#reader mom

As you reached up to pull the book down, but your  body tensed suddenly. You leaned over, gripping the edge of the mahogany for support. "This cramps," you groaned, the words slipping out like a sigh before you could swallow them back. The sudden pain was a stark reminder of the monthly cycle that had become a part of her life once more.

The hushed whispers of the library stopped. Four pairs of eyes, belonging to Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne, wide with fear.

"Shit, please no," Jason pleads, sitting up from his seat, "Is it…?" he says to his brothers, his voice trailing off.

Dick and Tim exchange a knowing glance. Tim nods solemnly, his expression a mix of empathy and dread. "Guys," he says, turning to the others, "It's okay. She's okay. Maybe it's just a… you know, a stomachache."

Jason's eyes widen, and he jumps to his feet. "But what if it's not?" He whispers, his voice filled with a child-like concern that seemed so out of place in the hardened exterior he often wore. Dick puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll handle it," he assures him.

"I don't think the full realization of the situation hit ya yet, Dick," Jason said, taking Dick by the shirt, "It's that time. The time we fear and pray doesn't come the next month."

"Jason," Dick said firmly, stepping in front of him, "we don't know that yet. She might just be tired or something. Okay? Let's test it first before we lose our heads." He looks to the you on the other side of the library and calls out, "Hey mom."

"What?" you says, annoyed, not turning from the shelf you were perusing. The irritation in your voice was like a thunderclap in the quiet room.

The boys stop again, fear growing in their eyes. They had hoped it was a simple stomachache, something they could handle with a cup of tea and a warm compress. This was something else entirely.

"Run," Dick says, his voice low and urgent.

The boys don't need to be told twice. They sprint out of the library and down the hallway, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the marble floors like a warning siren. They know the drill; they've seen this before. They need to gather supplies.

"R2," Dick called out, his voice echoing down the hall, "Get the painkillers from the medicine cabin."

Jason took off like a shot, his boots thundering down the corridor towards the medical bay. He knew the layout of the manor like the back of his hand, having spent years here as Robin. His heart raced as he flung open the cabinets and scanned the shelves. "Where the hell are they?" he murmured to himself, his hands shaking slightly.

"R3, get 'The Notebook' queued up on the main screen," Dick instructed. He knew their mother's favorite film was a surefire way to distract her from the pain and offer a bit of comfort.

"Dick, I'm scared," Tim says, his voice trembling.

"Don't worry, R3," Dick responds, his eyes on the prize as he navigates the labyrinth of leather-bound tomes, "We've got this." Tim nods and heads towards the media room, his mission clear.

"R4," Dick's turns to Damian, "Get the snacks."

Damian, ever the dutiful son, nods and bolts towards the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floors. You preferences were ingrained in him, and he knew exactly what you want: a mix of sweet and salty to combat the cramps, something warm for comfort, and maybe a bit of chocolate for the emotional turmoil. He throws open the pantry doors and starts grabbing handfuls of her favorite snacks, tossing them into a basket. The smell of fresh popcorn fills the air as he hits the button on the high-tech popper.

"Okay," Dick says, after a brief moment of contemplation, "Let's get her some comfortable clothes." He knows from experience that the right outfit can make a world of difference on these days. He heads towards their mother's room, the others trailing behind like a pack of worried pups.

In the vast walk-in closet, they scan through racks of clothes, looking for something soft and loose. Dick pulls out a set of your favorite pajamas, the fabric as velvety as a cat's fur, and a thick, oversized sweatshirt that has seen better days but somehow still holds a sacred spot in her wardrobe. He grabs a pair of fuzzy socks with little bats on them, knowing they're the ones you want.

Dick, with the grace of a cat burglar, slowly makes his way back to the library, the pajamas and sweatshirt are draped over one arm, his steps are light, careful not to cause any additional disturbance to the delicate balance of the situation.

Entering the library, he sees you doubled over, your breathing shallow and quick. Your trying to be brave, but the pain is etched into the lines of your face.

Dick rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "You got this," he whispers to himself, the words a silent mantra. "Just don't be too loud, or too quiet. Speak calmly, but not too formally." The last thing you needs right now is to feel like they're tiptoeing around you.

He takes a tentative step into the library, the plush carpet muffling his footfall. His eyes lock onto you, and for a moment, it's as if time stands still.

He tries entering but quickly stops and hides behind the wall as you lets out a groan, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The library feels eerie, as if it's holding its breath along with him, unsure of what to do next. Dick peeks around the corner, his heart in his throat. You’re there, hunched over, yout hand pressed against her lower abdomen. The book you had been reaching for lies forgotten on the floor.

Just then, and the three other boys come rushing down the hall. "What are you doing?" Tim whispers, his eyes darting into the room in a panic. Dick holds up a finger to his lips, silencing him. They all watch her, their hearts racing in unison, as you winces and lets out another soft groan.

