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Chapter Text

[Febuary 15, 2024, 13:04]

The first problem, of course, was convincing his five children to even agree to a family portrait. Even Dick, the eldest and typically the most enthusiastic about family bonding, was a wild card when it came to the idea.

Bruce sat at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, as he scanned the large binders spread out before him. Each binder represented one of his children, and each was filled with their schedules—painstakingly organized, colour-coded, and yet utterly chaotic. Next to the binders, a calendar lay open, its dates for the next year crossed off in red ink. "What about this June?" Bruce asked, eyes still fixed on the sea of unavailable dates.

"No can do, pops," Dick’s voice crackled over the line. "I'm actually going to be on my honeymoon then."

Bruce's eyes widened in surprise. "You're getting married?"

"What?" Dick’s voice shot up an octave, followed by an awkward laugh. "No, no, I’m not even dating anyone. I just figured I should plan a honeymoon, just in case I am."

Bruce sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "Dick, if you don’t tell me the dates you really can’t do, I can’t find a time that works for everyone."

"I don’t know what to tell you, Bruce. I’m a busy guy. There's a lot on my plate." The sound of sirens blared in the background, and Bruce heard a car door slam shut. "Hey, B? I'll call you back."

Dick hung up as Bruce leaned back in his chair staring at the calendar. He crossed out June, adding it to the countless other crossed-out months.

He regretted letting Alfred talk him into this. If it were up to Bruce, he would’ve told Alfred that the old portrait of the Wayne family hanging in the hall was enough. Sure, the image was doctored—most of his kids’ faces had been pasted on to make it appear like they’d all been present for the original photo—but Bruce thought it was a clever workaround. Alfred, on the other hand, had called it "a tragedy to the art of photography."

Contrary to that, Bruce would've love a real family portrait. One with his children, not as vigilantes but as the kids he’d fought to protect. But between their roles as vigilantes, students, and, in some cases, businessmen, there was rarely a week, let alone a single day, that aligned for everyone. The closest they've ever was a blurry camera snap of Jason face planted on the hard floor, after a long patrol, with the rest of the family posing and making fun of him in the Batcave. It was all shadows and harsh lighting, and everyone was either out of focus or mid-blink. It looked more like a crime scene photo than a family memory. And Bruce didn't want that.

No, what Bruce wanted was his children smiling—happy, content, all in one place, just once. Together, like a real family. Like those Pinterest posts he kept bookmarking at three in the morning.

Bruce dialed the next number on his phone, taking a deep breath. It rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, it went to voicemail.

"This is Jason Todd. I’m either dead or ignoring your calls, so leave a message at the tone, or if you’re Bruce Wayne, you can fuck right off." Beep.

He redialed. Voicemail again.

Third time’s the charm. "Hi, Jay—"

"What do you want?"

"Are you free on August 10th, at 3 PM—don’t say no, I’ve already moved your appointments, meetings, and any other plans that day." Bruce spoke quickly, knowing he had only a few seconds before Jason hung up. "It’ll just take half an hour, thirty minutes tops. And—"

"You’re still trying to get that stupid family photo? Jesus fucking Christ, Bruce." Jason sighed, and Bruce could almost see him rolling his eyes. "No. I’m not. August is not a good month."

Bruce frowned, consulting the schedule in front of him. "You’re completely free the entire month."

"Damn right I am, but I know if I come home in August, some shit’s gonna happen," Jason explained. "Like the universe is gonna collapse on itself or something. No, no way. No way in hell."

"You come home every week—"

"Not in August, though. Never in August."

Bruce blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to process this. "Is this a superstition? Trauma response? You were fine last August. And the one before that!"

"It’s the principle of the thing, Bruce," Jason said. In the background, Bruce heard a gunshot and the screech of tires. Jason hissed, cursing. "I even went to a psychic the other day who told me that if I so much as stepped foot in Gotham in August, the universe would implode with the Batcave at the centre. Fifty-mile radius. She was hot, too. So it was a pretty convincing reading."

"That's... oddly specific." Bruce furrowed his brow, crossing out another day in his calendar. "September, then?"

"I have a mission that entire month. No contact, no outside communication. A lot like last time." Another gunshot echoed through the line, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

"Jason—are you shooting at something right now?"

"Don’t worry about it. I’m busy in September. And October. And November."

"You never told me about your mission—"

"It’s not important." Jason’s voice turned into a wheeze, followed by a short, pained laugh. "Shit. Oh, fuck. Right in the shoulder. Right in the fucking shoulder—"

"Jason—!" Bruce’s voice rose, but the line cut off.

"Alright, bye! Love you, see ya!" Beep.

Bruce stared at his phone before glancing back at his calendar, now with August, September, October, and November all crossed out. He sighed. At this rate, there wouldn’t be any free days left in the entire year.

He really just needed to find a date when both Jason and Dick were free. Clearing Tim, Damian, and Cass’s schedules was no problem—he could pull strings, move things around, and they’d adjust without much fuss. But Dick and Jason? They had this thing about boundaries. Apparently, their lives were a maze of commitments that couldn’t be moved or ignored, no matter how ridiculous they were.

"Master Bruce," Alfred entered, carrying a tray. "I’ve brought tea and biscuits, and some mail."

Bruce glanced up, taking a brief respite from glaring at the calendar. "Thanks, Alfred. You can put them on the table."

"Still trying to wrangle the boys for a family portrait?" Alfred set the tray down, placing a scone on a plate before pouring tea. Bruce could hear the disapproval in every little movement—the clinking of the cup, the steady pour. Alfred’s frown was practically audible when he handed Bruce the teacup. "If you would allow me to help—"

Bruce waved his hand dismissively. "No, no. This is something I want to do." He took the cup, enjoying the warmth as he held it in his hands.

"Are you sure, Master Bruce? You’ve been locked in your office all week." Alfred flipped through Jason’s binder, scanning the pages. "You know you can ask me to help. It’s my job, after all."

"Here. There’s a slight overlap in Jason and Dick’s free days," Bruce mused, pushing the calendar toward Alfred. He pointed to the small circle amidst the sea of red crosses. "Dick has work at 6 PM, and Jason’s therapy appointment ends at 4 PM, so we’ll have a tight two-hour window."

Alfred laid down a letter, and Bruce’s stomach dropped.

"...It appears you’re the one busy that day, Master Bruce."

Bruce snatched the letter, eyes darting between the text and his calendar. No mistake. "Oh. It seems that I am."

"Quite a predicament." Alfred sighed, neatly crossing off the two-hour time slot.

Bruce nodded, flipping through his schedule with a sigh. Alfred took the calendar, methodically crossing off the rest of the year, leaving only a small square in December.

"This is the only free day left."

Bruce frowned. It was the 25th—Christmas. "...No." He took the pen from Alfred and drew a single, firm line through it. "We’re not doing a family photo on Christmas. I’m not ruining that day for the kids."

"Of course not." Alfred smiled, taking a sip of his tea. "It appears you’ll need to wait until next year, Master Bruce."

Bruce nodded, his gaze falling on the calendar again. Damian’s art shows, Cass’ recitals, Dick’s job, Tim’s projects, Jason’s missions. His own business. There was barely enough room for a regular dinner, let alone a family photo.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

[June 17, 2024, 18:69]

Now that the date was approaching, Bruce faced a new challenge: actually getting his family on board so they could tailor the clothes for the photoshoot. The fitting process alone was going to be a nightmare, but first, he had to get them to actually agree.

The kids had mostly forgotten about their cancelled plans—except for Cass, who, in her quiet enthusiasm, had been regularly showing Bruce photos and ideas for the shoot. She was excited, and that at least gave him some hope.

