Chapter Text
Batkids + Alfred + Bruce (Reluctantly)
Location: Batcave Lounge and Kitchen
It started with cereal.
Which, in hindsight, was the first mistake.
“I called dibs on the last of the Lucky Charms,” Duke said, standing triumphant with the nearly-empty box held above his head like a war trophy.
“You dare challenge me for marshmallows, Thomas?” Damian snarled from the kitchen island. He was perched like a goblin on the counter, squat and ready to spring, brandishing a butter knife like it was Excalibur. “I am an assassin. A son of the Bat. You think I won’t take what is mine?”
“You’ve got a knife, man. Over cereal.” Duke backed up toward the fridge, keeping the box out of reach. “This is why we have therapy mandates.”
“Put the knife down, gremlin,” Steph called through a mouthful of crumbling Pop-Tart, darting around the side to swipe at the box. “You can’t stab your way to breakfast.”
“Says you,” Damian snapped, leaping with the precision of someone who once took down a mercenary with a salad fork.
“You people are animals,” Cassandra muttered from her corner seat at the breakfast bar, legs crossed and teacup in hand. Her voice was calm, detached. She looked like a Shaolin monk at a riot. “Alfred leaves for one morning, and you descend into rabid chaos.”
“I trained in rabid chaos,” Jason said from the lounge half a room away, comfortably slouched across the arm of the couch with a scone already halfway demolished. “This is honestly impressive. Darwin would’ve had a field day.”
Tim appeared around the corner, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, wearing two more hoodies underneath and mismatched socks. He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, which was probably true. He stopped dead at the threshold, raised an eyebrow, then quietly pulled out his phone and started recording.
“Fight, fight, fight,” Jason chanted lazily, grinning as Steph tackled Damian mid-air.
That’s when Bruce appeared.
He was at the top of the Batcave stairs, looking like a man who had made several poor decisions that led to this exact moment. He was dressed in plain black sweatpants and a well-worn t-shirt that read Gotham U Dad in cracked letters. His coffee mug—large, battered, and clearly the product of a charity auction—read #1 Brooder .
He stood there silently. Surveyed the kitchen carnage.
Duke and Damian wrestling for cereal. Steph pinning Damian with a knee to his spine. Tim recording with the kind of clinical detachment usually reserved for autopsy reports. Jason cackling so hard he nearly rolled off the couch.
Bruce stared at it all.
Then turned around and walked back upstairs without a word.
“Nope,” he said on the way out.
Alfred was not so lucky.
He entered the kitchen a minute later, holding a tray with fresh scones, a dignified expression, and the clear hope that things had improved in his absence.
They had not.
Damian lunged for the cereal box again. Steph tackled him—again. This time knocking over a barstool in the process. Pop-Tart crumbs littered the counter like debris from a crime scene.
Tim zoomed in.
Jason lost it completely, nearly choking on his scone.
Alfred blinked. Once. Slowly.
“I see my absence has been interpreted as a declaration of anarchy.”
“Morning, Alfie,” Jason called, already reaching for a second scone like a raccoon who knew no shame. “Want a front-row seat?”
“To this?” Alfred said dryly, placing the tray down with precise, practiced movements. “Certainly not. I shall be re-making breakfast. For the civilized few.”
Damian, still half-trapped under Steph’s leg, hissed like a cornered cat. “ Release me, Brown! ”
“I will when you admit I won,” she said cheerfully, patting his head like an unruly dog.
“I would rather be flayed. ”
“Children,” Alfred said sharply.
Everyone froze for a second, even Damian. Cass quietly sipped her tea, untouched by the disturbance.
In the corner, Tim had taken up position leaning against the counter beside her, thumb flicking across his screen. “One hundred and seventy-eight seconds of uninterrupted sibling disaster. I’m putting it to lo-fi and uploading it.”
Cass took another sip. “You’ll be rich.”
Jason, still sprawled across the couch: “Make sure you tag me. I want royalties.”
Steph grinned. “Title it Breakfast of Bat-Champions. ”
“I will sue you all,” Damian snarled.
“That implies you have a lawyer,” Duke pointed out, finally handing over the mangled cereal box as a show of peace.
It might’ve gone on forever—an endless Gotham-flavored sitcom with Alfred as the only adult on set—until Bruce reappeared at the edge of the kitchen, this time with his mug refilled and a look of long-suffering endurance carved into the lines of his face.
He paused at the threshold like a man staring into the abyss and knowing it was family.
“I thought you were all training today,” he said flatly.
Tim didn’t even look up. “Bonding is important for team cohesion.”
Jason raised a scone in toast. “Yeah, B. You want us emotionally stable, right?”
Bruce stared at him. “Define stable.”
Duke offered a scone as a peace offering. “At least we’re not fighting crime right now.”
Cass added calmly, “Fewer broken noses here.”
Damian, pinned again, glared up at his father with narrowed eyes. “Grayson would have stopped them.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Dick isn’t here.”
“Exactly.”
Steph finally released Damian, giving him a victorious grin before walking off with his spoon. Jason tossed a marshmallow at Damian’s face in truce. It bounced off his forehead. Alfred silently handed him a napkin.
Tim wandered over to Bruce, nudging him slightly with his elbow. His voice was quieter now, words meant just for them.
“You know… this is probably the happiest we’ve all been in a long time.”
Bruce looked at him. Really looked. Like he hadn’t noticed until now, but once he did—it hit.
Tim’s hair was a mess. Jason had scone crumbs on his shirt. Damian was sharpening his butter knife again. Cass was reading the tea box like it contained life advice. Steph had taken someone’s slipper. Duke was trying to fix the fridge clock.
And they were all here.
Together.
Alive.
“…I know,” Bruce said.
His voice was quiet, but sure.
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.