"Every second we wait, the more pain she goes through," Dick murmured under his breath, "Which means the more dangerous her mood becomes." The room seemed to pulse with the tension as they watched her, unsure of how to proceed.

"R2, do you have the painkillers?" Dick hissed at Jason, who nodded, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a bottle, the pills rattling like a snake's tail. Dick snatched them from his hand, "Okay, good." He took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. But he backs down, "No, no, can't do it."

Tim's eyes widened, "What? Why not?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dick says, his voice a blend of sarcasm and nerves, "Do you want to tell our mother to take her pills because we noticed she's looking cranky?" He tries to keep his voice low, not wanting to alert you to their presence just yet.

"Well, not me," Tim whispers, the color draining from his face.

"I already died once," Jason says, taking a step back with his hands up.

"I wasn't conceived to die by a cramp." Damian says, his voice steady, putting the snacks down on a the floor.

"Dick," Tim whispers, "You're the oldest. You have to."

"Me?" Dick squeaks, his voice high-pitched and betraying his nerves. "Why me?"

"Because," Tim replies, his voice trembling, "You're the one she won't kill on sight right now."

"Who’s not going to kill Dick?"

The words, are like a thunderclap, causing the three boys to jump out of their skins. Bruce Wayne, their father and the Dark Knight himself, stands in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What's going on here?" Bruce asks, his voice as smooth as silk over the tense silence.

"We were…" Dick swallowed hard, his voice catching in his throat.

"Just talking!" Jason chimes in, "About uh…"

"Sports!" Tim blurts out, his cheeks reddening, "We were just… discussing sports."

Bruce raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from one boy to the next before finally landing on the Dick's arms. "Sports," he repeats, his tone flat. "With your mother's comfiest pajamas, and pain killers? And what’s that? A basket of snakes?”

Dick gulps, "It's… she… well, you know."

Bruce's gaze sharpens, and he nods almost imperceptibly. "Ah, that time of the month again. Alright hand me the stuff, I'll take it from here." 

The three brothers breathe a collective sigh of relief, passing the basket and the pills to their father. Dick whispers a quick thanks before retreating to the hallway. They lean against the wall, listening as their father's footsteps grow closer to the library. The tension is thick enough to slice with a knife, but it's a familiar dance they've learned over the years.

The woman's eyes shoot to the ceiling as Bruce approaches, and she groans. "Oh, not you too," she says, her voice strained. "I'm not a delicate fucking orchid that needs tending to."

Bruce chuckles softly, "You caught on did you?"

"You think this is funny?" She snaps, the pain making her words sharper than any of his Batarangs.

"Not at all," Bruce says calmly, "But I do know how to handle this." He gently holds out the pawns of comfort that Dick had gathered. 

You stare at the basket, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. The smell of buttery popcorn and the sight of your favorite snacks does make your stomach rumble despite the pain. "You think you can make me feel better by shoving snacks in my face?" you ask, or more accused."

"It's worth a shot," Bruce says, his voice as calm as a still lake. He opens the basket and takes out the chocolate bar, holding it up like a peace offering. "You know chocolate fixes everything."

You let out a huff, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "It doesn't fix everything," you grumble, but you take the chocolate anyway. The snap of the wrapper is like the crack of a whip in the library's quiet, but the sweet smell is heavenly. You bite into it, letting the rich, velvety goodness melt on your tongue, and for a brief moment, the pain seems to ease.

Bruce watches you, his eyes filled with understanding. "And when you've had your fill," he says gently, "Take these." He hands you the painkillers with a glass of water. The coolness of the glass feels like a lifeline in your hot, trembling hand. You down the pills with a grimace, and he takes the glass back, setting it down on the small side table next to the armchair you've claimed as your throne of despair.

The warmth of the chocolate spreads through your body, bringing with it a temporary reprieve from the cramps that have taken up residence in your abdomen. You lean into the chair, the plush cushions embracing you like a warm hug. The boys hover around, unsure of what to do next, their eyes darting between you and their father.

"Alright," Bruce says, his voice firm but gentle, "I know the boys have already set up a movie for you. Why don't you change into these?" He holds up the pajamas and sweatshirt. You nod, taking the offered clothes, and Bruce nods towards the bathroom. "I'll be right here when you're ready," he assures you.

As you retreat to the bathroom, the boys approach their father, their expressions a mix of relief and trepidation. "Thanks," Dick whispers, "We had a plan, but—"

"Your plan was to scurry around like mice hoping she doesn't notice?" Bruce asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Well, when you put it that way," Jason says, his cheeks flushing a deep red, "It sounds a bit pathetic."

"It's not pathetic," Tim says, stepping forward, "It's just... we don't know how to handle it."

Bruce nods, his smile fading, "It's alright. I know it's tough, but you're all growing up. And one of these months, I won't be around and you'll have to deal with this yourselves."

The words hang in the air like a challenge, a reminder of the responsibilities they would one day have to face without his guiding hand. Dick swallows hard, looking at his brothers. They all knew it was coming, but the thought of handling "that time of the month" without their father's experience was daunting.

