#haloween

Pumpkins lined the grand staircase, their soft, flickering glow spilling over marble steps like molten gold. From the fake cobwebs draped across chandeliers—fixtures Alfred would never normally allow anyone to touch—to the garden shrubs trimmed into grinning jack-o’-lanterns and crooked witches, every inch of the manor had been transformed for the holiday.  The air was thick with the warm scent of sugar and spice, the entire manor smelled as if it was a bakery as the staff packed boxes of cookies, candies, and caramel apples—treats bound for the city’s orphanages, where children less fortunate could still have a taste of Halloween’s magic.

The Wayne Foundation Halloween Gala was tonight—a tradition you’d been preparing for weeks. Between coordinating costumes, wrangling last-minute RSVPs, and bribing the kids with promises of pumpkin pie if they behaved, you were determined to make this one perfect.

The only one not fully on board? The Dark Knight himself.

Bruce had grumbled from the moment you’d brought the costume out of its bag, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. You’d ignored him, of course.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” you said, applying the finishing touches to your own costume—a rather charming version of Batwoman, cheap store-bought latex and all. “It’s for charity, Bruce. Besides, it’s Halloween. You can’t brood your way through every holiday.”

“I don’t brood,” he said flatly.

You caught his reflection in the mirror and raised a brow. “You’re literally brooding right now.”

You turned, stifling a laugh as you took in the sight before you. Bruce Wayne—Gotham’s stoic saviour, the city’s hottest billionaire—stood in the middle of your shared bedroom wearing a discount foam Batman costume. The mask sat slightly crooked on his head, the eye holes uneven, while the fake muscles puffed awkwardly across his chest. The cape, far too short, shifted behind him in crumpled waves.

“Oh, lighten up,” you teased, stepping close to adjust his collar. “No one’s going to believe Gotham’s richest man is actually Batman just because he showed up in a Party City costume.”

He grunted, the sound low and full of reluctant dread. “You say that now,” he muttered, tugging at the edge of the mask as if the cheap material offended him on a molecular level. “But if Tim could figure out who I was from one circus trick, then this—” he gestured down at the foam chest plate “—might as well come with a flashing neon sign that says I’m Batman.”

You bit back a laugh, watching his reflection as he huffed, shoulders tense beneath the flimsy cape.

“And wait until Clark sees the pictures,” Bruce added darkly. “He’ll never let me live it down. I look ridiculous.”

You smiled, stepping closer to smooth the crooked collar of his suit. “Oh, love,” you teased softly, “you’ve looked worse. Remember the Condiment man incident?”

Bruce groaned in equal parts exhaustion and regret. “You said we’d never speak of that again.”

Before you could retort, a loud crash echoed down the hall, followed by the unmistakable thud of something—or someone—falling over.

“Who stole my jacket?!” Jason’s voice roared from somewhere in the manor.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “And so it begins.”

Right on cue, your children began to arrive.

First through the door were Tim and Stephanie, mid-argument and completely oblivious to the disaster they were creating.

“I said stop criticizing my costume!” Stephanie snapped, sweeping into the room with her usual flair. She wore Cass’s Black Bat outfit—black from head to toe—but had made a few… creative alterations. The sleek mask had been cut into a half-mask to “show a little expression, since people deserved to see see at least part of her beautiful face” and a faint shimmer of glitter dusted her cape because, as she claimed, “Black Bat needs flair.”

Tim followed behind her, rolling his eyes at her back. He was dressed as Red Hood, Jason’s stolen leather jacket hanging loosely off his much slimmer frame. The helmet, far too large, was tucked awkwardly under his arm and he looked as though he was debating whether it was worth the annoyance to carry it around all night.

“This thing smells like motor oil,” Tim muttered, grimacing as he lifted the collar to his nose. “How does Jason do this?” 

He set the plastic helmet down on the dresser with a clunk.

Bruce raised a brow. “Is that Jason’s actual jacket?”

Tim gave an innocent shrug. “Figured it would help with the authenticity.”

Stephanie folded her arms, her lips curling into a smirk. “You know he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you in it.”

Tim only grinned, the picture of smug confidence. “Oh, I know. That’s why I’ve got Bart on standby to help me escape. Only cost me half my candy.”

“I better not see any fighting at the gala,” you warned, though your tone lacked any real bite. The warmth in your voice betrayed you—you were far too excited for the upcoming celebration to sound truly authoritative.

