despair.

Bruce glanced up. “You’re late.”

“I—WHAT—” Oliver pointed wildly between you two. “I LEFT FOR TEN MINUTES!”

“Exactly,” Bruce said, standing. “Time management is important.”

Diana had officially given up on decorum; she was smiling openly now. Clark’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter.

Hal muttered, “Oh, this is the best meeting we’ve ever had.”

Dick sat down beside you, arms folded, perfectly in character. “Alright, back to business.”

You and Dick nodded. “Agreed.”

Oliver looked ready to scream.

Watchtower – Main Conference Room (Hours 3–4)

The second half of the meeting had further fallen into foolishness.

Oliver hadn’t stopped muttering since the last break — mostly to himself, occasionally to anyone within earshot. “Two of me. There are two of me. Batman’s lost it. The whole damn League’s lost it.”

Bruce ignored him completely, reviewing mission logs on his tablet as if two Olivers side by side were a perfectly normal occurrence. You leaned back in your chair, casually mirroring Oliver’s posture across the table just to watch the vein in his temple twitch. Dick sat beside you, flipping through his "reports" and chiming in on every topic with just enough accuracy to sound convincing.

Every time Oliver tried to speak, Dick spoke at the exact same moment — same words, same intonation. It was subtle torture.

When Clark called the next agenda item, Bruce looked up. “Queen, would you brief the team on the Star City updates?”

Three voices — yours, Dick’s, and Oliver’s — answered in unison. “Of course.”

The room went quiet.

Barry snorted so hard he had to cover his face.

Victor’s lips curved ever so slightly.

And then, like clockwork, the doors hissed open again.

A third Green Arrow stepped inside.

“Apologies for the delay,” Steph said, her voice smooth and confident beneath the hood. She strode straight past a stunned Arthur and dropped a folder onto the table. “Had to defuse a situation with a very territorial vending machine.”

Arthur nearly spit out his drink. “Good god, there’s another one.”

Oliver slammed his hands on the table. “WHO KEEPS MAKING THESE!?”

Bruce nodded at Steph like nothing was wrong. “Queen. You’re late.”

Steph adjusted her gloves. “Traffic.”

“Understandable,” Bruce said.

You bit your tongue to stop from laughing. Dick coughed into his hand.

Steph took the seat beside Clark and immediately crossed her arms. “Alright, what’d I miss? Are we still pretending Gotham has seasonal crime or have we moved on to the part where no one respects archery?”

“Excuse me?” Oliver barked.

Steph tilted her head, calm and smug. “You heard me. I’m just saying, maybe we should stop calling ourselves Green Arrow. Branding’s outdated.”

Hal was crying with laughter now. “She’s got the attitude perfect!”

Diana pressed a hand to her mouth, her composure slipping.

Oliver gestured wildly between you, Dick, and Steph. “WHY ARE THERE THREE OF ME?”

Bruce didn’t even glance up. “A productive number. Team synergy.”

Clark blinked. “Bruce, this is—”

“Efficient,” Bruce interrupted.

“INSANE!” Oliver shouted.

Bruce turned his head slowly toward him. “Efficient.”

Steph leaned forward, smirking behind her glasses. “We’re just trying to lighten your workload, fellow Oliver. You should be thanking us.”

Oliver looked seconds from combusting. “I—I don’t even—how are you—what—”

You and Dick spoke in unison. “Calm down, fellow Oliver.”

Steph added, “You’ll get wrinkles.”

You chimed in. "More wrinkles."

Barry dropped his pen and fell out of his chair laughing.

Arthur was shaking his head. “I’m staying for this entire disaster. Best meeting in months.”

Diana exhaled slowly, eyes full of amusement. “This is cruel.”

Victor shook his head but was grinning. "This is unusual."

Oliver rubbed his temples. "This is a punishment."

“This is necessary,” Bruce corrected.

And through it all, you could see Oliver realizing this was only the beginning.

Watchtower – Main Conference Room (Hours 4–6)

Lunch was supposed to be a reset.

The League had scattered — Clark was reviewing logistics by the window, Barry was inhaling a large pizza, Victor was helping Hal upload “Arrowgeddon 2025” memes to the Watchtower database, and Arthur had decided lunch break meant napping in a chair with a Finding Nemo sleep mask on.

Bruce sat at the far end of the table, his three Green Arrows next to him, eating packed lunches like this was completely normal.

Across from you, the real Oliver stared at his lunch like it had personally betrayed him. He hadn’t touched it in ten minutes.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I can’t eat in front of them. They’re watching me like vultures.”

Dick looked offended. “No one’s watching you.”

Steph took an exaggerated bite of her sandwich, eyes locked on him. “Totally not watching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “We're minding the business that pays us.”

Oliver groaned and shoved the food away. “Forget it.”

“Suit yourself,” came a voice from the doorway.

Everyone turned. A fourth Green Arrow strolled in, casually sipping a can of an energy drink.

Jason gave a lazy two-finger salute, and picked up Oliver's abandoned lunch box “Man, you make a solid turkey club. Real talent.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide. “That’s MY food!”

Jason bit into the sandwich as he plopped down in the chair next to Steph. “Yeah, well, I’m you. So I'm eating what's mine.”

“I packed that myself this morning!” Oliver snapped.

Jason grinned behind his fake beard. “Then technically, I made it.”

Barry nearly spit out his coffee. “Oh my god!”

Hal wheezed. “This is perfect method acting.”

Diana pinched the bridge of her nose, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “Batman, this has gone far enough.”

Bruce set his fork down with deliberate calm. “It’s lunch break, Diana.”

Victor casually sat down his protein shake. “Lunch break does not require four Olivers."

Steph leaned back, biting into an apple. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Dick nodded sagely. “I think it’s working. He’s finally quiet.”

Jason kicked his feet up on the table. “I’d be quiet too if my evil twin stole my turkey sandwich.”

Oliver looked seconds from cardiac arrest. “I am begging someone to arrest him!”

Victor's mechanical eye flickered. “For what charge? Grand theft snack?”

Arthur chuckled. “You should’ve seen this coming, Queen. Gotham kids play dirty.”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on the table, every inch of him smug confidence. “Face it, Ollie — I’m the best version of you. Better aim, better hair, better taste in mustard.”