But Bruce couldn’t shake the memory of the argument with Jason and Dick a few months ago. They had been so angry, so frustrated, and their words echoed in his mind. He'd tried to cater the schedule around their busy lives, but it had been impossible. So, he'd done the only thing he could think of at the time—he changed their plans without telling them. Now, they were furious with him, and rightfully so. He hated how it felt—how it was his fault.

Sighing, Bruce closed his phone, where his calendar app still displayed the date marked for the family photo: December 1st. He couldn’t miss another year. The kids were growing up too fast, and he had already let too many opportunities slip by. He might not always be around, and Bruce didn’t want to lose another chance to capture just one moment—one simple photo where they could be together, just as they were.

But if his kids really didn’t want to do it, if he couldn’t convince them... then what? Forcing them was an option, sure, but he wasn’t sure it was the right one. He was their parent, and they were his children, but none of his parenting books applied to kids like his. They hadn’t grown up being children, and the usual rules of parenting didn’t exactly fit their circumstances.

So, Bruce decided to do the one thing he hadn’t tried yet (well he had, but that led nowhere): be transparent.

That evening, as the family gathered around the dinner table, Bruce watched them talk and laugh over the day's events. He cleared his throat, but the usual chatter continued. He tried tapping his knife against his glass, but it only added to the background noise. His eyes met Alfred’s from across the table, the butler raising an unimpressed eyebrow. Bruce motioned that he was trying to make an announcement, but Alfred seemed unmoved. Finally, with a sigh, Alfred rose from his seat, towering over the table as he cleared his throat in a dramatic fashion.

Instantly, the chatter ceased, leaving a silence that felt heavy and expectant.

“Master Bruce has an announcement,” Alfred said in his best authoritative-butler voice.

All heads turned toward Bruce. Feeling a little on the spot, Bruce shifted in his seat, the words he had rehearsed earlier in the day suddenly feeling stiff in his mouth. He cleared his throat again, trying to regain his composure.

“As most of you already know, I’ve scheduled a family photo for December 1st,” he began, his voice firm but nervous. "It’s a little over five months away."

"I don’t want to," Damian mumbled almost instantly, earning a swift kick from Tim under the table. Jason's scowl deepened, and Dick sat quietly, his frown showing he was still unhappy with the whole thing. Only Cass seemed relaxed, quietly watching everyone else’s reactions.

"I’m sorry about messing up your plans," Bruce continued, his voice softening as he glanced around the table. "I really just want a photo of all of us—together, happy. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I just... I want something to look back on."

He paused, taking a deep breath, his chest tight with emotion. "I know I didn’t handle it well. I should have talked to you all first."

Damian, ever the troublemaker, cut in. "What about the lights? You said the city is closed down because of them."

“That was a lie, brat,” Tim smacked him. "Dad just didn’t want you to destroy his hopes and dream." He grinned, completely ignoring Damian’s pout.

Bruce raised a hand to pause the brewing sibling conflict. "Look, I messed up." He took another deep breath before continuing. "But here’s the thing—this family means everything to me. So please, just hear me out."

The table fell silent again, and for a moment, Bruce could feel the tension ease slightly.

Jason, in a rare moment of light-heartedness, chuckled. "Well, looks like I’m free anyway," he said sarcastically as he scrolled through his phone. "Who could’ve known?" He punctuated his words with a dry laugh before taking another bite of his mashed potatoes.

Cass nodded, her quiet smile already signalling her agreement. Tim, tapping his fork against the table, exchanged a glance with Cass before nodding as well. "Well, Cass and I are in," Tim declared with a grin. "Can’t say no to spending time with my favourite sister, right? Even if it means dealing with Mr. Grouch over here." He nodded toward Damian, who glowered in response.

"Grouch?" Damian sneered. "If anyone’s a grouch, it’s Jason." He turned to glare at Jason, but Jason just rolled his eyes.

"Bite me, demon."

"December 1st, bring your best sword." Damian shot back.

"That leaves only Dickiebird undecided," Tim teased, turning his attention to their eldest brother.

Dick, who had been silently picking at his food, looked up, his frown deepening. The room seemed to hold its breath as everyone waited for his response.

"I won’t force you," Bruce said softly, locking eyes with Dick. "But I would really appreciate it if you were there."

Dick sighed, pushing his plate away. "Can I think about it?" His voice was quiet, almost reluctant, but Bruce could tell he was seriously considering it.

Bruce nodded, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Though Dick’s answer wasn’t a definitive 'yes,' the mood at the table lightened considerably after Bruce’s apology. Damian, of course, continued making snide remarks about Jason’s supposed 'grouchiness,' while Jason mostly ignored him, instead turning his teasing toward Tim.

As the banter continued, Cass and Dick started chatting quietly about their day, and eventually, the conversation shifted toward Damian, who began bragging about catching two of his classmates vandalizing a locker at school. His rant about the 'incompetence' of his peers led to a long discussion about school and Gotham’s state of education.

Bruce sat back, watching the scene unfold. Even if they weren’t fully on board yet, for the first time in a while, he felt like they were all a family—bickering, teasing, and all.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere lightened. Laughter and jokes filled the dining room until Bruce excused himself for paperwork and Alfred retreated to tidy up the kitchen. The kids, left to their own devices, sprawled across the couches in the living room, their attention divided between each other and the muted TV playing in the background.

“So, what’s up with you, Dickhead?” Jason asked, his tone playful but direct as he turned to look at Dick.

“Yeah, why don’t you want to take the photo?” Tim shifted on the couch to face him.

Dick mumbled, “I just don’t feel comfortable,” as he pulled his arms around himself, sinking deeper into the cushions. Damian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, studying Dick’s expression. But Dick avoided his gaze, choosing to stare blankly ahead instead.

Tim’s frown deepened, unsure how to respond to such a vague answer.

“Bruce can’t just decide when we’re gonna do these things,” Dick muttered, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands as if to shield himself. “He should’ve asked first—or at least scheduled it when we were all home.”

Tim sighed, leaning back. “He literally asked for like a month straight beforehand. Dude, you rejected every option. I get it—it’s tough balancing our schedules—”

“And our lives,” Damian added, slumping against Jason.

“Yeah, and our lives, but come on, Dick.” Tim rolled his eyes. “It was annoying. Bruce was practically desperate—he was ready to drop everything."

Dick stiffened, and his silence spoke volumes. The others could tell there was more to his reluctance than scheduling conflicts.

“How about you, Jason?” Dick countered, trying to shift the attention. “You were really defensive earlier.”

“Oh yeah, I’m just like that.” Jason waved his hand dismissively, earning a slap from Damian. “Ow!” He winced, glaring at the younger boy. Damian rolled his eyes but kept his hand poised, ready for another strike if Jason retaliated.

“It’s fun saying no to Bruce,” Jason ignored Damian’s sour look. He turned back to Dick, who seemed to relax a bit, sitting upright for the first time that night.

Tim, who had brought Dick’s calendar binder with him, handed it over. “It’s not going to ruin your life."

Jason quirked an eyebrow as he snatched it, flipping through the page. “You filled your schedule ten months in advance just to miss a family photo? That’s kinda harsh, dude.” He joked around, glancing around, noticing the serious faces. “Oh shit, you actually did that?”

“It’s kind of obvious,” Tim explained. “Dick’s been copying and pasting that calendar for weeks. ‘Date with TBA,’ ‘Spa Day,’ ‘Charity Event with ??? Donors.’ He even has a honeymoon scheduled.”

Dick blushed as Tim listed the flimsy excuses he had used to block off his calendar. Jason let out a low whistle. “Bruce respects you so much, he actually believed your schedule was full,” he chuckled.