"We're Robin," Tim says, trying to sound braver than he feels, "We can handle it."

Jason snorts, "Yeah, right. The last time I tried to give her a heating pad, she threw it at me."

Tim winces, "I remember that. It left a dent in the wall."

Damian, ever the practical one, suggests, "Perhaps we should prepare a manual of some sort, detailing the proper procedures for handling such delicate situations."

Bruce's eyes twinkle with amusement. "A manual? For dealing with your mother's mood swings?"

"It's not just mood swings," Dick defends, "It's like the seven stages of grief, but with more chocolate and a lot more crying."

"And less dying," Tim adds, his voice a tad too hopeful.

You emerge from the bathroom, looking a bit more comfortable in the pajamas. The sweatshirt is too big, but somehow, it seems to fit you just right. The boys avert their eyes, not quite sure how to handle the tears that stain your cheeks. Dick, ever the observant one, notices and steps forward. "Mom?" he says, his voice a gentle whisper.

You wave him off, trying to wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. "It's nothing," you say, your voice thick with pain and emotion, "Just... hormones." The word hangs in the air like a guilty confession.

But Dick doesn't listen. He crosses the library, ignoring the cramps that are now a constant background noise in your head, and wraps you in his arms. He's taller than you, his embrace strong and protective. It's been a while since you've been this close, and it feels surprisingly good. His arms are like steel bands, holding you tightly but gently, as if you might break.

"It's okay, mom," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "We're here."

The dam breaks. You start crying more, "I'm sorry for being a trouble mother," you sob into Dick's shoulder. The other boys hover around, unsure of what to do next.

"You're not a trouble," Jason says gruffly, his hand awkwardly patting your back, "It's just... nature."

Tim nods in agreement, his voice wobbly, "Yeah, it's like Alfred's allergies. It just happens."

You laugh through your tears, the sound a little hiccuppy, "Thanks, guys."

Dick pulls away, wiping at your cheeks with his thumbs. "Come on," he says, "Let's get you set up."

They were all there. The League. The core members. Titans of power and principle, gathered around a gleaming silver table that had once felt like the center of justice in the universe.

Now it felt like a courtroom.

Clark stood at the head of the table, not with the warmth they all knew. No easy smile, no inspiring gleam in his eye. He looked… older. Worn. Like something had been slowly unraveling in him for a long time, and this meeting was the thread finally pulled free.

“I appreciate you all coming,” he said quietly, hands braced against the table. “This isn’t easy for me to say. But it needs to be said.”

No one interrupted. They all knew something was coming.

Clark’s gaze swept the room, Wonder Woman, Flash’s, Green lanterd,, J’onn, before his eyes passed over Bruce… and then landed on you, just for a beat longer.

“We’ve all lost,” he continued, voice even. “We’ve all seen what happens when we capture villains, and then they escape. When we lock them up… and they break out. And we swear next time will be different. But it never is.”

A flicker of pain passed across his face.

“How many more people have to die? How many more second chances do we give monsters before we admit the system doesn’t work?”

You shifted slightly where you stood beside Bruce. 

“We’re heroes,” Clark said. “But we’re also protectors. We have a responsibility to make sure threats don’t return. That evil doesn’t keep slipping through the cracks we’ve refused to close.”

His next words dropped like stones in water.

“I’m proposing a new directive. For the threats that can't be contained — the ones that never stop, no matter how many chances they get — we stop giving them the opportunity to do more harm.”

The room fell silent. You could practically hear every heart beating.

It was Wonder Woman who finally spoke. “You’re suggesting execution.”

Clark’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “I’m suggesting final measures. For those who prove, time and again, that they will only ever destroy.”

At the far end of the table, Bruce stirred. His voice was low, calm but edged like a blade.

“That’s not justice,” he said. “That’s fear talking.”

Clark looked at him, and something in his face cracked. “It’s not fear. It’s experience. You, of all people, should understand what happens when we let them live.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “I understand exactly what happens when we compromise who we are out of pain.”

The two men locked eyes. The world had seen them as opposites for years, light and dark. But they always were… friends. Closest friends. 

Clark broke the stare first. He turned to you.

“And you?” he asked. His voice softened — deceptively gentle, like it might be less of a blow coming from him. “You’re siding with Bruce on this?”

You exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “You don’t need to have the same judgment just because he’s your husband. You are your own person. You have the right to make your own decision—for yourself, for Gotham, for your family, You’re a mother."

He took a single step forward. "Think about your daughter.”

There it was. The guilt card. The lowest hand.

My stomach churned. For a heartbeat, your breath caught. Not from doubt, but from the sudden sting of how low he’d gone. To invoke your daughter. Bruce’s daughter. Your jaw clenched.