You nodded approvingly. “He’s not wrong about the mustard.”

Oliver slammed his hands on the table. “That’s it! I’m calling security!”

“We are security,” Bruce said without looking up. “And we're on a lunch break.”

Clark sighed, clearly losing his battle with amusement. “Jason, return the man’s food.”

Jason tore off another bite. “Sure thing. You want the crusts?”

You pulled out your wallet. "I'll help you out fellow Oliver. Buy whatever you want." You casually flicked a crisp $100 bill at him.

Barry choked on his drink, coughing out laughter. “This is so stupid—I love it!”

Hal fell out of his chair laughing.

Diana’s shoulders shook as she looked to Bruce. “You realize there will be retaliation.”

Bruce finally glanced up, eyes calm, unreadable. “Bring it on.”

Watchtower – Hallway (Hours 6–8)

By the time the lunch break ended, most of the League had given up trying to make sense of anything. The running theory was split between “time-clone accident” and “Bruce finally snapped.”

Outside the main conference room, the hallway hummed with steady light — sterile, quiet, peaceful. That peace lasted exactly four seconds. Because standing right in the middle of the corridor were two more Green Arrows.

Tim stood with his arms crossed, analyzing his reflection in the window’s glass. Cass stood next to him, inspecting her own reflection with laser focus.

Tim adjusted his fake beard for the third time. “Mine has better symmetry.”

Cass shook her head. “No.”

He looked at her, blinking. “Excuse me?”

Cass pointed at his face. “It's uneven on the left side.”

Tim turned back to the reflection, frowning. “That’s just the lighting.”

Cass stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “It's clearly fake Oliver.”

“It’s attached to my face Oliver,” Tim argued tugging at it.

Cass gave a small, knowing smile. “Still fake Oliver..”

“I have precision Oliver!” Tim protested. “Do you know how much effort it takes to get this even?”

Cass adjusted her hood slightly, chin up, calm and superior. “Confidence is better.”

Tim threw up his hands. “You can’t measure confidence!”

“Yes you can,” she said simply. “Ones with very trained eyes can see it.”

Tim opened his mouth, then paused — realizing he’d been out-deadpanned. “You’ve been spending too much time with Bruce.”

Cass crossed her arms. “Like you're father-son time is any better.”

He sighed. “You know, when this prank started, I didn’t think we’d have philosophical debates about facial hair.”

Cass’s lips twitched. “We're evolving. I'm so proud of us.”

Before he could reply, the elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open.

The real Oliver Queen stepped out, still red-faced from whatever Bruce had just said during the meeting. His rapid pace slowed to a halt.

There, halfway down the corridor, were two more versions of him — mid-argument about beard quality.

For a long moment, Oliver just stood there, blinking. “…Nooooo…”

Tim turned to face him, examining him critically. “Huh. His symmetry really is off.”

Cass nodded solemnly. “It's quite patchy.”

Oliver pointed at the two. “Alright, who is—WHAT—WHY—STOP TALKING ABOUT MY FACE!”

Tim tapped his chin, mocking intense contemplation. “It’s not your face, technically. It’s your aesthetic. And it’s objectively subpar.”

Cass added, completely deadpan, “It's so unbalanced it's distracting.”

Oliver sputtered, “I-I maintain this!”

Cass squinted. “Try harder.”

Oliver looked skyward, muttering a silent prayer. “Please. Please let this be a nightmare. Please wake me up in Star City.”

Tim turned to Cass. “See? In denial. That’s what inferior facial hair does to a man.”

Cass nodded sagely. “Weak mustache. Weak goatee. Weak will.”

Tim hung his head solemnly. “Damn shame. It had so much potential.”

Cass closed her eyes, and pressed her hands together over her heart as if in prayer. "RIP to his facial hairs' potential."

Tim smoothly mimicked her movements. "RIP. It will be missed."

Oliver was seconds from combusting. “BRUCE! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

From somewhere over the comm system came Bruce’s calm, unbothered voice: “I can. You’re late for the meeting.”

“THERE’S TWO OF ME IN THE HALLWAY!”

A pause. Then, perfectly steady: “Then one of you should hurry.”

Tim and Cass exchanged a high-five as Oliver dragged both hands down his face, muttering profanities.

Cass turned to Tim, completely serious. “Mine’s still better.”

Tim sighed. “We’ll let the other Oliver's decide.”

Watchtower – Hallway (Hours 8–9)

Oliver was still muttering under his breath when the next set of footsteps echoed down the corridor heading his way.

“Don’t,” he said aloud, glaring at the sound. “Don’t even—”

Too late.

Two more Green Arrows rounded the corner — one small, composed, and radiating superiority; the other tall, casual, and carrying a bag of chips like this was just another day.

Damian tugged at his sleeve, frowning. “This fabric is beneath me.”

Duke popped open the bag of chips. “Yeah, but you wear it well, Oliver.”

Tim and Cass both walked up behind them, perfectly in sync.

Cass nodded. “Fellow Olivers!”

Tim adjusted his fake beard. “Excellent timing. We were just ranking goatees.”

Damian blinked. “Why rank anything when mine is perfect.”

Cass pointed at him. “Yours is crooked.”

Damian bristled. “It is strategically placed!”

Duke snorted, but coughed when he realized he dropped character. "We have more important things to discuss. This unappealing outfit.”

Cass nodded seriously. “It's very ugly.”

Tim tugged at his sleeve. “Downright hideous.”

Steph, passing by with an energy bar, added, “Absolutely tragic.”

Damian crossed his arms, glaring down at the leather tunic. “It’s an abomination. The shade of green is inconsistent, the fabric wrinkles at the seams, and this belt—” He tugged sharply on it. “—serves no purpose whatsoever.”

Duke gestured down at his own outfit. “This looks like it was designed by a tree who lost a bet.”

Oliver's jaw dropped. “EXCUSE ME!?”

Duke leaned an elbow against the wall. “Shamelessly walking around in forest cosplay and no one stops you? You need new friends.”

Cass’s crossed her arms over her chest. “No taste.”

Tim studied the group like an art critic. “Honestly, it’s impressive how every version of this suit manages to look tacky.”