Cass reached out, placing a gentle hand on Dick’s arm. He flinched at the touch but then relaxed, accepting her silent support. “Talk to him,” she urged softly, her eyes meeting his. “I don’t know your story, but—communication, yes?”

Dick hesitated, biting his lip. “I guess I can try,” he muttered, uncertainty still lingering in his voice. He glanced around, feeling the weight of his siblings’ eyes on him. His fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Well, good luck, Dickhead!” Jason called out, giving him a gentle nudge off the couch.

***

Dick stood outside Bruce’s office, anxiety coiling in his stomach. He did want to take the photo—he really did—but his reason for avoiding it felt stupid. Yet, despite his determination to move forward, he found himself hesitating, forehead resting against the cool wood of the door. Why was it so difficult to talk to Bruce about things like this?

Finally, he took a deep breath, gathering all his courage, and pushed open the heavy door.

Bruce was at his desk, bathed in moonlight streaming through the tall windows. Papers and files were spread across the polished wood, and the shelves behind him were filled with books, some worn and dog-eared, others pristine and gathering dust. A globe stood in one corner, and the opposite wall displayed several serene, expensive-looking landscapes in oil paintings.

“Bruce?” Dick’s voice was tentative as he stepped further into the office.

Bruce looked up, his expression softening when he saw his eldest son. “Hey, chum,” he greeted, his tone warm. He shuffled his papers into neat stacks and set them aside. “What brings you here?”

Dick hesitated for a moment before taking a seat in the chair opposite Bruce’s desk. He let out a sigh, softer this time, feeling the weight of the conversation already pressing down on him. “I’m sorry that I made it seem like I didn’t want the photo,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... there’s a lot going on lately.”

Bruce’s eyes never left him, the quiet patience in his gaze urging Dick to continue. His son’s fingers twitched nervously in his lap, the slight tremble in his hands betraying his discomfort. Bruce noticed the way Dick’s palms pressed together, clammy and cold.

Dick’s eyes flicked up, meeting Bruce’s for a moment before he glanced away, the intensity making him feel exposed. “It’s just that...” Dick swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat grow as he struggled to speak. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. “The photo in front of the fireplace... our ‘current’ family photo,” he continued, his voice trembling. “The one that has everyone’s face taped on except for you, me, and Alfred. It’s stupid, and I know it, but... it was my first photo. And I don’t want you to throw it away when we get a new one.”

His voice cracked halfway through the confession, the emotion catching in his throat as he tried to suppress the tears threatening to spill. He felt ridiculous for caring so much about something that seemed so selfish, but he couldn’t help it.

“Dickie,” Bruce laughed softly, rising from his seat and walking over to stand beside Dick. He placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder, the touch warm and steady. “I would never get rid of that photo.” He leaned down, pulling Dick into a hug that, after a brief moment of hesitation, Dick returned. Bruce’s embrace was strong, a familiar and comforting presence. “Why would you think I’d do that?”

Dick buried his face in Bruce’s chest, his voice muffled but still laced with emotion. “I don’t know! I just thought you’d put the new one on the mantle and then toss this one into a box or something. It’s stupid, I know.”

Bruce smiled, pulling back slightly so he could look down at Dick’s face. “I wasn’t even planning to put the new photo there,” he said, his tone reassuring. “But even if I did, I’d never throw away our first family photo together. Plus, my ‘photo shopping’ skills on that one are top-notch. It’s a masterpiece.”

Dick let out a laugh, a genuine one, as he shook his head. “I guess I’m just being paranoid,” he admitted, a sheepish smile replacing the worry on his face. He rubbed his cheek with one hand, avoiding Bruce’s eyes.

“Maybe just a little bit,” Bruce teased, ruffling Dick’s hair affectionately. “So, what do you say? Will you join us for our family photo? I promise the old one stays.”

Dick paused, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll join. And... I’m sorry for the fake calendar.” His voice dropped, and he glanced down, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Fake?” Bruce echoed, raising an eyebrow as realization dawned on him. “I spent hours rescheduling and cancelling things for you—” He paused, a look of exasperation crossing his face. “Dick!”

Dick had already stood up, backing away with a mischievous grin as he moved toward the door. “Well, I’m glad we had this talk, Bruce.”

“Dick, come back here!” Bruce called, but his son had already darted out, laughter echoing down the hallway.

Chapter Text

[September 6th, 2024, 11:03]

And Bruce was right—choosing and fitting their outfits was turning out to be a nightmare. It had been a little over two weeks since the family had agreed to do the photo, and Bruce was still struggling to decide on a theme. With the clock ticking, he found himself in a consult with Cass and one of Gotham’s finest fashion designers, seeking expert advice.

Bruce leaned on the designer’s desk, head propped up in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the designs laid out before him. "I don’t know, it might be too much. What do you think, Cass?"

Cass tilted her head as she examined the suit on the page, her eyes calm and calculating. "Jason would hate that," she said, gesturing to the traditional cut.

Bruce sighed, running a hand down his face. "I know. That’s why I was asking if it was too much."

Cass nodded with certainty. "Too much. He would burn it."

The designer, unfazed, smiled professionally. "May I suggest a more utilitarian style? With additional pockets?"

Cass’s eyes narrowed as she inspected the option, her expression thoughtful. "Damian will sneak knives into every pocket," she stated matter-of-factually. "I won’t be able to stop him."

The designer raised her eyebrows but nodded, jotting down a note on her tablet. "That’s definitely a security risk."

Bruce knew they had to consider every family member’s quirks and preferences. Jason would outright reject anything too formal—traditional suits and ties were out of the question; they’d be too restrictive for his rebellious nature. Tim, with his constant fidgeting and restless energy, needed something comfortable and practical. Damian, of course, was a whole different problem; if given too many pockets, he’d see them as an opportunity to smuggle weapons. And then there was Dick—fashionably inept and always one step away from a wardrobe malfunction. He needed something simple, something he couldn’t possibly mess up. Cass, fortunately, was the easiest; she’d wear anything, but her outfit should reflect her grace and poise, allowing her to feel confident and comfortable.

The designer, seasoned in dealing with Gotham’s eccentric elite, nodded thoughtfully as she made additional notes. She was no stranger to peculiar clients, but this family was a puzzle unlike any she’d encountered before. Each member was a piece, and she needed to find a way to make them all fit together.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. "Do you think you can make something that works for them all?" There was a hint of exhaustion in his voice, and the worry lines on his forehead deepened.

The designer paused, pursing her lips as she reviewed her notes. "It will be a challenge, no doubt, but I’ll come up with something. You have quite the... colourful bunch."

Bruce managed a tired smile. "That’s one way to put it."

The designer’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "I’m sure whatever I create, it won’t be as bad as the time I had to dress a young man who insisted his suit needed to glow in the dark."

Bruce suppressed a grin, knowing exactly who she was referring to. "Wow, I can’t imagine that." He could—vividly. It had been a nightmare wrangling a teenage Dick who was determined to look like a lighthouse at a formal event.

As the meeting drew to a close, Bruce stood to shake the designer’s hand. "Thank you for your time," he said sincerely. "I’m sure you’ll create something extraordinary."

"I’ll do my best," she replied, her smile confident and warm. "I’ll send you some concepts in the next few days."

Bruce nodded, then turned to Cass, who had been quietly observing. "Ready to go?"

Cass stood, offering the designer a small bow as a gesture of respect. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft but sincere.

"You’re welcome," the designer replied, mirroring the bow with a graceful smile. "It’s my pleasure."

As Bruce and Cass walked out of the office, Bruce felt a mix of relief and anxiety. Half a step down, but the real challenge would be getting everyone into those outfits and cooperating for the actual shoot. For now, all he could do was hope that the designer could work her magic and create something that might, just might, bring them all together—without too many complaints.