I stepped forward, my voice low but sharp. “I do think about what’s best for my daughter, Clark. I always do. From the second I wake up, to the second I shut my eyes. My daughter—my sons—are in everything I do. I keep my phone on me at all times in case they text. I never close my bedroom door, in case they’re having a breakdown and I don’t hear them call for me.”

Your eyes began to gleam with heat—not tears, but steel.

“I took a risk coming up here. Being miles above the Earth. Away from my child. And you stand here and tell me to consider her—while trying to sell me on becoming judge, jury, and executioner? Don’t you dare try to make me feel like a bad mother for refusing to play God.”

Clark’s face flickered—hurt, maybe, or frustrated—but she didn’t give him time to respond.

You could feel Bruce shift beside you, his presence drawing closer — not to shield you, but to be ready.

“You may be Superman. But you’re not my moral compass. And you sure as hell don’t get to lecture me about being a parent.”

Silence crackled. Bruce didn’t say anything, but she felt his presence shift slightly closer.

Your didn’t need his defense.

Clark’s voice cracked — not with rage, but something older. Something broken.

“I can’t tell you how to parent. I know that. I was only a father for a few months. I lost Lois… my child… because of the very clown Bruce is so insistent on keeping alive.”

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling not with fury — but with grief. “Do you have any idea what it's like to have the love of your life ripped from you?”

There was a beat of silence. Even the hum of the Watchtower seemed to pause.

You stared at him—this god of a man, bowed by pain—and felt it. The ache. The loss. The haunting grief of what could’ve been.

But you didn’t waver.

Your voice was quiet. Unmoving.

“Jason Todd."

The name landed like a hammer in the room.

Clark’s lips parted—he hadn’t expected that. His eyes flicked to Bruce, then back to you.

“We buried our son, too,” you continued softly. “We mourned him. Every damn day. And then...he came back. Not the same boy I helped to raise. He was twisted. Angry. Broken because the world moved on without him. Because we failed to protect him. And yes...because that clown was still breathing.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I know exactly what that grief feels like. And I know the temptation to turn it into vengeance. But if we start deciding who lives and dies based on our pain, then we’re no longer heroes, Clark. We’re just executioners with capes.”

Clark looked away, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. There was nothing left to say. Nothing he could argue.

You stepped back, finally, standing beside Bruce again—not behind him. Beside him.

A quiet alliance forged in fire and loss.

And above them all, the weight of justice hung heavier than ever.

The silence after your words stretched like a canyon—deep, wide, unfillable.

Clark didn’t respond. He couldn’t. You didn’t wait for him to try.

You turned, your voice calm, final.

“Let’s go home, Bruce.”

Your boots echoed against the Watchtower floor as you strode past him, not even looking back.

Bruce didn’t speak, didn’t hesitate. He fell into step behind you like gravity itself had shifted. Like he was following the only constant that hadn’t failed him.

As the Zeta tube activated, casting you both in a flicker of blue light, you heard it: the breath Clark didn’t know he was holding. The weight of his grief still heavy in the room, unanswered.

But that wasn’t your burden to carry.

You’d carried enough.

The hum of the Zeta tube faded, replaced by the quiet hush of the Batcave. Cool stone walls. Dim lights. Familiar silence.

You stepped out first, arms still rigid, jaw tight. Bruce followed a breath behind, his presence steady, quiet—but he knew better than to speak.

The low mechanical hum of the Batcave elevator broke the stillness. A soft chime. The elevator doors slid open.

Dick stepped out, his hair a little tousled, a gym bag slung over one shoulder — and on his opposite hip, the small weight of your daughter.

Her straight black hair was in mess, cheeks pink with sleep, thumb resting lazily in her mouth.

“Hey,” Dick greeted, pausing when he saw you both. “Wasn’t expecting to find you guys would be back so soon.”

You smiled gently, not quite meeting his eyes.

“We just got back.”

Your daughter lifted her head from Dick’s shoulder, squinting at the cave lights. When her eyes found you, her thumb popped out of her mouth.

“Mama?”

That one word shattered everything left of the cold inside you.

You crossed the space quickly, taking her into your arms as Dick passed her over.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, pressing your lips to her soft forehead, breathing her in. The smell of baby shampoo and warm skin grounded you more than anything else had all day.

She wrapped her arms around your neck with a sleepy sigh, her face nuzzled into your collarbone like she was trying to melt into you.

“She wouldn’t go back to sleep,” Dick explained, a little more cautious now.

You looked down at her—tiny, safe, unaware of the firestorm you’d just walked through.

“She okay?” you asked softly.

“She is now, just had a bad dream,” Dick said, giving you a tired, but warm smile.

Bruce rested a hand on your back, steady and warm.

You nodded, slowly rocking your daughter in your arms.

“Let’s go upstairs,” you said. “I'll put her to bed."

Dick glanced between you and Bruce. He didn’t press, but you saw it in his eyes, he knew, something had happened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll put some tea on.”