Oliver sputtered. “You—YOU CAN’T JUST—MY SUIT IS ICONIC!”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “For whom? Tall blonde Leprechauns?”

Cass tugged sharply at her hood. “This serves no practical purpose whatsoever. And the fabric wrinkles when I move. How does he function in this?”

Duke gestured broadly. “He doesn’t. That’s why he’s single.”

"SAY WHAT!?”

Cass tilted her head, dead serious. “No style. No date. Plain and simple.”

Tim shrugged. “I mean, it tracks. Can’t expect romance when you dress like rejected landscaping.”

Oliver looked personally offended. “This suit is iconic! People recognize me instantly!”

Damian scoffed. “Yes, they see you coming from three blocks away and immediately avert their eyes.”

“EXCUSE ME!?”

“You’re excused,” Damian said simply.

Oliver threw his arms up. “I’m a legend!”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “Legends usually have taste.”

Cass added, “And humility.”

Jason's voice echoed from down the corridor, gleefully chiming in. “And a tailor!”

Barry zipped past, laughing so hard he nearly tripped over himself.  "Oh man I can't believe I almost missed this? ”

Oliver took his phone out of his pocket and video called Bruce. He picked up after the third ring. “Bruce! I am surrounded by your little impostors!” Oliver turned the camera towards the clones. They happily waved and posed for the camera.

Bruce’s voice came through, calm and low. “Try blending in.”

“BLEND IN!?” Oliver shouted. “WITH THEM!?”

Tim smirked. “You’d need a better beard first.”

Damian nodded in agreement. “Ours is stronger. He wouldn't fit in.”

You chimed in, still sitting next to Bruce. "Try standing still. They can't see you if you don't move."

Dick laughed in the background. "We look like big green dinosaurs in this outfit. Maybe the dino logic will apply."

Oliver groaned like a man ready to walk into traffic. “I hate this family so much.”

Duke clapped him on the back. “You love us.”

Oliver’s voice cracked. “No. No, I really don’t.”

Watchtower – Main Conference Room (Hour 10)

The meeting was finally, mercifully, coming to a close.

Reports were filed, patrol schedules approved, and several League members were one snarky comment away from collapsing. The tension in the room had drained into pure, collective resignation.

Oliver sat slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the table like a man whose soul had left his body hours ago. His mask was half-off, his beard crooked, his will to live gone.

Bruce was still talking. “—and if we redirect another four percent of resources toward Star City’s border surveillance, we can optimize patrol efficiency.”

“Fine,” Oliver mumbled. “Sure. Whatever.”

Diana’s voice was calm, diplomatic. “Bruce, perhaps this can continue via email tomorrow.”

Clark was begging with his eyes. Him holding in his laughter out of sympathy for Oliver was physically hurting him at this point.

Bruce gave a slow nod. “Agreed. Meeting adjourned.”

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room.

Barry zipped out instantly, shouting "Wait until Iris hears about this!”

Hal leaned back with a dazed grin, and Arthur groaned as he stood. Cyborg was already transferring footage of the day’s chaos into a file labeled Watchtower Comedy Archives.

Oliver didn’t move. He just sat there, defeated. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

You leaned over from your seat — still in full Green Arrow gear — and patted his shoulder sympathetically. “You’re doing great, champ.”

He turned slowly, dead-eyed. “You started this. Didn't you?”

You smiled. “Perhaps.”

Before he could respond, the doors opened again.

Seven identical Green Arrows strolled in — one after another.

Dick. Jason. Steph. Tim. Cass. Damian. Duke.

Still in costume. Still perfectly in character.

Jason sauntered up first, still chewing the last of Oliver’s stolen lunch. “Hey, meeting over? Cool. I was hoping for the afterparty.”

Steph dropped into the seat across from Oliver. “We’re debriefing, right? Can’t skip that.”

Tim leaned casually on the table. “Some of us have notes.”

Cass folded her hands. “I need a visual presentation.”

Damian took a seat beside Bruce, utterly serious. “I have critiques.”

Duke clapped his hands together. “Same. Starting with color palette.”

Oliver let out a weak noise — somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “You’re still doing this?”

Bruce looked up from his notes. “Doing what?”

“THIS!” Oliver shouted, gesturing wildly to the room. “The— the cloning! The costumes! The psychological warfare!”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Big words, Queen. Someone’s been reading the dictionary.”

Steph rested her chin in her hand. “Or the thesaurus. For variety.”

Oliver dragged his hands down his face. “You’re all insane children. Raised by an insane man who uses his own children to harass his coworkers!”

Cass slammed her hand on the table. “Untrue! We came up with this all on our own. Bruce just goes along with it or else he becomes the target.”

Bruce stood, entirely composed. “Good work today, everyone.”

Oliver’s head snapped up. “GOOD…WORK!?”

“Effective strategy,” Bruce continued. “Team cohesion improved. Morale high. Objective achieved.”

Diana folded her arms, fighting a smile. “And what, exactly, was the objective, Batman?”

Bruce looked her dead in the eye. “Family bonding.”

“Are you kidding!?” Oliver barked. “This torture was so you can bond with your kids?!”

Hal was nearly crying with laughter. “Hey, I think it's sweet!”

Barry zipped back in. “Iris can't stop laughing. I had to leave so she can recover.”

Arthur was vibrating with laughter. "That makes two of us. I will cherish these antics. Good job kids.”

Oliver slumped further in his chair, groaning into his hands. “I hate all of you.”

You wrapped your arms around Olivers neck and pulled him into a gentle hug. “We love you too, Uncle Oli. If we didn't we wouldn't mess with you.”

Cass nodded. “Yeah. This actually doesn't compare to the stuff we do to each other.”

Tim gave Oliver's shoulder a reassuring pat. "Out of love of course."

Steph grinned. “Same time next year?”

You smirked. “Already planning it.”

Victor turned away from the computer and looked at you. "So…another victim?"

Diana's eyes widened. "It would appear so. I wonder who it'll be."

Hal slowly backed away from the table. "I'm sure they'll use any leftover green fabric to dress as me!"

Then Barry said what everyone was thinking. “Next year, I’m taking Halloween off.”

Arthur wheezed. “They'll find you.”

Diana smiled faintly. “They always do, somehow.”