***

The concepts came in three days later. Bruce, sitting at the kitchen counter, sipped his morning coffee as he scrolled through the designs on his tablet. The designer had sent over a variety of options, and Bruce was carefully examining each one, tilting his head to the side as he scrutinized the details. He had sent the concepts to his children the night before, and he was eager to hear their feedback.

The first to arrive was Tim. His hair was disheveled, and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them—highly probable, considering his late-night habits. “Morning,” he mumbled, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

“Good morning,” Bruce replied, watching as Tim filled a large mug with coffee, adding an alarming amount of sugar. “Did you see the designs?”

Tim nodded, taking a long sip, his eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. “Yeah, they’re not bad,” he replied, his voice rough with sleep.

“Which one do you like?”

Tim shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Any of them are fine, honestly. I don't really care.”

Bruce nodded, relieved that at least one of his kids didn’t have an issue. “That’s good.”

Next came Jason, trudging into the kitchen with a scowl already fixed on his face. “Morning,” he muttered, his eyes focused solely on the coffee.

“Good morning,” Bruce greeted him, trying to sound optimistic. “Did you see my email?”

Jason nodded, taking a sip of his coffee, but he didn’t say more.

“And?” Bruce prompted, sensing Jason’s reluctance.

Jason sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t... I don’t like them,” he admitted, his voice lower. “They’re too...”

“Fancy?” Bruce suggested, trying to guess.

“Yeah, too fancy,” Jason echoed, looking away. “Sorry.”

Bruce nodded, understanding. “I appreciate your honesty, Jason. I’ll take that into consideration.”

Damian sauntered in next, his steps measured and confident. “Good morning, Father,” he greeted, his voice carrying that usual air of superiority as he grabbed a muffin from the counter.

“Morning,” Bruce replied, trying not to sigh. It wasn't really a good morning anymore. “Did you look at the designs?”

Damian nodded, but his expression was unimpressed. “They’re fine, I suppose,” he said dismissively. “But they lack practicality.”

Bruce mentally prepared himself. “Practicality?”

Damian finished his muffin and crossed his arms. “They don’t have enough pockets or functionality. I need a place for my knives, you see.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course, Damian would prioritize smuggling weapons. “How about the rest of the outfits?”

Damian shrugged, his face indifferent. “They’re acceptable, I suppose. Bland, but I didn’t expect much.”

Bruce jotted down Damian’s feedback, adding another mental note to adjust for Damian’s... peculiar needs if he couldn't do without.

Cass entered silently, moving straight to Bruce’s side and peering at the tablet screen. She took one glance at the designs and shook her head. “They’re ugly,” she declared bluntly, her expression unimpressed.

“Any specific feedback?” Bruce asked, looking up at her.

“Too fancy. And uncomfortable. I’d fall in them,” she replied, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “And I hate the colours.”

Bruce sighed. “Thank you, Cass. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Finally, Dick arrived, his hair tousled, and a sleepy smile on his face. He went straight to the coffee machine, but after a moment of staring at it, he groaned. “Why is there never any coffee?”

Tim and Jason exchanged a guilty glance, both hiding their mugs behind their backs. Bruce raised an eyebrow but decided to focus on the task at hand. “Did you check the email?”

Dick nodded, yawning as he dragged himself to the table. “Yeah, I think you should add scarves or something.”

“Scarves?” Bruce repeated, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, scarves,” Dick said, his eyes lighting up. “They’re cool and fashionable. Plus, they can hide our faces if we need to make a quick escape. You know, like a superhero would.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Dick, we’re not adding scarves to the photo.”

Dick’s face fell into a pout, his arms crossing over his chest. “Why not? They’d look cool.”

“We’re not doing scarves, Dick,” Bruce repeated firmly, shaking his head.

“But—”

“No scarves.”

Dick huffed, resigning himself to pouring a bowl of cereal and sitting down next to Bruce, still grumbling about his scarf idea.

Bruce glanced at the tablet again, noting down everyone’s reactions. The designer had done her best, but it was clear that finding a balance between everyone’s preferences would be a monumental task. He made a mental list of the adjustments needed: tone down the fanciness for Jason, add a bit of functionality for Damian (but not too much), find something graceful and comfortable for Cass, keep it simple for Tim, and somehow convince Dick that scarves were not happening.

***

[October 26th, 2024, 21:38]

After a lot of back-and-forth with the designer and countless hours scrolling through Pinterest boards for inspiration, Bruce was ready to give up. The designer had thrown in the towel two weeks ago, leaving him with a folder full of rejected designs and a looming deadline. The family photo was set to take place in just over a month, and he still hadn’t found the right outfits. The kids had been... unhelpful, to say the least, each with their own demands and complaints.

As Bruce sat at his desk, staring at the rejected sketches and mood boards scattered across the table, Alfred leaned over his shoulder, his presence calm and reassuring. "Master Bruce, perhaps it's time to take a break. This is meant to be a joyful occasion, not a source of stress."

Bruce nodded, rubbing his temples. "I know, Alfred. I just want everything to be perfect."

"I understand, sir. But sometimes, perfection is overrated. Perhaps you should focus on creating a memorable experience rather than achieving perfection." Alfred gave him a sympathetic smile.

Bruce paused, letting Alfred’s words sink in. He knew Alfred was right—he always was. "You're right, Alfred. Thank you."

Alfred patted Bruce’s shoulder, his touch warm and familiar. "Of course, sir. Now, why don’t you take a break and come back to it later? A fresh perspective might be all you need."

Bruce sighed, closing his laptop with a sense of resignation. He stood up and stretched, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. "I think I’ll take a walk," he said, needing a change of scenery to clear his head.

He wandered through the quiet halls of Wayne Manor, the familiar creaks of the floorboards under his feet a comforting reminder of home. As he walked, he came upon an old portrait hanging on the wall. It was one of him with his parents, a memory frozen in time. He stopped, staring up at it, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the sadness that tightened his chest.

"I wish you were here to see this," he whispered to the portrait, his voice soft and filled with longing. "You would have loved them all."

His eyes lingered on the image: his mother, wearing a casual blue dress, her brown hair curled perfectly around her smiling face. Her arm was wrapped around his small shoulders, her presence warm and protective. His father, tall and stately, wore a simple white dress shirt, his expression filled with pride as he looked down at young Bruce. His hand rested on Bruce’s head, a comforting weight of reassurance. And there he was, in the centre, dressed in a little sweater vest and collared shirt, his unruly hair sticking out in all directions. He grinned widely, showing off a gap where a front tooth was missing.

For a moment, Bruce let himself be transported back to that time, when things were simpler. The memory felt warm, like the embrace of a loved one. He realized then that it wasn’t about the clothes or the perfect setting. It was about capturing a moment, an authentic piece of who they were as a family.

That was it. That was the kind of photo he wanted. Not something over the top, not something designed or forced, but something that captured the essence of his family—authentic, imperfect, and real. Something that, years from now, they could look back on and feel the warmth of the moment, the way he felt now looking at this old portrait.

Chapter Text

[December 1, 2024, 7:08 AM]

December first, the day of the family photo, arrived faster than Bruce anticipated.

As dawn broke over Gotham, Batman stood on a rooftop, the pink and orange hues of the sky reflecting off the capacity as the sun began its slow rise. A light breeze rustled through the air, carrying the distant hum of a city waking up.

He sighed, his breath clouding in the cold morning air. For months, he’d taken extra steps to secure this day. He’d coordinated with the GCPD, made temporary agreements with some of Gotham’s lesser criminals, and even cashed in a few favours from the League. Whatever it took to ensure the city was safe and calm—if only for one day. As he scanned the streets below, Christmas lights twinkled along storefronts, and a thin layer of snow dusted the rooftops, transforming Gotham into something almost idyllic. Almost. He couldn’t let his guard down, not today.