You started toward the stairs with her in your arms, but as you passed Bruce, your fingers brushed his just enough to let him know: I’m okay.

Not whole. Not yet. But okay.

The hallway was dim as you carried your daughter up the stairs, her small body warm and heavy against your chest. She was still half-awake, thumb in her mouth again, soft little sniffles escaping with each sleepy breath.

The nightlight in her room cast gentle stars across the ceiling — one of Tim's thoughtful upgrades, projecting constellations to help her sleep when nightmares came.

You nudged the door open with your shoulder and stepped inside.

Everything was where it should be: the plush bear in the corner, the stack of board books half-toppled on the shelf, the soft green blanket she refused to sleep without.

You crossed the room slowly, holding her close for just a few seconds longer.

“Mama’s here,” you whispered, brushing some hair off her forehead. “You’re safe.”

Her arms tightened around your neck in response — a tiny, wordless need that hit you like a fresh wound.

You kissed her temple, then gently laid her down into the crib. She made a soft noise of protest, reaching toward you even as her eyelids fluttered.

“Shhh…” you murmured, tucking the blanket around her. “I’m not going far.”

Her fingers found the edge of the blanket, tiny knuckles clutching it tight. You stroked her hair, slow and rhythmic, the way she liked best.

As her breathing evened out, your hand stilled. You stood there watching her — the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way the nightlight danced across her cheeks.

And it hit you.

Everything Clark had said.

Everything you’d said.

The grief. The fear. The anger. The guilt.

It all curled tight inside your chest like a vice.

You sank slowly to the floor beside the crib, back against the wall, pulling your knees in.

There were no tears — just a raw hollowness.

“I’m doing my best,” you whispered to the dark. “I swear to God, baby girl… I’m trying.”

She shifted in her sleep, sighing softly. The kind of peace only children seemed to know.

You stayed there a long while. Just tired.

Just a mother who’d made the hardest choice that day.

And when you finally stood again, you pressed one more kiss to your daughter’s head, whispered “I love you” against her skin, and left the door open just a crack.

In case she needed you.

Always.

You reached the bedroom and found Bruce exactly where you expected, sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt off, suit half-discarded in a neat pile by the chair. His head was bowed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped like he’d been sitting in the weight of his own silence.

He looked up as the door opened, and stood the moment he saw your face.

You didn’t stop walking.

You stepped straight into him, wrapped your arms around his neck, and folded yourself into him like gravity had been waiting for this moment to bring you home.

“Oh, Bruce…” Your voice cracked as your fingers clutched his back, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

“Tell me I did what was right,” you whispered, breath shaking. “Tell me I’m doing what is best.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just held you tighter, arms around your waist, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck, grounding you.

“You did,” he said finally, voice low and sure. “You did exactly what was right.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“But what if he was right?” you whispered. “What if… keeping them alive is a mistake? What if it costs someone else’s child next time?”

Bruce pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His were dark and tired but steady.

“Then we face that choice when it comes,” he said. “But we don’t become the thing we’re fighting to stop. Not out of fear. Not out of grief.”

You swallowed hard, leaning into his touch. “I’m so tired, Bruce.”

“I know,” he murmured, his hand cupping your cheek. “But you’re not alone.”

You, watched the three young men with a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. Dick, ever the charmer, had agreed to the lessons with ease. Tim, the cautious one, was probably just here to appease you. Jason, well, you hadn't quite figured out his angle yet. Damain, the youngest, was still too young to fully grasp the concept of dance, let alone tango.

"Because, my dear wards," you began, your voice as smooth as silk, "grace and poise are just as important as strength and strategy." you gestured to the grand ballroom, the chandeliers casting a warm glow over the gleaming wooden floor. "Besides, I've seen you four dance before at charity galas. We're just… fine-tuning your skills."

"Fine," you said, turning on the music. The dramatic opening notes of a tango filled the room. You stepped forward, extending your hand to Dick, who took it with a grin. "Now come here, I'll show you how it's done."

Dick's posture straightened as he stepped closer, your palms touching. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the room around you melted away. "Your left foot forward," you instructed, guiding his leg with yours. "Now, right, left." Dick followed your lead, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone who'd spent more time fighting in the shadows than gliding across a dance floor. You felt a surge of pride. Maybe he had picked up some moves from watching Bruce.

The tension grew as you stepped back, pulling him closer. "To the right," you say, your breath brushing against his cheek. The tango was a dance of passion and control, and it was clear that Dick was trying his best to master it.

Tim, Damian, and Jason watched on, their initial skepticism giving way to curiosity. "Okay, okay," Dick said with a playful smile, finally finding his rhythm. His movements grew more confident, his steps quickening to match the tempo of the music. The smile on your face grew wider.

With a dramatic flourish, Dick spun you around. The fabric of your dress fluttered out like a cloud of moonlight. As he pulled you back in, your bodies connected in a perfect arc, the tension palpable. The way he moved, the way he led, it was as if he'd been born for this.