Clark sighed, but even he couldn’t hide his grin. “You have to admit,” he said, “it was… effective.”

Oliver groaned from his seat, still motionless. “If by effective you mean emotionally scarring—”

Bruce adjusted his gloves, perfectly straight-faced. “We’ll debrief at home. The Arrow Alliance performed admirably.”

Oliver’s muffled voice came from behind his hands. “I’m gonna move to Mars.”

Tim replied smoothly. “We have suits for that too.”

Before Oliver could groan again, you clapped your hands. “Alright, everyone—line up!”

He froze. “What?”

“Photo time,” you said cheerfully, already pulling out your phone.

Jason perked up instantly. “Oh, hell yeah.”

Steph gasped dramatically. “Family photo! Everyone do the pose!”

Oliver blinked, horrified. “What pose!?”

“The Green Arrow one!” Duke said, already grabbing a nearby bow. “You know — serious but trying to look mysterious.”

Cass struck the stance instantly, perfect posture, dead-serious face. Damian followed, arms crossed and glaring at the camera like it owed him money.

Dick grinned, flashing finger guns instead of an arrow stance. “Nailed it.”

Jason leaned one arm around a visibly suffering Oliver's head. “Say ‘therapy!’”

Steph elbowed her way into the middle, pulling Cass closer. “No, no, say ‘legacy!’”

Tim adjusted his hood and smirked. “Say ‘brand damage.’”

Oliver groaned audibly. “Say nothing and let me leave.”

Bruce stood at the end of the line, completely straight-faced, arms folded like this was a League portrait.

You centered yourself beside Oliver, holding up the camera. “Smile, everyone!”

Oliver didn’t move.

Jason leaned in closer, whispering just loud enough for the mic to catch it. “C’mon, Queen, you can manage a smirk. It’s your thing.”

“I hate all of you,” Oliver muttered.

The flash went off.

“Perfect,” you said, checking the screen. “This one’s going on the fridge.”

Oliver’s muffled voice came from behind his hands. “…You’re all banned from Star City.”

You ruffled his blonde hair. “That's okay. We live rent free in your head. That's so much better.”

The Arrowcave was quiet that Halloween night.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, the faint hum of computers filling the silence. He’d finished patrol early, traded the hood for a cup of tea, and was almost ready to call it a peaceful night.

Then the mail chute clattered.

He frowned, standing. Nobody sent him physical mail often.

A single large envelope lay on the floor, thick and glossy. On the front, in elegant handwriting, it simply read:

To: The Real Oliver Queen.

Wayne Manor as the return address.

Oliver hesitated, then opened it.

Inside was a high-quality, glossy photo — the one from the Watchtower.

Eight identical Green Arrows stood shoulder-to-shoulder, grinning like maniacs. Bruce looked stoic as ever in the corner. You were front and center, peace sign raised. Dick with his finger guns. Steph had her tongue out. Jason was mid-laugh. Cass in her Green Arrow pose. Tim looked smug. Duke was clearly trying not to laugh. Damian glared at the camera.

And in the center — Oliver himself — visibly defeated, caught in perfect, miserable clarity.

Written on the corner was a tiny note, written in your neat handwriting:

Happy Halloween, Ollie. You’re one of us now. — The Arrow Alliance 🏹

For a long moment, Oliver just stared at it.

Then — slowly, reluctantly — he smiled.

“Damn bats,” he muttered.

He found a spare frame on the shelf, brushed the dust off, and set the photo inside.

When he hung it on the Arrowcave wall, it sat between an old picture of Team Arrow and a cracked dartboard. The light caught on the glass, right across the row of green hoods.

He looked at it one last time before walking off.

“Pretty damn good prank,” he admitted quietly.

You and the little boy sat in a booth together at a small family restaurant. The restaurant was pretty high up -nowhere near the last restaurant you wanted to take him to- but judging the look on his face, he's not happy.

"I'm sorry we couldn't go to the other restaurant, but this is the only place that would accept what I'm wearing," You use your hand to gesture to what you are wearing, "and allow kids inside," You pick up a fry off your plate and toss it into your mouth, "This is the best we got."

He shakes his head, "I like this restaurant. Mom and Dad used to take me here a lot on Saturdays," His gaze looks fondly at your plate, "Dad used to get the same thing like you did. But this place isn't anywhere close to the sky," He pouts and slurps his drink from a straw.

True, you two are only about six stories up and nowhere near the sky.

Your eyes drift out the window to see where would be a place to satisfy his goal, "How about..." Your voice trails off to give your brain more time to scramble before landing on, "A ferris wheel? There's this big one at Amusement Mile," Hopefully this is what he wants so you can take him home.

The little boy thinks quietly to himself right before smiling and nodding his head, "Yeah! Maybe that's the place," He scoops some mac and cheese with his spoon then shoves it into his mouth.

Good, this is going well.

--

I couldn't be farther from the truth if I could try.

When we got to the ferris wheel, I made sure to ask for our car to be stopped at the very top of the ride, but even then.

--

A few birds flew high in the sky as you and the boy sat together in the car. Despite wanting to be close to the sky, he was terrified of heights.

His little hands grip the seat like a lifeline as he keeps his eyes screwed shut.

You sat across from him with your arms thrown across the back, "You're scared of heights but you want to go to the sky?" You cock your head in visible confusion, "Why?"

"Because!" He shouts back, his voice cracking just a little, "I'm brave! My dad was terrified of heights too, but that didn't stop his dream of being a fighter pilot!" He forces one of his hands to reach into his jacket pocket and hold onto the fighter jet keychain for luck.

Seeing him like this hurts your heart, and also makes you feel impressed with him. He was willing to go against his fear to reach his goal, "Yeah, you're super brave," You lean in closer and hold out your hand for him, "You can hold onto me if you want. I won't let you fall."

The boy peeks open one of his eyes before immediately throwing his little body at you for safety. You quickly grab onto him and hold him tight. Using one of your hands, you rub his back as a show of comfort.

Feeling secure in his place, the little boy slowly opens his eyes and looks out across the amusement park in awe. Seeing the people having fun and looking like ants made him happy, "Wow! I can see everyone!" He still doesn't dare to lean over the railing of the car and clings to you tightly, "But we're still not high enough... I can't reach the sky..."