Before either Tim or Stephanie could argue further, another figure slipped quietly into the room. Cass appeared soundlessly, as she always did. She adjusted the purple accents on her costume, her own eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of celebrating her first Halloween.

Stephanie blinked, taken aback. “You’re—” she started, eyes widening. “Me?”

Cass nodded once, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Spoiler,” she said simply, her voice soft but sure. She twirled one of the foam batarangs that had come with the costume.

Stephanie’s jaw dropped, then she squealed, rushing forward to pull Cass into a hug. “You look amazing!” she said before leaning back with an exaggerated pout. “Okay, but seriously—why do you look better in my outfit than I do?”

Cass only shrugged, her smile widening as Stephanie pulled her close for a barrage of selfies. The flash illuminated their mismatched masks, the glitter on Steph’s cape catching the light as she struck pose after pose. Cass humoured her, even letting out a quiet laugh when Stephanie dragged a reluctant Tim into the frame. He grumbled the entire time, awkwardly attempting to duck out of view as Steph threw up peace signs beside him.

From the hallway came the sound of raised voices—one irritated, one unmistakably gleeful.

“Stop doing that!”

“I’m just saying, the yellow looks good on me!”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was—your eldest and your youngest. You sighed, fighting a smile as the bickering grew louder, closer. It was always the same with those two, two peas fighting in a pod.

The first to appear in the doorway was Dick—grinning like the showman he was, dressed head-to-toe in Duke’s Signal gear. Bright yellow armour gleamed obnoxiously under the light as he flexed, posing dramatically.

“Behold,” Dick announced, hands on his hips, as the yellow LED lights flared and flashed, “the true Signal of Gotham!”

Damian trailed in behind him. He looked thoroughly unimpressed as he stepped into the room, standing stiffly beside the doorway like he was reconsidering his life choices. He was dressed as Nightwing, the suit slightly too big, the fabric bunching awkwardly around his smaller frame.

“Oh, you look adorable,” you cooed, walking over to take him in properly.

Damian’s frown deepened, though you caught the way his shoulders subtly straightened at the compliment. “I am vengeance,” he said tonelessly, clearly mocking Dick’s signature bravado. “I am the night. I am… emotionally needy.”

“Hey!” Dick exclaimed, his voice pitching higher in offence. “I do not say those things!”

Damian rolled his eyes, before muttering, “You literally said that last week when Father refused to let you drive the Batmobile.”

Dick gasped in mock outrage, pressing a hand to his chest. “First of all you’re taking that out of context. Second of all, I was being dramatic.”

“You’re always dramatic,” Damian deadpanned.

A sound that suspiciously resembled a snort escaped Bruce. He tried to disguise it with a cough, but Dick caught it instantly. Turning toward his father in outrage. 

“You’re really going to take his side?” he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at his little brother. “After everything I’ve done for this family?”

“I’m fairly certain,” Damian replied coolly, not missing a beat, “that most of what you’ve done involves property damage and poor decision-making.”

Tim, who was now scrolling on his phone in the corner, snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

“Et tu, Replacement?” Dick groaned, throwing his hands up. “What happened to loyalty?”

Before you could step in to defuse the chaos, Stephanie piped up cheerfully, “I’m on Damian’s side!”

Cass gave a single nod of agreement, smirking behind her mask.

“Traitors,” Dick muttered, narrowing his eyes at the room full of siblings who had so shamelessly turned against him. But despite the indignant scowl on his face, the corners of his mouth betrayed him—curling upward in reluctant amusement.

Before he could add another word, a sharp whistle cut through the chatter.

“Looking good, D,” Duke called, as he stepped into the room grinning from ear to ear and to your horror and amusement, you saw that he was wearing the Batsuit. Not the foam replica. Not a knockoff. The actual one.

Then Bruce’s voice rang out like thunder. “Duke Thomas!”

He stood straighter, eyes narrowing as he took in the unmistakable kevlar plating and scuffed gauntlets. “You stole my suit?!”

“What?” Duke asked innocently, spreading his hands. “You weren’t using it.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “We said we’d dress as each other. I’m just committing to the bit.”

Tim looked up from his phone, brows furrowing. “Hold on—you told me you were going as me.”

Duke blinked, utterly unbothered. “Yeah… must’ve gotten mixed up.”

Bruce’s glare could have cracked stone. “Take it off.”