Jason's eyebrow shot up, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "Alright, I might just have to give this a try," he said, taking a step forward. His tone had shifted from mocking to competitive.

You turned to him, holding out your hand. "Come here," you said, your smile challenging.

Jason grinned and stepped up, taking your hand. He didn't even pretend to do the tango, instead opting to mess around, pulling you into a series of improvised moves. His movements were rough around the edges, but there was a playful grace to them that spoke of a natural athlete.

"You're not even trying," you chuckled, trying to keep your balance.

"I'm just not a 'tango' kind of guy," Jason said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Now follow my lead. One, two, five, ten, four."

You couldn't help but laugh as you allowed him to lead you through his chaotic improvisation. He was a whirlwind of energy, making up steps as he went, turning the elegant dance into a playful romp around the ballroom. Despite the lack of structure, there was something infectious about his enthusiasm, and you found yourself enjoying the moment.

"And now, for the show stopper," Jason said, his grip on your hand tightening. Before you could protest or ask what he had in mind, he dipped you low, your back almost parallel to the floor. You let out a gasp of surprise that turned into a laugh as he held you there, his strength surprisingly gentle. The room tilted around you, the chandeliers spinning in a dizzying display of light.

"Jason!" you exclaimed, your heart racing, but his smirk told you he had it all under control. With a swift pull, he brought you back up to standing, your cheeks flushed with excitement.

With a smirk still playing on his lips, Jason executed a dramatic bow, the kind that would have earned him a standing ovation from a Broadway audience.

"Your turn, Tim," you said, turning to the youngest of the bunch, who was now watching with a mix of envy and apprehension.

Tim took a deep breath and stepped up, his eyes darting to Dick and Jason before returning to yours. You placed one hand in his and rested the other on his shoulder. "Don't worry, I've got you."

As the music began, Tim's gaze remained glued to the floor, his eyes flicking up only briefly to check on yours. His steps were tentative at first, as if the floor might give way beneath him.

"Relax, Tim," you murmured, your voice a gentle encouragement.

Tim nodded, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. The music swelled, and you began to guide him through the steps, moving slowly to help him find his rhythm. His movements were rigid at first, his mind likely racing with thoughts of missteps and embarrassment. But as the song progressed, you could feel him start to let go, his body loosening up as he began to trust both you and the music.

"Look at me," you instructed, lifting his chin with a gentle touch. His eyes met yours, and you saw the fear begin to dissipate, replaced by a flicker of determination. You stepped back, pulling him closer in a traditional tango embrace. "You're doing great."

Tim's cheeks turned a deeper shade of red, but he managed a small smile. As the music grew more intense, so did the dance. You could feel him trying to keep up, his movements becoming more fluid as he allowed the music to guide him. His steps grew surer, his body moving in time with yours, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest.

"Good," you said, your voice low and encouraging. "I believe I could make a tango dancer out fo you yet."

Tim's eyes widened in surprise, and he stumbled slightly, breaking the rhythm. "Don't push it," he murmured, his smile a little self-conscious.

You rolled your eyes playfully, then chuckled. "Oh, come on. You can do better than that." With a sudden, surprising twirl, you spun him around, watching as his expression shifted from concentration to shock, and then back to determination.

Tim's feet stumbled a bit, but he quickly regained his footing, his eyes locking onto yours with a newfound intensity. "I thought I was the gentlemen here," he said with a smirk.

You winked at him. "Sometimes, it's good to keep everyone on their toes. Sometimes literally."

Damian watched the two of you with curiosity, his young eyes taking in every move. He tapped his foot in time to the music, the only indication that he was absorbing the lesson. He was still too young to truly understand the dance, but the rhythm called to him, and he was eager to join in.

You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him. Despite being Bruce's biological son, he was the most unpredictable of the bunch. "Alright, little one," you said, holding out your hand. "Let's see what you've got."

Damian looked up at you with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. He was only eight, and his understanding of the tango was probably limited to what he'd seen in cartoons, but you had a feeling he'd surprise you. He took your hand, his small palm fitting perfectly in yours.

"Okay," you said, crouching down to his level. "We're going to start slow." The music softened, a more gentle tune playing to suit his age. "Just follow me. Left foot, right left, good."

Damian's eyes narrowed in concentration as he stepped in time with the beat. His movements were awkward, his feet stumbling over themselves occasionally, but he had a fiery determination in his eyes that was impossible to miss.

"Good," you said, keeping your voice soft and encouraging. "Remember, it's about the passion, not the perfection."

Damian scoffed, his little brows furrowed in concentration. "I have passion," he said, trying to mimic the intense gaze you'd shared with the others. "But I do not find it in this… tango."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the ballroom. "Fine," you said, ruffling his hair gently. "But keep an open mind. You never know when you might need to charm a lady at a gala."

"Mother, I'm eight," Damian said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "The only woman I would find myself dancing with is Jason."