You're surprised, "This still isn't high enough for you, kid? Any higher and you would be shaking like a leaf," Besides, there's no other spot a kid can get to that's higher than this, "You know, you remind me of someone I know."

"Who is it?" He asks without even glancing at you.

"Nightwing," You answer as you see a robin flying nearby, "Out of everyone I know, he always seems to be the closest to reaching the sky; it's something he brought with him from his previous life."

You look around at the neighboring building and spot one in the distance, "Okay, I have one more spot up my sleeve, you have to promise you won't tell anyone I brought you there."

The boy looks up at you and nods his head in agreement, "Okay."

"Great. Now we wait until we get down," You just hope this will be it.

--

I truly do mean what I said about Dick. Honestly, out of everyone I could look up to, it was always him. There were times when I first started doing this where I wished to be as high as he was and touch the sky with him.

After the ferris wheel, I took him to the highest building in Gotham City. I just hope no one in the Batfam looks at any of the security footage that would catch us at the moment.

--

There's a slight chilly breeze passing through while you two stand on top of Wayne Enterprises.

You throw your hands out like you were showing off the place, "What do you think? You can't get higher than this in Gotham!" You're quite proud of yourself as you make sure the little boy stays away from the ledge.

Turning back to look at him, you notice his glum look. He shakes his head in disappointment, "I still can't reach..." He grips the fighter jet keychain tightly in his hands, "I'm never going to reach..."

"I know I asked before, but," You crouch down to be at his level as you ask again, "Why do you want to go to the sky?"

He looks at you with a bit of defeat in his eyes, "Because Dad is there..."

You're even more confused now. What does that mean?

His gaze shifts from you to the sky, "About a year ago, Dad got really sick and stayed at the hospital a lot, then one day he left..." He looks down at the fighter jet keychain in his hands, "I asked where he is and Mom said he's in a better place in the sky. I miss him and I want to see him, so that's why I have to go to the sky!"

That's when it hits you. The kid's dad is dead. Wow, how did you not catch on earlier?

You don't know how to respond to this. Obviously you can't explain the actual situation of his dad, that's just cruel. Clearing your throat to buy some time for yourself before speaking, "Well... You don't need to reach the sky to be with him," Your eyes glanced down at the fighter jet keychain, "This was something special to your dad, right?"

The boy slowly nods his head as he lifts the keychain higher like he's showing it to you.

"People who have deep bonds can communicate with each other through special items like this keychain," Your fingertips ghost the paint on the fighter jet, "By holding it tight like you've been doing let's you communicate with him and feel his presence even though he's in the sky," You softly smile as your eyes meets his, "Every time you were sad or scared, he was right here with you. Did you feel him nearby?"

He seems amazed and hopeful after hearing this new information, "Yeah... I felt him nearby," The smile on his face grew, "So, he never really left?"

You shake your head, "As long as he lives in your heart, he'll always be with you," You ruffle his hair a little then stand up to look toward the sky, "Alrighty, I can call Superman to take you higher up if you want."

"No thank you," The little boy says as he holds the keychain close to his heart, "I want to go home."

"You got it, little man," You pick him up and place him on your hip, "Just don't tell your mom about being on top of Wayne Enterprises."

--

After taking the little boy home, I learned more about what happened to his dad from his mom.

About a little over a year ago, his dad was diagnosed with leukemia and after a long battle, he didn't make it. He passed away while the little boy was at school. Since then, his mom has been struggling with working, taking care of the little boy, and dealing with the grief of losing a life partner.

It was tough to hear this from her, it's clear that she was still dealing with the pain of it all.

"Hey, hey!" Dick calls out your name from behind you, "What are you typing into the Batcomputer?" He leans over the back of the chair and reads a bit of what you wrote.

You shrug your shoulders with a small smile on your face, "It's just a bit of a case file of someone in Gotham," You look over your shoulder to see him, "The people here are so interesting"

Dick nods his head in agreement, "Yeah, it's the same thing in Blüdhaven," He reads a bit more of your file then quietly chuckles, "You wished to touch the sky with me?"

"Shut up, Richard," You say his name like you were calling him an insult.

Damian nodded solemnly. “A manipulative one. We don't like resorting to such measures, but Father is being difficult. We have no choice.”

Duke looked at the boys, feeling fear rise within him. "I don't like this.

"Don't be. It's harmless." Tim reassured. “We call it Sister Power.”

Duke's fear deflated. “Sister… power? What does that even mean?”

Damian crossed his arms. "You haven't been here long Thomas, but surely you've noticed that Father has a clear favoritism towards Cassandra and [Name]."

Duke frowned, thinking it over. “I… can’t say that I have.”

Jason shook his head, an amused smirk on his face. "Bruce is a total girl dad. He loves his sons we know that. But the way he treats his girls is on a whole different level."

"It's either hilarious or ridiculous," Tim added. "There is no in between."

Duke looked between them, pure disbelief painted on his face. “Oh come on!”

Dick got up from his spot on the floor and took a seat next to Duke on the couch. “Trust us on this. Before Bruce, we were all only children. We didn’t know what favoritism looked like. But when it came to [Name], it was obvious. She’s his favorite. And when Cass came along?” Dick grinned. “We realized Bruce Wayne is Gotham’s Ultimate Girl Dad.”

Duke still looked unconvinced. "I still think you guys are being dramatic."

"Okay," Dick got comfortable in his seat. "Here's a story for you."

The look in his eyes shifted — that particular mix of nostalgia and disbelief that only came from living in Wayne Manor too long…

…Bruce had been on an important Wayne Enterprises video call — one of those tense board meetings where everyone looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes in a hurricane. Ten people on-screen, all stiff suits and monotone voices.

He sat at his mahogany desk in his home office, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The laptop camera framed him neatly: Gotham’s most stoic CEO, unbothered and intimidating.

Then the office door creaked open.

You stepped inside first, dressed in your pajamas and holding your phone like it was a sacred artifact. “Dad, what color should I paint my nails?”

The question dropped into the silence like a bomb.

Every executive froze. Someone coughed. Another adjusted their tie.

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “Hmm,” he murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Let me see.”

You walked around the desk, showing him your phone. “Jade green, sage green, or emerald green?”