His radio crackled to life, and Nightwing’s voice came through. “Hey, B,” he said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Everything quiet on your end?”

Batman grunted in response, his eyes still scanning the skyline.

“Come on, B. Today’s the big day! Aren’t you even a little bit excited?”

Batman allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Just keep an eye out, Nightwing,” he replied, his voice as gruff as ever. “We can’t afford any distractions.”

“Got it, boss,” Nightwing replied, his tone still bright. “I’ll let you know if I see anything suspicious.”

The radio went silent, and Batman resumed his watch over the city, his senses heightened. As the sun climbed higher, people began to emerge from their homes, bundled in coats and scarves as they made their way to work or headed off to do some early holiday shopping. He observed the scene below, eyes sharp, scanning for anything that seemed out of place.

A group of children played in the snow, their laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet streets. A couple strolled hand-in-hand, cheeks flushed from the cold. A man walked his dog, its tail wagging as it bounded through the snowbanks.

A father and daughter came into view, heading towards a small park. The father held a camera, his daughter skipping beside him, wearing a pink snow suit and twirling with each step. Her brown hair was tied in two messy braids and covered with a warm hat. Her face beamed as she laughed, her joy infectious even from a distance.

Watching them, a memory floated into Bruce’s mind. It was his seventh birthday, and his parents had taken him to the park. He could still hear his mother’s laughter, her blue dress swirling as she twirled him around, her arms encircling him as he laughed. His father, camera in hand, had been snapping photos, capturing each carefree moment. His dad’s voice had been filled with joy as he called out to them, encouraging Bruce to run faster, laugh louder.

He remembered the warmth of his mother’s hand in his, the way his father had looked at him, pride in his eyes. A perfect day. One of the last ones.

“Hostage situation in progress, corner of Fifth and Main,” Oracle’s voice cut through the memory, snapping Batman back to the present. “Red Robin is already on the scene.”

“Be there in two,” Batman responded, his tone hardening as he leapt off the rooftop, his cape billowing behind him like a shadow as he glided down. The wind bit at his face as he descended, his mind refocusing on the task at hand.

He landed in the alley beside the bank with a muffled thud, then sprinted toward the scene. As he neared, he could smell the gunpowder in the air, the sharp, metallic scent mixing with the stench of fear.

“What’s the status?”

“Three hostiles, armed and dangerous,” Red Robin’s voice came through, a mixture of tension and focus. “They’ve got six hostages inside. I’m positioned on the rooftop across the street.”

Batman grunted, scanning the bank’s broken front doors, splintered glass and bullet holes marring the once-pristine entrance. Inside, the hostages huddled together, terror etched into their faces. The gunmen barked demands at the police, their guns trained on the civilians.

Batman checked his watch: 8:32 AM. The photo was at noon. He had plenty of time.

“Be ready to move on my signal,” he instructed, his voice cold and precise. “I’m going in.”

Without another word, he stormed through the shattered entrance, a whirlwind of black and grey as he sprang into action. The first gunman turned, but Batman was faster, catching him with a blow to the wrist that sent the gun clattering to the ground. The second man fired, but Batman dodged, delivering a solid punch to the jaw that sent him sprawling. The third, in a panicked attempt to control the situation, tried to seize a hostage, but Red Robin swooped down from the rooftop, a well-placed kick knocking the man out cold.

The entire ordeal was over in seconds. The hostages, still trembling but unharmed, stumbled out of the bank into the waiting arms of the police officers outside. Batman glanced around, satisfied, and was about to take his leave when Oracle’s voice came through the radio once more.

“Black Mask was spotted heading towards Crime Alley."

“On it. Red Robin, stay here and coordinate with the police.”

“Red Hood isn’t far behind,” Oracle added, “he’ll meet you there.”

Batman glanced at his watch again. He had just under four hours to deal with whatever Black Mask was planning and make it back in time for the photo. He looked behind him. “Don’t forget to be back by ten, Red Robin."

“I won’t, Batman." Tim shot finger guns as Batman disappeared into the shadows, moving through the narrow alleys like a phantom. His black cape blended seamlessly into the darkness, the city’s early light casting long shadows across the streets. The sun had barely risen, its faint glow revealing a bleak scene near the entrance of a rundown building.

A body lay sprawled in the snow, riddled with bullets, half-buried beneath the frost. His jaw was twisted at an unnatural angle, his blank eyes staring lifelessly at the grey sky above. Blood stained the snow a dark crimson, a sharp contrast to the otherwise untouched white around him. Batman crouched beside the corpse, his gaze hardening as he took in the details. Bullet casings were scattered across the ground, some still faintly warm from recent discharge.

“A rat from False Facers,” Red Hood murmured behind him, his voice low and rough. Batman glanced at him, nodding before focusing back on the grim evidence before them.

“Looks like Black Mask’s taking matters into his own hands,” Batman growled, his fists clenching. “We need to find him. Now.”

Red Hood cocked his twin guns, spinning them with practised ease. “Let’s get to work then."

Batman rose, his eyes scanning the shadows and corners, searching for any indication of where Black Mask had gone. He motioned toward a narrow alleyway just beyond the corpse. “The trail leads this way,” he muttered, voice barely audible as he moved forward with the precision and silence of a hunter. Red Hood followed, his guns at the ready, every step calculated.

They moved through Gotham’s winding backstreets, following the faint clues Black Mask had unwittingly left behind—a broken bottle here, a smear of blood there. But suddenly, the trail vanished. Black Mask had left Crime Alley, leaving Batman and Red Hood with little more than dead ends and a growing frustration.

Batman pulled out his grappling gun, shooting it up toward a nearby rooftop. In one swift motion, he was airborne, his cape fanning out like dark wings as he ascended. He landed lightly, crouching as he scanned the surrounding buildings, their windows reflecting the cold winter light back at him.

“Anything?” he asked into his comm, his tone clipped.

“Nothing,” Oracle’s voice crackled over the line, her fingers tapping steadily on her keyboard.

“Nothing here either,” Red Hood added, his voice taut. “Looks like he’s gone to ground.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. He knew Black Mask’s patterns, his hiding spots, his tactics. Black Mask wouldn’t stay hidden for long—there were too many enemies in Gotham for him to lay low. Checking the time, Batman noted that it was just past ten. He still had two hours to find him, but time was slipping away faster than he wanted.

Standing on the rooftop, Batman looked out over the city’s waking streets. Despite the urgency, Gotham continued its chaotic rhythm. Cars honked, people shouted and laughed, and life moved on.

“9th and Broadway. Drug bust. Need backup,” Nightwing’s voice cut in through the radio, bringing Batman’s attention back.

“Be there in ten,” Black Bat responded calmly, her voice steady and focused.

“Oracle, what else are you seeing?” Batman asked, his eyes flickering over the buildings as he searched for signs of movement.

“Another body turned up on Fourth,” Oracle replied, “Same gang, another member of False Facers. It’s strange—Black Mask doesn’t usually go after his own people this early in the day, let alone two in a row.”

“Any pattern to it?”

“Not that I can see,” Oracle answered, the click of her typing punctuating her words. “Looks like he’s just being particularly brutal today.”

A few seconds passed before Robin’s voice crackled through. “I’ve got eyes on the scene,” he reported, his voice calm and controlled. “It's not the same M.O. Doesn’t seem like it’s Black Mask.”

“Black Mask handled the one on Fourth and Main,” Batman's tone hardened with frustration. “This doesn’t feel connected.”