The room erupted in laughter, even Jason couldn't help but chuckle at the innocent jab. "Hey! I have you know I would look dashing in a dress," he said, striking a dramatic pose.

You couldn't hold back your laughter any longer, it bubbled out of you like a fountain, filling the air with warmth. "Oh, you certainly would," you said, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. "But let's focus on the tango, shall we?"

"Yes, let us get back to work," Jason said, a glint in his eye. "Now step out of the way, Mother," he teased, gently pushing you aside. "Let the master be the teacher. Come here, Damian."

Before Damian could protest, Jason had him scooped up in his arms, his little legs dangling in the air. You watched, a mix of amusement and concern playing across your face.

"Jason, what are you doing?" you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

"Teaching him the 'Bat-Tango' move," he said with a wink.

Damian's eyes widened as Jason held him close, moving him through the air in a series of twists and turns that were more acrobatic than graceful. The boy's laughter filled the room, echoing off the high ceilings at Jason's movements.

"Put me down!" he squealed, his giggles only adding to the chaos.

"The trick is to not put your dance partner down for any reason," Jason said to the others, as he spun him around in mid-air.

Dick, ever the showman, took your hand again. "Well, whatever teachers say," he quipped, and before you had a chance to react, he swept you into the air, your legs hanging lose. Your heart skipped a beat, a thrill shooting through you as he whirled you around the room.

"Dick!" you exclaimed, half in protest, half in delight. His arms were strong around you, moving with the same precision and grace as when he fought crime as Nightwing. The world around you was a blur of color and light as he danced with you in a way that defied gravity.

Jason fake gasps, stilling holding Damian, "You dare to challenge the 'Bat-Tango'?"

"I do," Dick said, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "And not only do I, but I dare say, I do it better."

With that, he spun you around faster, your dress billowing out around you like a cloud of silk. The wind from the spin kissed your cheeks, your hair swirling in a dance of its own. You gasped, half in shock, half in exhilaration.

"Is that all you've got, Grayson?" Jason called out, noticing the heightened tempo. He swung Damian around with surprising agility.

"I'm going to be sick," Damian complained, his little face a mix of excitement and queasiness.

"This should be called the 'Ragdoll-ango,'" Tim quipped, watching from the sidelines as Jason continued to whirl Damian around in a series of moves that were more suited to a circus act than a dance floor.

"You dare in the Bat-tango?" Jason repeated, his voice filled with mock indignation as he set Damian down gently. The little boy stumbled a bit, his legs wobbly from the dizzying experience, but his eyes were alight with excitement. "For your insulative comment, you're my next partner."

With that, Jason reached out and grabbed Tim, who squeaked in protest. "I was joking!"

But Tim's protests fell on deaf ears as Jason whirled him around in a series of moves that were more wrestling than tango. The room was filled with laughter and the sound of their footsteps echoing off the polished floors.

"Okay, okay! Put me down before I throw up on you!" you called out to Dick, your voice a mix of playfulness and actual dizziness. Dick set you down gently, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the dance. "Show-off," you murmured, though your own smile was just as wide.

"But you love me non the less," Dick quipped, his hand still holding yours, his thumb caressing the back of your hand gently.

"Yes, I do," you replied, your voice filled with warmth. Despite the chaos, there was something beautiful in the camaraderie, in the way the boys had come to see this as more than just a dance lesson, but a chance to connect. You looked over at Tim, his cheeks flushed from the spinning. He was trying to regain his balance, his eyes on the floor as if the answers to his disorientation lay there.

"Okay, okay! Jason, I think you've tortured him enough," you called out, a hint of laughter in your voice.

Jason looked at Tim, his face a shade greener than before. "Oh, come on," he said, his grin not quite reaching his eyes. "It's all part of the training."

"Training for what?" Tim managed to ask, his voice wobbly. "Barfing in public?"

"Jason, drop him," you said, your tone firm but playful, as if you were speaking to a mischievous dog.

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly, and he bent his knees, preparing to set Tim down. But his grip didn't loosen. "Jason," you repeated, your voice a gentle warning.

Jason smirked, his eyes flashing with playful rebellion. "No, Jason." you said again, your voice carrying an underlying current of seriousness. But the look on his face told you that he had no intention of stopping his little game.

"Jason, no!" you called out, but it was too late. With a mischievous grin, he dashed away out of the ball room and into the hall, Tim's legs kicking in the air like a ragdoll.

Dick's eyes lit up with the chase, and before you could blink, he had scooped Damian up into his arms. "Come, little brother, we must save our brother from our brother!" he declared with a dramatic flair.

"Oh brother," Damian muttered, his expression a mask of feigned boredom. Dick sprints off after Jason, Damian being swung side to side with each stride.

You watch them disappear down the hall, the laughter fading into the distance. The ballroom feels eerily quiet in their wake, the music continuing to play but the dance floor now abandoned. You take a moment to catch your breath, a soft smile lingering on your lips.