“Sage,” Bruce said simply, then unmuted himself. “Apologies, Lucius, continue.”

Lucius barely managed to keep a straight face.

And then Cassandra appeared, also in her pajamas and a blanket over her shoulders. She pulled up a chair and sitting on Bruce’s right side. She didn’t say a word, just took a seat and started sketching little doodles on the corner of his notepad.

Bruce let her. Of course he did.

Half the board looked shocked. The other half looked terrified.

At one point, you pulled up another chair and sat on his left. You leaned against Bruce’s arm, scrolling through your phone while he calmly discussed profit margins like this was the most normal thing in the world.

When the call finally ended, Bruce closed his laptop and looked between you two.

Cass showed him the picture she drew. A series of Batman doodles but they were vague black blobs with pointy ears and eyes.

“Very nice,” he said simply.

Cass smiled. You nodded, satisfied.

And just like that, Gotham’s most powerful businessman spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a posh nail salon while his daughters got their matching sets…

…Back in the present, Dick spread his hands like he’d just presented irrefutable evidence.

“So yeah,” he said with a grin. “Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Dark Knight. Total pushover.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, that confident grin already forming.

“Oh,” he said, voice low and dramatic. “You think that’s bad? Lemme tell you about the time your sweet sisters nearly totaled the Batmobile.”

Duke blinked. “What—”

But Jason was already lost to memory, the glint in his eye shifting from smug amusement to pure disbelief…

…It had started as “training.”

You decided it was time for you to learn how to handle the Batmobile. Cass had already mastered evasive maneuvers and parking. You? You were still stuck on the fun part — the speed. And Cass decided to give you a hand since Bruce was busy upstairs.

“Slow and steady,” Cass said calmly from the passenger seat, hands clasped in her lap. “You need to respect the vehicle.”

You grinned, revving the engine. “Respect, got it.”

She gave you a look. “That’s not what I—”

Before Cass could finish, the Batmobile shot forward. The roar of the engine echoed through the cave like thunder. You swerved—way too fast—and slammed the brakes so suddenly that the entire car jolted forward and crashed into the rock wall with a teeth-rattling BANG!

Then a faint plop as a stalactite somewhere dislodged and fell into the water.

Cass exhaled through her nose. “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

The noise had echoed through the cave like an explosion. Within seconds, the cavalry arrived. Jason appeared first, half in his gear, looking way too delighted for someone who just heard a crash.

“Oh my god—” he wheezed, doubled over laughing. “You—you wrecked the Batmobile!”

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the steering wheel. Cass, to her credit, sat perfectly still, expression unreadable except for the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps approached — Bruce’s.

The laughter died instantly.

He stopped in front of the Batmobile, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes scanned the damage — smoke, dented metal, a tire barely hanging on.

Jason braced himself for the explosion. This was it. The Bat-yell. The lecture. The grounding for life.

But Bruce didn’t yell. He just opened the driver’s door and crouched down beside you. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah… I think so.”

He nodded once, standing back up. “Good. That’s what matters.”

Jason stared at him, stunned. “That’s what matters?”

Bruce ignored him, inspecting the front bumper. “I should’ve explained the braking system better.”

Jason’s mouth fell open. “You’re apologizing?”

Bruce stood, calm as ever. “The car can be repaired. Though next time, I’ll supervise your training.” He shot a not-at-all serious glare at Cass.

Cass smiled back at him. “She learns fast.”

Bruce actually smiled back. “I know.”

Two days later, two new cars showed up in the cave. Smaller. Sleeker. Modified for “practice.”

Cass got to pick the color. Midnight blue. “Stealthy,” she’d said. "And there are two so we can match!"

Jason had never been so personally offended…

…Back in the living room, Jason leaned back in his chair, smirk broad and satisfied.

“And that,” he said, “is how the twins of chaos crashed a billion-dollar car and somehow got rewarded for it.”

Duke blinked. “Matching luxury cars is crazy!”

Dick crossed his arms. “He didn’t talk to me for a week when I popped a tire.”

Damian was fuming in his chair. "I've known how to drive since I was eight! And he won't let me drive!"

Tim sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You’ve heard Dick’s corporate chaos and Jason’s vehicular tragedy. Now let me tell you about the time Bruce tried to be a responsible parent… for less than two hours…"

…It started with an argument.

You had snuck out of the Manor one night — nothing reckless, just a spur-of-the-moment visit to your friend’s house party. Cass had gone with you, not wanting to miss any fun. All Bruce saw were empty rooms, the silent tracker, and the security footage of the two of you hopping a fence in Gotham at 11:47 p.m.

The next morning, Bruce called both of you into the living room.

He stood there, arms crossed, voice firm. “You both know better,” he said. “You’re grounded. No missions, no patrol, no going out for a week.”

Cass accepted her fate, but she didn't look happy about it.

You tried to argue. “But Dad, it was a small party! Only like, thirty people were there!”

Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. “You broke curfew.”

“We were expanding our cultural awareness by interreacting with the unique Gotham youth!”

He didn’t budge. Cass put a hand on your arm — the unspoken don’t push it gesture — and the two of you retreated upstairs.

Tim had been in the corner the entire time, pretending to look at his phone, but watching everything. He nodded approvingly.

Finally! Consistency. Discipline. A real rule enforced and punishment given when rules were broken.

That lasted exactly one hundred and ten minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

Around noon, Tim heard footsteps on the stairs. You appeared first, dressed casually, hair done, purse over your shoulder. Cass followed, calm as ever, keys in one hand, and a homemade latte in the other.

Bruce looked up from his seat as you both approached.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” you said simply. “We’re meeting our friends for lunch.

"Don’t wait up,” Cass shouted cheerfully.

Bruce blinked once. “Alright. Be safe.”

Tim nearly dropped his coffee, but did drop his jaw.

You leaned down, kissed Bruce on the cheek, and walked out the door like nothing was wrong.

Bruce went back to reading the Gotham Gazette as if he hadn’t just undone his own punishment.

Tim sat frozen in the his seat for a solid thirty seconds before finally blurting, “Bruce! They're grounded!”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “Oh. Right.”

A beat of silence.

“And are they still grounded?” Tim pressed.

Bruce turned a page. “I’ll revisit it later.”