Oracle hesitated. “The security cameras confirmed Black Mask at both locations. He knows you’re tracking him, it’s like he’s baiting you to follow him across the city.”

Batman checked his watch again: 10:32 AM. They had less than an hour to contain Black Mask before the photo shoot. He felt the pressure mounting; his time to split between Gotham and his family was running thin, and the stakes were high. He didn’t want to have to disappoint Alfred—or any of them—by missing this day.

“Robin, Red Hood, head back to the Manor,” he commanded, his voice steely and resolute. “Oracle, keep tracking Black Mask. The rest of you, wrap up and get back.”

Silence hung over the line for a few beats. Batman could almost feel his family’s irritation at being ordered away from the action, but there was no other option. Today, he had to make it work.

Batman pulled out his grapple gun, aiming it at a nearby rooftop. With a sharp pull, he swung through the air, the city blurring beneath him as he flew forward. He was determined to end this before the photo shoot.

The park was nearly deserted, the wind whistling through the barren trees. The air held the sharp, cold bite of impending snow, and the scent of it hung heavy. From a rooftop, Batman scanned the empty park below. The sun was high now, casting long, cold shadows across the landscape.

He spotted Black Mask, his boot crushing a man’s head against the icy ground. Blood trickled from the man’s mask, staining the snow in dark streaks—a chilling reminder of Black Mask’s brutality. Just another rat, disposed of.

“Black Mask,” Batman growled, his voice low, his presence a dark silhouette against the bright, wintry scene.

Black Mask looked up, sneering beneath his mask, he was holding a gun. “Batman. I see you got my message.”

Batman checked his watch—10:50 AM. He still had time, and hopefully, the others were safely back at the manor. He needed to end this here and now.

“You’re done,” Batman said, his voice like ice as he flung a batarang at Black Mask. It caught the light as it spun, glinting with the promise of violence. But Black Mask was ready, his hand snapping up to catch the weapon mid-air. He grinned, twirling it between his fingers.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Batman.”

The two began circling each other, neither breaking eye contact, their postures tense, like coiled springs ready to snap. The winter wind whipped around them, the skeletal trees creaking in protest.

Batman lunged first, his fist colliding with Black Mask’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, but Black Mask quickly recovered, throwing a punch to Batman’s gut that momentarily stole his breath.

11:02 AM. He had to stay focused, to get this over with and make it back in time for the photo. With a quick kick, Batman sent Black Mask’s gun skidding across the icy ground and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, lifting him off the ground. Black Mask’s mask, with its blackened, ghoulish expression, seemed to mock him, as if this was all just a game.

11:13 AM. Batman slammed Black Mask against a nearby tree, snowflakes falling from the branches as Black Mask let out a muffled laugh.

“You’re too late, Batman,” Black Mask taunted. “The bomb’s already set to go off.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Oracle, run a scan for bombs.”

“Already on it,” Oracle replied, her voice tense in his earpiece.

Batman tightened his grip on Black Mask’s coat, dragging in a deep, icy breath. His muscles ached with exhaustion, the cold seeping into his bones, but he pushed through, determination hardening his stance. Oracle’s voice came through his earpiece.

“No bombs registered in the city,” she said. “Are you sure he’s telling the truth?”

Batman dropped Black Mask to the ground, and he crumpled into the snow, staring up at the gray sky with a wicked grin.

“Where’s the bomb?” Batman demanded, hauling him back up by his collar. Black Mask’s smirk widened, his voice thick with mockery.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Batman clenched his jaw. The clock was ticking, and he knew he had less than an hour to get back. But he couldn’t just leave—not until he was certain there was no real threat. Black Mask’s laughter grated against his ears, a cold, cruel sound.

“You’re predictable, Batman. Always so willing to sacrifice for others. It’s going to be your downfall.”

11:26 AM. He could still make it if he wrapped this up now.

“Batman,” Oracle’s voice broke in, firmer this time. “There’s no bomb. He’s stalling.”

“I can’t take that chance,” Batman replied, his voice tight with frustration. “He could’ve hidden it anywhere.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Black Mask mocked, his voice filled with dark amusement. “Tick-tock, Batman. Time’s running out.”

11:34 AM. Almost noon.

“You’ve got twenty-five minutes,” Oracle’s voice reminded him, laced with tension. “Wrap it up.”

“I’m trying,” he growled, dodging another one of Black Mask’s wild swings. 11:43 AM. 17 minutes left. His every movement was slower, his muscles heavy from the cold, but he pressed on, pushing Black Mask down with a powerful right hook, his patience thinning to a single strand. Black Mask didn't move after that.

11:40 AM.

“I've sent the police over and I'll send someone for the bomb."

Batman looked up at the sky, the sun high and glaring off the fresh snow. Snowflakes drifted down around him, glinting like shards of ice. The city’s sounds felt distant and muted, a reminder that time was slipping away.

“Twenty minutes,” Oracle spoke again. “Get back to the manor.”

Batman took one final, frustrated look at Black Mask, then exhaled sharply. He had to go. "Thanks," he muttered into his comm, pushing himself up and dusting snow from his suit. His body ached from the cold as he reached for his grappling gun. 11:43 AM.

The hook caught, and with a burst of strength, he launched himself into the air, swinging through the streets of Gotham. The city sped by beneath him as he pushed himself to his limits, leaping from building to building, his body taut with urgency. The icy wind whipped at his face, stinging his cheeks and making his eyes water. Familiar landmarks flew past: the clock tower, the courthouse, Wayne Tower. The cold bit into him, his breath coming out in sharp, visible puffs. Every second mattered, each one ticking closer to noon.

11:52 AM.

He swung across the final street, the manor looming into view. His heart raced, adrenaline pushing him forward. The bat cave entrance opened just in time, and he dropped down into the darkness, landing heavily on the stone floor, his cape swirling around him.

He moved on instinct, shedding his armour and peeling off the cowl. His muscles screamed in protest, his movements quick but precise. Pulling on the suit Alfred had prepared, he forced himself to stay focused, slicking back his hair, and smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, a pale face, exhaustion barely concealed. But there was no time to worry about that now.

11:59 AM.

Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his tie, calmed his racing heart, and made his way upstairs.

In the lounge, the warmth was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, a fire roaring merrily along one wall and the grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner. The photographer was setting up by the fireplace, adjusting the lens.

Dick wore a navy collared shirt and black pants, his hair was brushed neatly. Jason had managed to tame his hair with a generous amount of gel, opting for his usual leather jacket, a white collared shirt, and dark jeans. Damian was in a black turtleneck, his hair combed neatly, giving him a serious look. Cass, in a simple purple blouse, a matching thin purple ribbon tied around her neck and dress pants, her hair smooth and shiny, looked perfectly at ease.

Alfred had done an impressive job getting everyone presentable, himself included, looking as distinguished as ever.

Bruce allowed himself a quick moment to catch his breath, feeling the aftershock of the adrenaline surge, his heart still hammering.

“Good, you’re here! We thought you’d be late.” Dick said with a grin. 

“I got caught up at the office,” Bruce replied smoothly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You know how it is.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “And did you manage to... finish everything?"

Bruce nodded, forcing a smile. “Everything’s under control.”

“You made it,” Alfred said, joining Bruce with a knowing smile. His eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Cutting it close, this time, aren’t we?”

“Always do,” Bruce replied with a smirk. “Keeps things interesting.”

Alfred rolled his eyes, though his smile grew. “Alright, places, everyone,” he called, gesturing towards the fireplace where the photographer was setting up.

Bruce looked around the room, his proud gaze lingering on each of his family members. Dick, Cass, Damian, Jason, Alfred and...

12:05 PM

“Where’s Tim?”