“Relax, B,” Duke said, holding up his gloved hands. “It’s just for tonight. I promise not to punch any billionaires.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Besides, this version’s ancient. No one’s gonna think it’s the real deal.”

“There are literally knife marks on the chest plate,” Tim deadpanned.

 “Adds authenticity.” Duke corrected with a shrug, The line came out so effortlessly that it almost made you laugh—especially since it was the exact same excuse Tim had used earlier when caught wearing Jason’s jacket.

Then, with an exaggerated flourish, Duke lifted the heavy cape and dropped his voice into a gravelly imitation that was uncannily familiar. “I’m Batman.”

Both Tim and Bruce’s left eyes twitched in perfect unison as they stared at Duke. Tim’s irritation stemmed from the fact that he hadn’t thought to dress as Batman first, while Bruce’s twitch was because Duke stole his suit.

Dick lost it first, bursting into loud, unrestrained laughter that echoed through the hall. Stephanie followed a second later, leaning into him for support as tears of laughter welled in her eyes.

You pressed a hand to your lips, fighting a losing battle with your own amusement. The more Bruce’s glare deepened, the harder it became to hold it in until finally, a helpless laugh escaped that made Bruce shoot you a withering look from behind the crooked plastic cowl.

Across the room, Duke spread his cape dramatically and struck a heroic pose. “See?” he said proudly. “Nailed it.”

You weren’t sure if Bruce was seconds away from grounding everyone—or secretly impressed. But then you caught it: the barest twitch of his lip, almost imperceptible beneath the mask. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your smile widen.

Before he could continue pouting or muttering about his stolen suit, the final wave arrived—Jason, Roy, and baby Lian.

The moment your eyes landed on her, all composure vanished. A delighted coo escaped your lips. She was utterly precious—tiny bat ears poked out from her little black hood, and her baby onesie had a glittering silver bat symbol printed proudly across her chest. She gurgled happily in Roy’s arms, her small hands batting at the edge of his cape.

“Now that,” you said with a soft smile, “is the only member of this family who can pull off the Bat look without complaint.”

“Traitor,” Bruce muttered, though his tone was filled with affection. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, straightening the crooked mask that had slipped too far down the bridge of his nose.

“Relax,” you said, your voice warm as your hand smoothed over the ridged chest plate of his costume. “No one’s going to figure out who you are. They’ll just think you finally learned how to have fun.”

He gave you a long, skeptical look from beneath the mask. “I have fun.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Name one time.”

Bruce opened his mouth, hesitated, and then finally offered, “…I married you, didn’t I?”

You froze mid-motion, slowly turning to face him. “Are you implying you married me for fun?”

His eyes widened, panic flickering across his face. “No! That’s not—no, I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, hands lifting slightly as if to ward off the accusation.

“Ooh, B — you’re going to the doghouse for that,” Jason laughed, swaggering into the room in Roy’s Arsenal gear. Red plates hugged his chest, fingerless gloves revealed callused knuckles, and a bow swung lazily from his shoulder. He looked every inch the rogue he’d always been.

Dick blinked, “Jason… are you—?”

“Damn right,” Jason said, flexing his arms which were blatantly on display in the vest top, showing off his muscles “There’s no way in hell I’m dressing as one of you losers. I’ve got standards.”

Roy rolled his eyes but smirked, “He just knows quality when he sees it, Dickie Bird.” He looked straight at Bruce, his grin turning wicked. “And speaking of upgrades, consider this my official announcement, B—I’m replacing the short stack. It’s time Gotham had a redheaded Robin again.”

From across the room came an indignant hiss. “You will do no such thing!” Damian snapped, puffing up like an offended cat. “You are not fit to wield the mantle, Harper!”

“Oh, come on, kid,” Roy teased, adjusting his domino mask. “You can’t even reach the pedals on the Batmobile yet.”

“I will end you where you stand,” Damian spat, his small fists clenched, his glare pure fire.

“Manners, Master Damian,” Alfred interjected smoothly, appearing behind the trio with impeccable timing. His tone was as dry as ever, but you caught it—the faintest twitch of amusement threatening the corner of his mouth before he swiftly composed himself. Clearing his throat, he continued, “If the illustrious Wayne family could kindly tear themselves away from the comedy hour, your guests will be arriving shortly.”

That did the trick. The laughter began to taper off as the room descended into a flurry of motion—people straightening costumes, grabbing masks, as they moved to leave the room.