He didn’t…

…Back in the living room, Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.

“So, yeah,” he muttered. “Grounded for a week. Gone in less than two hours. When they came back they told Bruce all about it.”

Jason was already grinning. “I still can’t believe you thought he’d enforce it.”

“Can you blame me for hoping?” Tim asked flatly. “He grounded me once for forgetting to eat dinner. He said it was ‘self-neglect.’ ”

Dick laughed. “Bruce’s logic when it comes to his daughters exists in another dimension.”

Duke just stared at them, slack-jawed. “He really just… let them go? Unbelievable.”

Damian straightened, expression carved from pure suffering. “My father’s hypocrisy knows no bounds,” he began solemnly. “Observe."…

…It began, as these tragedies often did, with good intentions — his, specifically.

Damian had always adored animals. He rescued them, rehabilitated them, even smuggled a few injured strays back to the Manor. Each time, Bruce had said the same thing: “No more animals in the house, Damian.”

A reasonable rule, perhaps. Until they got involved.

It was a quiet Sunday when it happened. Damian had just finished training when he heard you and Cassandra’s laughter echoing through the main hall.

“What the…” he muttered. He turned the corner and froze when he saw the animal. "What is the meaning of this!"

You and Cass turned to look at the boy. You immediately went into defensive mode.

"Damian you don’t get it," you began.

Damian grinned like he had a checkmate in chess. "Father is going to be livid when he sees this."

You clasped your hands together, pleading for sympathy from your younger brother. "She was all alone Damian! Scared and defenseless! Stuck in a tree and in need of help!'

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Damian urged. "You did not find a ZEBRA stuck in a tree."

Cass hugged the Zebra like Damian would take her away any moment. “We named her Wonder Zebra! Diana has to know we named this majestic creature after her.”

Damian blinked. “You cannot be serious.”

Cass smiled at their new companion. “She’s calm and has good energy.”

“Good energy?!” Damian gestured wildly. “She’s a zebra, not a therapy dog!”

The zebra snorted and began nibbling at one of Bruce’s antique rugs.

You gently patted her neck. “She’s just hungry. Poor thing’s been through enough.”

At that exact moment, Bruce came down the stairs. Damian folded his arms, relief flooding him — finally, someone rational.

“Father,” he announced, “they’ve brought home a wild animal. I assume you’ll handle this.”

Bruce stopped halfway down, taking in the scene: his daughters, his ruined carpet, and a striped fugitive from the Gotham Zoo. A long silence followed.

“Girls,” he said finally, “where did you find it?”

“We were just walking down the street and she was stranded Dad!” you answered innocently. “All alone stuck on the unforgiving streets that would corrupt her! We had to save her and give her a loving home!"

Bruce nodded once, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And you want to keep her?”

Cass nodded. "She can't go back out there. She's clearly been raised in captivity. She won't survive on her own. And I've seen the neighbor's lawn, the grass is fake!"

Damian smirked. “He’ll say no.”

But Bruce didn’t say no. He pulled out his phone.

“Father?” Damian asked, horrified. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the zoo,” Bruce said simply. “We’ll make the proper arrangements.”

Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne owned a zebra.

Later that day, a new enclosure was being built on the property. Alfred was giving instructions to the contractors as Cass brushed the Wonder Zebra's mane. You gave Bruce's large body the tightest hug you could manage.

Damian stood at the fence, glaring at Bruce. “You said no more animals.”

Bruce just sipped his coffee. “I said no more unapproved animals.”

Damian gestured wildly toward the zebra. “How is this approved?!”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s domesticated now.”

You handed him an apple slice. “Want to feed her, Dad?”

Bruce smiled. “Sure.”

Damian groaned. “This is absurd!”…

…Back in the living room, Damian crossed his arms with righteous indignation.

“So yes, Thomas, Father not only allowed them to keep a zebra, he bought it. Within the hour.”

Duke blinked. “...A real zebra?”

“It took six months for Alfred to convince Bruce to give Wonder Zebra back to the zoo,” Jason said. "He still owns her but Alfred got sick of her eating his roses."

Tim leaned forward, smirking. “So now you get it, right? The favoritism?”

Duke ran a hand down his face. “I’m starting to think Bruce doesn’t parent them—he just funds their adventures.”

Dick laughed. “Welcome to the Wayne family.”

Night had settled over Wayne Manor, the kind of quiet stillness that felt almost suspicious after years of living with vigilantes. The boys had spent hours brainstorming ways to convince Bruce. They needed a backup plan in case you and Cass decided to not help them.

Duke shook his head. “There’s gotta be some situation where Bruce says no to them.”

Tim raised a brow. “If there is a limit, we haven't reached it yet.”

Damian, ever the realist, folded his arms. “Perhaps tonight will be the exception. Father returned home not long ago from his date with Selina. He is… preoccupied.”

Dick looked at him. "How do you know?"

"I saw them while I was in the kitchen getting a drink. Father grabbed some wine and two glasses and left with her," Damian clarified.

Jason grinned. “Oh, so the Bat and the Cat are having their little romantic rooftop debrief, huh?”

“Not on the rooftop,” Damian said flatly. “They went in the direction of his bedroom.”

That earned a collective grimace.

Dick coughed. “Okay, boundaries. Ew. But fine — if there’s ever a time he’s gonna draw the line, it’s now.”

“Exactly,” Tim said. “He won't let anyone interrupt his…"adult time"… with Selena. ”

Jason leaned back, smug. “Yeah, no way he’s getting out of bed for anyone right now.”

The universe heard them — and laughed. Because just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.

Cass’s quiet footsteps were unmistakable. Yours weren’t — you were humming, the sound bright and careless. Both of you held dozens of shopping bags in your arms. The glossy bags cutting into your arms didn't dampen your moods one bit.

"Hi guys," Cass said casually.

"Have you seen Dad," you asked. "We want to show him our haul."

The brothers exchanged nervous looks.

“Relax,” Tim whispered. “Even Bruce has limits.”

Jason looked at the both of you, a confident smirk etched on his face. "Bruce and Selena are in his bedroom. If you catch my drift…?"

You and Cass looked at each other. The boys couldn’t read your expressions, but you two shared that silent understanding only sisters could. You both dropped your shopping bags with synchronized thuds, expensive logos scattering across the floor.

