#superbat angst

You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

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It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

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They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”