"Guess I wouldn't get to teach any tango," you murmur to yourself, the words carrying a hint of amusement.

Suddenly the music began again, "Not with them at least."

You whipped around to find Bruch standing beside the sound system, a knowing smirk on his face. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the chaos with a hint of amusement. You couldn't help but smile back at him. He'd been so busy with Wayne Enterprises that he'd missed the start of the lesson.

"I couldn't help but notice that we have a few… unorthodox… tango moves going on here," Bruce said, stepping onto the dance floor.

You rolled your eyes, unable to resist the smirk that tugged at your lips. "I had it all under control until Jason decided to turn it into an acrobatics show."

Bruce chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling in the chandelier light. He stepped closer, extending his hand to you. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Care to show me what you've been working on?"

You took his hand, feeling the familiar warmth of his skin against yours. As the music played on, you stepped into Bruce's embrace, your bodies moving together in perfect sync, as if you'd been doing this dance for years. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, his eyes never leaving yours. The tension between you was palpable, a silent communication of trust and understanding.

"You tease," you say with a playful smirk, your voice low and intimate. "You already know how to tango."

Bruce raises an eyebrow, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly. "Do I?" he questions, the corners of his mouth lifting. He's footwork is precise, each step measured and deliberate. The dance floor seems to shrink around you as you glide in perfect unison. The tango is a dance of passion and control, and in that moment, you could feel the full extent of Bruce's control, not just in his dance, but in his life as well.

"Well, I'm a bit rusty." he admitted, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. But his movements said otherwise. He was as smooth and in command as the night he'd first swept you off your feet.

"Such a liar," you whispered, your eyes locked with his. His gaze was intense, as if he could see straight to your soul.

Bruce leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "Am I?"

You met his gaze, a challenge in your eyes. "You're just showing off again."

"Only for you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His movements grew more intimate, the tango becoming a silent conversation between your bodies. Each step was filled with a subtle tension that spoke of the love and trust that existed between the two of you. Despite the chaos of the evening, in this moment, it was as if you were the only two people in the world.

The music grew louder, the strings more insistent, as Bruce spun you around the room, the fabric of your dress swirling around your legs like a second skin. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the faint smell of leather from your cloths, but it was the scent of Bruce, the scent of home, that filled your senses.

As the tango grew more intense, the boys' laughter and shouts from the hallway grew fainter, until it was just the two of you, dancing as if the fate of Gotham rested on the beat of your hearts. Bruce's grip was firm, yet gentle, guiding you through the intricate steps with a confidence that was as reassuring as it was thrilling.

With a dramatic dip, he lowered you, your back arching gracefully, your hair brushing the floor. The chandeliers above cast a dizzying pattern of light and shadow across the room, making it feel like you were dancing in the heart of a diamond. For a moment, you were suspended in time, the world around you fading away as you looked into the depths of his eyes.

Then, with surprising gentleness, he pulled you back up, your bodies molding together as one. The music grew softer, the steps more deliberate, as if the world had slowed to match the tempo of your hearts. You could feel the tension in the room shift, the playfulness of earlier replaced by something deeper, something raw and real.

Bruce's hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb tracing gentle circles. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart. The tango was a dance of passion, and in that moment, it was as if the dance had become a physical manifestation of your love.

The music reached a crescendo, and Bruce spun you out, only to pull you back in, your chests brushing together. The air was charged with energy, and the room seemed to hold its breath as you moved in perfect harmony. Your heart pounded in your chest, the thrill of the dance mirroring the excitement of your early days together, fighting crime side by side.

As the song approached its end, Bruce's steps grew more deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. He leaned in, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you, but instead, he whispered, "You're right, I am showing off."

You grinned, "Know it," and with that, the dance ended with a dramatic flourish, leaving you both standing in the center of the ballroom, breathless.

The sudden silence was broken by the distant sound of yelling, echoing down the hall. The laughter and shouts grew louder, and you couldn't help but worry that the boys had gotten into some kind of trouble.

You sigh, "Lovely while it lasted." The brief moment of tranquility dissipates as the chaos of your unconventional family life crashes back in.

Bruce's smile grew into a chuckle, his eyes alight with amusement. "Yes, it was," he said, his voice a warm rumble in the quiet room. "But the night is young, and I suspect we'll have more opportunities to dance like that."

The words hung in the air, a promise of future moments of shared intimacy and joy, a stark contrast to the life of shadows and danger they often led. You leaned into him, feeling the strength of his embrace, and whispered, "We shall dance again soon, Mr. Wayne."

With a chuckle, Bruce took a few steps back, his hand still holding yours, and bowed deeply, his eyes never leaving yours. It was a gesture that spoke of respect and affection, a reminder of the gentleman he was beneath the cape and cowl. "I await for it," he said, his voice filled with warmth and mischief. He kissed the back of your hand, his lips lingering for a beat longer than necessary. The touch was electric, sending a jolt through your body and igniting a fire in your soul.