Jason blinked. “Oh, no. No way. You two aren’t actually—”

But you two were already marching down the hall.

Tim groaned into his hands. “They’re doing it.”

Duke whispered, “He's going to say no to them. This has to be the night.”

Dick felt himself flinch. "They're going to be devastated. Their first 'no' ever."

Damian sighed, defeated. “They're going to need comforting. Let's have snacks and movies ready for them.”

The boys moved to the kitchen like they were preparing someone's final meal.

Somewhere upstairs, faint music played — soft jazz, far too romantic for Wayne Manor’s usual gloom. You and Cass walked in perfect step, as if you were on a mission of personal vengeance.

By the time you reached Bruce’s door, the muffled sound of laughter and low voices confirmed your suspicion.

You knocked firmly. “Daaaad?”

Silence. Then a shuffle. Then hushed voices.

You frowned. “Dad?”

Cass added, “We need to show you something.”

More frantic movement followed. Then, Selina’s voice — unmistakably irritated — came through the door. “Bruce, don’t you dare—”

Too late. The door opened.

Bruce stood there in a black silk robe, hair a little disheveled, a light layer of sweat clinging to his skin, trying very hard to look like a man who hadn’t just been interrupted.

“Hi, girls,” he said evenly, the faintest edge of guilt in his voice.

You beamed. “Hi, Dad! We're done shopping!”

Cass excitedly bounced on her toes. “We bought a lot things.”

Behind him, Selina groaned. “Of course you did.”

You stepped forward, undeterred. “They had a sale at Cartier. And Cass found perfume that smells like Gotham rain.”

Cass nodded seriously. “It does not. It smells like Gotham in the summer.”

Bruce managed a smile. “That’s great girls.”

You peeked past him. “Hi, Selina!”

Selina sat up, the sheets pulled strategically high, and a forced smile on her face. "Hello girls. I'd come up to greet you but your Dad and I are very busy right now."

Cass tilted her head. “Busy?”

You blinked innocently. “Busy with what?”

Selina groaned again. “Unbelievable.”

You tugged one Bruce's sleeve. “Anyway, we wanted to show you what we got!”

Cass tugged Bruce's other sleeve. "And you have to smell the perfume and tell [Name] I'm right."

Bruce hesitated, eyes darting to Selina’s glare, then back to your hopeful expression and Cass' pleading look.

He sighed. “Alright. Let me make myself decent.”

Selina buried her face in her hands. “You. Are. Hopeless.”

You leaned up to kiss Bruce’s cheek. “Love you, Dad! You’re the best.”

Cass gave a small nod. “We'll wait for you in the living room.”

You both turned and padded down the hall.

Behind the closed door, Selina glared, “What about me?”

Bruce raised a brow. “What about you?”

Selina stared like he’d just committed a crime against humanity, but Bruce only walked to his closet and pulled out some clothes.

The boys had set up the living room to perfection. Popcorn bowls with 5 different flavors. Ice cream tubs with dozens of toppings. Blankets. A carefully queued movie.

Jason stared at the spread and sighed. “Feels like we’re prepping for heartbreak.”

Duke took a sip of one of the soda cans, letting the fizz calm his nerves. "Because we are."

Tim checked his phone. “It’s been ten minutes. No screaming, no crying, no door slamming.”

Dick frowned. “It’s the quiet before the storm.”

Damian poured a glass of water with grim solemnity. “Father may require this after the confrontation.”

Jason snorted. “It's a bittersweet night boys.”

Then they heard it. Two sets of footsteps heading their way, quick and heavy.

The boys turned toward the sound just in time to see you and Cass descend the stairs — all smiles and laughter — followed by Bruce Wayne himself, now in gray pajama set and matching slippers.

Dick blinked. “Oh my god. He actually came downstairs.”

Jason squinted. “In his pajamas and matching slippers!”

Bruce looked utterly unfazed. “You said you had something to show me?”

You and Cass nodded enthusiastically and began unloading your shopping bags onto the every available surface like a luxury-themed magic trick.

Perfume. Jewelry boxes. Clothes. Shoes. Half of Gotham’s economy.

Cass held up the perfume bottle. “Smell this. Tell her I’m right.”

Bruce leaned down obediently, smelling the sample strip you held out. “Cass is right. It smells like Gotham in summer.”

You gasped, offended. “What? No way! It’s totally Gotham rain!”

He smiled faintly. “Sorry honey.”

Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s so whipped.”

Tim, deadpan, “This isn’t even parenting anymore. It’s diplomacy.”

Cass handed Bruce another bag. “Look inside.”

He peered in. “A suede jacket?”

You nodded proudly. “For you! We saw it and immediately thought of you.”

Bruce’s expression softened — genuinely touched. “Thank you.”

You smiled, satisfied, then added casually, “Oh! And we’re borrowing the Batjet next week. Tokyo trip.”

Jason choked on his drink. “You’re what!?”

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “File the flight plan first.”

Tim slammed his hand on the counter. “Are you serious?!”

Bruce looked at him calmly. “Always.”

The boys went dead silent. The sound of you and Cass giggling and rummaging through your bags filling the air.

Then Dick groaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “He was in bed with Catwoman and still said yes.”

Duke muttered weakly, “We did this whole set up for nothing.”

Damian glared at his father. “Father, you are an embarrassment to the concept of discipline.”

Bruce looked around the room, expression neutral. “You all finished?”

The boys collectively mumbled variations of yeah, whatever, as you and Cass started showing your things again, talking happily. The boys abandoned the movie and started eating the food they prepared, drowning their defeat in calories.

The haul went on for three hours before the sisters disappeared down the hall with their things. Bruce watched them go, an unmistakable fondness softening his features.

Jason folded his arms. “You do realize they’ve got you completely wrapped around their fingers, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “I know.”

Selina appeared at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, still in silk and absolute disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

Bruce gave her a small, unapologetic smile. “I’m a father.”

Selina sighed, rolling her eyes — but the corner of her mouth twitched. “A hopeless one.”

Bruce took her hand and lead her back upstairs, slippers soft against the wood floor. “Goodnight, boys.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Duke exhaled. “I can’t believe he’s the same guy who terrifies the Justice League.”