Chapter Text

[December 1, 2024, 12:05 PM]

“He was here a minute ago,” Dick said, frowning. “I saw him when I came down.”

Damian scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “Perhaps he went back to his room. Or ran away,” he added, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Again.”

Jason rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Give it a rest, Demon Spawn.” He turned to Dick. “You sure you saw him? He’s been known to disappear at inopportune moments.”

“I’m sure,” Dick replied, “he was wearing a black sweater, looked kind of tired. You know, his usual.”

The photographer cleared his throat, his patience visibly waning. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule here. Could we perhaps find the missing party and get on with it?”

Bruce offering a placating smile. “I apologize. Alfred, would you mind attending to our guest for a moment?” He checked his phone, pulling up Tim’s tracker. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the screen—the green dot representing Tim’s location was gone.

“He’s… not on the premises anymore,” Bruce murmured, his brow furrowing. “He’s not… anywhere.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as Bruce dialed Tim’s number and put the phone on speaker. They all waited, tense and hopeful. But there was no answer. Instead, the line went to voicemail.

“Damn it,” Jason muttered, slamming a hand against the coffee table. “Why can’t we just hurry this up?”

“Perhaps because we all hate one another?” Damian quipped, his voice laced with venom

“That’s not true!” Dick protested, stepping forward. “We’re a family, Damian.”

“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” Jason muttered, crossing his arms and casting a hard look at Damian.

The air was thick with tension enough to cut. The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, filling the uneasy silence. Cassandra stood to the side, her gaze fixed on her phone as she quickly typed a message, her brow knit in worry. Tim was their brother; he wouldn’t just… leave. He wouldn’t do that.

Damian’s scowl deepened as he plopped onto the couch, his fists clenching at his sides. “Why does Drake have to ruin everything?”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Jason snapped, his voice sharp. “It’s not replacement’s fault if he had something come up last minute.”

"Sure, keep making excuses for him. Just like you always do.”

“I’m not making excuses,” Jason shot back, “I’m stating the obvious. Why do you always have to be such a jerk to everyone?”

“I’m the jerk? You’re the one who stormed out last Christmas, throwing a tantrum like a child!”

“Okay, let’s all just take a step back and calm down,” Dick interjected, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, his eyes pleading with them.

“I’ll calm down when the Demon Brat shuts his mouth,” Jason snarled, stepping closer to Damian, his face tight with anger.

“Oh, please,” Damian sneered, standing his ground. “You’re the one always stirring up drama. Take a good hard look at yourself before accusing anyone else, Todd.”

“You son of a—” Jason lunged forward, grabbing Damian by the collar. Dick sprang into action, intercepting them as Cass quickly moved in to pull Jason back. Damian twisted in Dick’s grip, his own face contorted with fury as he fought against the restraint.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Dick shouted, barely keeping his own anger in check as he held Damian back. His grip tightened as Damian shoved against him.

“Don’t touch me, Grayson!"

“Yeah, Dickhead,” Jason hissed. “You’ve gotten in the middle of things enough before. Let the brat defend himself—unless you feel the need to protect another one of your ‘baby brothers.’”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick snapped back, his patience worn thin. He was done playing peacekeeper. They both were instigating, pushing everyone’s buttons, and for once, Dick had enough. Suddenly, Damian leaned forward, biting down on Dick’s hand. Dick released him and stumbled backward, clutching his hand in pain. His teeth gritted as he glared at his youngest brother.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled, gripping his slightly bleeding hand.

Jason scoffed, his voice thick with derision. “This family is a joke! A goddamn mess. I don’t even know why I bothered coming here.” He made a move to leave, but Damian lunged at him again, teeth bared. Cass quickly stepped between them, shoving Damian backward.

“Enough!” Alfred’s voice thundered through the room, freezing everyone in place. They all turned, seeing the rare but unmistakable flash of anger in his face, his temples taut with frustration.

“I have had it with you all.” Alfred’s eyes burned as he swept his gaze over them. “This childish bickering, this relentless antagonizing. It’s bad enough that Master Tim is once more missing. I will not stand by and watch the rest of you destroy what little family remains. Now, I expect each and every one of you to sit quietly until Master Tim’s whereabouts are known. And if anyone so much as utters another word of nonsense, there will be consequences. Am I understood?”

The room was dead silent. No one dared meet Alfred’s eyes, each of them chastised, and each feeling the weight of his words. Jason muttered a reluctant “Whatever,” under his breath, shifting his gaze to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” Dick whispered, shame prickling his skin. His hand throbbed with pain, and he realized he’d need to get it bandaged.

“Apologies, Pennyworth,” Damian mumbled, his expression was sour, but even he wouldn’t meet Alfred’s gaze.

Cass stood quietly, her fists clenched as she looked down.

In the corner, Bruce sat with his hands covering his face. The tension made his head pound, and every time he dialed Tim’s number only to get his voicemail, a new wave of dread washed over him. Each unanswered call tightened the knot in his stomach.

12:21 PM.

Bruce felt the weight of helplessness creeping in. What if Tim was hurt, or worse? How would he even begin to find him? He could barely think, yet he knew that if he didn’t act soon, the window for this moment—the rare chance at a family photo—would slip away. He felt his resolve start to crumble.

He should’ve let them keep their gear nearby. He shouldn’t have insisted they leave all their suits behind. If anything happened to Tim… It was on Bruc-

The sharp ring of his phone cut through his thoughts. It was Tim.

Chapter Text

[December 1, 2024, 12:22 PM]

Bruce's last problem was himself.

In retrospect, it was silly. Stupid, actually. And, at the end of the day, it was all Bruce’s fault.

He had focused on entirely the wrong thing. All those hours spent cleaning up Gotham, arranging for backups, negotiating with allies so that picture day would go off without a hitch. Taking down criminals to ensure they wouldn’t interfere with one hour of peace? How could he have been such an idiot?

Coordinating with other vigilantes to cover for them? An embarrassment he could hardly forgive himself for. Months of meticulous planning? Who cared? Pulling all-nighters to clear his Wayne Enterprises workload? Unimportant. Convincing his children to set aside their cases, vendettas, and grudges just to take a family photo? It had felt monumental at the time, but looking back, he saw it for what it was.

Because, in his tunnel-vision focus on logistics, he had overlooked one glaring reality: they weren't just vigilantes whose entire life was fighting crime. No. He didn't take into account that they were the freaking Wayne family.

And the freaking Wayne family had the unfortunate knack of being held for ransom at an alarmingly common rate.

Of course, Bruce had forgotten. He must have misplaced his mind! It wasn’t like kidnappings could be scheduled like every other appointment. They didn’t ask for a convenient time or check to see if one had 'family photo' on the calendar. It wasn’t like the criminals of Gotham had to RSVP’d to say, “Oh, sorry, we’ll hold off on abductions until the afternoon.”

Because, as Bruce had just discovered, Tim was not, in fact, ignoring his calls. Nor was he sulking or hiding in his room. The phone had finally been answered, but not by Tim.

Instead, a metallic voice came through the other side. “We have Timothy Wayne.”

For a split second, Bruce’s mind stuttered. Tim knew today was important. The kid knew, and yet he still decided to get himself captured and— this wasn't his fault. It wasn't. Even if Tim was a genius, had a hundred ways to disarm someone, trained by the master assassin, Lady Shiva, and figured out Batman's identity.

They could have been just too good. Better than him. Stronger, and smarter. Yeah, yeah, that made sense.

It wasn't Tim's fault. Probably.

“How much?” Bruce grounded out, his tone steely. Muffled sounds came from the line, likely Tim.

The voice on the other end laughed, a cold, grating sound distorted by a modulator. “Eager, aren’t we?”