Jason’s eyes suddenly narrowed, the playful spark in them darkening with recognition. “Hang on—” he started, his voice dangerously low. “Is that my fucking jacket, Replacement?!”

Tim froze mid-step.

Then, in one fluid motion, he swore under his breath, spun on his heel, and bolted from the room. His phone was already to his ear as he shouted, “Bart! Extraction needed! I repeat—extraction needed!”

Jason was on his heels a heartbeat later, his boots thundering against the floorboards as he unleashed a string of colourful threats that would’ve made even a Gotham thug blush. Roy barely had time to react before shoving baby Lian into Bruce’s arms.

“Hold my kid,” he said quickly, already moving.

Bruce blinked, clutching the tiny bat bundle to his chest as Roy darted after Jason, Dick right on his tail in a futile attempt to help him stop Jason from committing fratricide.

That, of course, was all the encouragement Damian needed.

Now that Roy no longer had a baby in his arms to act as a shield, the youngest Wayne’s eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered determination. “Harper!” he called, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “Face me in combat! We’ll see who is truly worthy of the Robin title!”

And then he was off too, chasing after the redhead with a battle cry.

Meanwhile, Cass, Duke, and Steph exchanged a collective glance before shrugging in perfect synchronization. Rather than intervene, they trailed after the chaos at a leisurely pace, phones out, snapping selfies and videos as they went. Steph laughing as she filmed, Cass struck a peace sign mid-walk, while Duke once again pulled out the Batman pose.

Bruce closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand as the sound of chaos faded into the distance. “This,” he muttered, “is going to be a disaster.”

You smiled, slipping your arm through the one not holding Lian. The baby cooed softly, tugging at Bruce’s cape as you leaned closer. “This,” you said gently, “is going to be perfect.”

And it was.

By the time the gala began, the ballroom was alive with laughter and music. Gotham’s elite were dressed in elegant masks and designer costumes, while your family paraded in their bargain-bin bat suits utterly unbothered by the looks that followed. 

Jason, having reluctantly given up his hunt for Tim, was posted at the open bar with Roy, the two of them taking advantage of the open bar while ignoring Bruce’s warning glares from across the room. Dick, meanwhile, had taken full command of the dance floor and had somehow roped half the gala into a conga line—masked donors, off-duty politicians, and even a few reporters trailing behind him in helpless amusement. Cass, Steph, and Duke had joined in without hesitation, the three of them laughing as they moved in perfect sync behind him.

Across the room, Damian was now distracted by the arrival of Jon. The boy had arrived with his usual bright grin, dressed up as Damian’d version of Robin and was trying to rope Damian into a competition against Tim and Bart on seeing who could consume the most sugar before Alfred noticed, their plates piled high with candy and pastries.

And then there was Bruce.

The man who had once sworn never to be caught dead in anything less than a tailored suit now stood in the centre of it all. Lian still held protectively in his arms, gurgling as she tried to reach up and chew on one of the bat ears, while you watched the two of them with a soft smile.

The camera flashes went off like fireworks as the reporters captured it all—Gotham’s prince caught mid-laugh, absolutely domesticated by a giggling baby in a bat costume.

Later that night, when the last of the guests had gone and the manor had settled into quiet again, you found him sitting in the soft glow of the living room. The distant sound of your children carried faintly through the halls, their laughter a comforting hum in the background. Bruce sat on the couch, still in his cheap Batman suit minus the mask, with Lian asleep against his chest, her tiny bat-ear hood drooping over her face.

“Still think it was a bad idea?” you whispered, curling beside him on the couch. Bruce shifted instinctively, one arm sliding around you as he tucked you against his side.

He glanced down at the small bundle asleep on his chest—Lian’s tiny hand fisting in the fabric of his suit—then back at you. A faint smile tugged at his lips, “You know…” he murmured, voice low, “maybe being Batman on a budget isn’t so bad.”

You laughed quietly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of tinsel from his hair. “Told you,” you whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Happy Halloween, Mr. Wayne.”

He squeezed your hip, his thumb tracing idle circles against your waist. “Happy Halloween, Mrs. Wayne.”

And in that quiet moment—surrounded by laughter echoing faintly from upstairs and the soft glow of the jack-o-lanterns outside—it was clear: for all the masks they wore, this was the truest version of the Bat-family there could ever be.