12:28 PM.

The photographer was still waiting, sighing heavily as he tapped his fingers on the table, glancing irritably at his watch. Bruce shot him an apologetic glance, holding up a single finger as if to say, Just give me a moment. The man rolled his eyes but stayed seated, grumbling quietly.

Meanwhile, Dick was already working to track the call.

“Yes,” Bruce said smoothly. “How about…” He paused, considering. How much did they think Tim was worth? Of course, Bruce thought he was priceless, but should he lowball or highball? “A million? I’ll even throw in a couple of gift cards. And, hey, you can keep Tim if you’d like him back afterward.”

“What—no?” The voice on the other end spluttered, coughing slightly. “He’s worth a million?” Ah, so Tim was not worth a million to them. That was a relief.

“No, he’s worth...well, I can get two, maybe three million ready if you bring him back right now."

“Jesus,” the kidnapper muttered, clearly rattled. “Okay, let’s just...let’s not discuss prices right now. Let’s just slow down.”

12:33 PM.

Bruce’s mind was working in overdrive. Dick ran from the room, determination flashing in his eyes. Alfred was fussing over Damian’s tie and straightening his hair, while Jason leaned against the mantel, leaving smudges of soot on his white shirt. Bruce tried to signal him to move, but Jason was steadfastly ignoring him. Cassandra, seeing Bruce’s silent plea, nudged Jason away from the fireplace, brushing off the soot from his shirt and straightening his collar.

Bruce mouthed a 'thank you' to her, and she gave a small smile in response, patting down Jason’s shoulder as he shot her a raised brow. Cass merely shook her head, motioning to the faint smudge on his jacket. Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t protest further.

A yell and a thud came through the phone.

Bruce’s pulse quickened. “Is that him? Tim, honey, try not to get your sweater dirty—anyways, I would love to discuss a figure that brings Tim back within thirty minutes.” Or risk Nightwing bursting into the place—because while they desperately needed Tim back, there would certainly be repercussions if things got out of hand. Those would likely leave Tim with more than just a few bruises, or worse, his clothes dirtied. And while Tim’s so-called 'super regeneration' might seem effective, it mostly only worked on paper cuts. Bruce would rather have his son returned unscathed in every way possible.

"We...ah, okay? Thirty minutes. Are we...are we rushing this, do you feel?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Well, you can hold him hostage for a bit longer, but it would be nice if we could have at least a few minutes with him today. The holidays are right around the corner—plenty of other ransom opportunities then.”

“Alright, okay, uh...let me...I was only going to ask for a thousand...how much did you say again?” He sounded so nervous. Poor guy.

“Two million, a $100 Starbucks gift card, a $2.43 McDonald’s gift card, and a $500 Walmart gift card. And we’ll even return him in perfect condition.” He chuckled internally; this man had no idea of the fluctuating market value of a Wayne. Had he done any research, he’d know that Tim’s ransom price was much higher than what Bruce was offering.

“I—”

“Don’t hesitate,” Bruce cut him off before the kidnapper could second-guess himself. He wanted his son back within the next thirty minutes, and they’d finally take that family photo. Today would be perfect. Everything was fine.

“I don’t want to keep your son,” the man sputtered, his frustration boiling over.

"Well that's not new, I can say that one has happened before." And Bruce really did feel for them. Tim had grown up to be quite the little monster. In a fond way, obviously. He loved that little monster. "I understand, Tim doesn't come highly recommended as hostage, what about a gift basket?"

“I don’t need any of that!” the man shouted, his voice crackling over the line. “Look, I just want—” A grunt, followed by a thud and what sounded like muffled shouting, interrupted him. Then the phone filled with the sounds of struggle, clattering, and breathless panting.

“Ah, too late, I suppose,” Bruce muttered, checking his watch, tapping it impatiently as he listened to the faint scuffle through the phone.

12:46 PM.

Finally, Dick’s voice came through the line, slightly out of breath. “They’re all tied up,” he reported, his voice calm. “Cops are on their way.”

“And Tim?” Bruce pressed, his voice taut.

“They didn’t hurt him—”

“Not the question.”

“He’s a little shaken up, I guess.”

“Dick.”

There was a pause before Dick finally relented. “...His clothes are fine. Just needs a bit of a hairbrush, that’s all.” He assured Bruce, then hung up before Bruce could ask anything else.

12:51 PM.

The photographer had started packing up his equipment, muttering about wasted time.

“Look,” the man said, sighing, “you’ll have to book a new appointment if you want these photos. I have another shoot in an hour, and this is—”

“It’s just five more minutes,” Bruce insisted, but the photographer shook his head firmly.

Bruce was not going to beg. That was beneath him. He would simply reschedule. The whole thing could be redone. It wasn’t as if the family photo mattered that much. It wasn’t as if he cared about this as much as he thought he did. It wasn’t a big deal at all.

Alfred reappeared by his side, holding his leather-bound check book and a pen. “Allow me, sir,” Alfred murmured smoothly. He wrote out a check with a generous tip, offering it to the man, who begrudgingly accepted the money, muttering under his breath about 'driving all the way out here for nothing.'

Once Bruce shut the door behind him, he let out a sigh. The day had been more exhausting than a year’s worth of patrols.

“Don’t worry, Master Bruce,” Alfred reassured him, his voice calm and steady. “We’ll have better luck next time.”

Bruce glanced at his watch as the photographer’s car rumbled down the gravel drive.

12:59 PM.

As if it mattered.

Just then, the door opened, and Nightwing strode in, Tim slung over his shoulder, looking as if he’d just come from a particularly boring meeting.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You said his clothes were fine.”

Dick gave him a confused look as he set Tim down. “They are fine.”

Tim’s pants were missing one leg, his sweater had a large hole in the shoulder, and he was covered in what looked suspiciously like dried blood.

“Huh,” Dick said, raising an eyebrow as he glanced over Tim’s shoulder. “Must've missed that.”

Tim looked from Bruce to Dick, his expression deadpan. “Wow, no welcome back? No ‘Glad you’re safe, Tim’? No ‘Thank goodness you weren’t dismembered and left in some warehouse somewhere, Tim, son of mine’? I see how it is. Very considerate of you both.”

Bruce ignored him, though his shoulders relaxed a little. “The photographer couldn’t wait. We’ll have to reschedule,” he said, already making a mental note to plan the next one with far fewer expectations. He gestured for Alfred to follow him to review the binder and rework their plans, they weren’t going to get any sleep, not tonight at least. Or maybe not for a couple of nights.

As for Tim, he was left with a quiet hug from Cass—and three brothers who weren’t speaking to each other.

Chapter Text

[December 8, 2024, 21:41]

The Wayne children had a problem. And the problem was them.

One might think that after their dear father and butler had gone through so much trouble to assemble them for a simple family photograph, the siblings would feel some measure of gratitude. Or, at the very least, a touch of respect. But instead, they’d spent the whole ordeal arguing, sitting out in timeout, or—in Tim’s case—being kidnapped. Really, he had no right doing that.

One would think they’d look at each other, really look, and remember that they were family. That no matter how broken the bonds, how far they tried to push one another away, they were still siblings. They’d still die for each other, even if it meant never getting to say it aloud. No amount of anger, pride, or hurt could undo that. They’d bleed, and hurt, and fight, but ultimately, those hands that threw punches would still be there to catch each other if one of them ever fell.

Of course, it was obvious to anyone with eyes and two working brain cells that none of them had received the amount of therapy needed to be stable, healthy, or well-rounded people. And while family was often more part of the solution than the problem, for this particular family, it became clear that they really didn’t have a choice.

“I hate everyone here!” Jason shouted, glaring at the group. “You, especially you,” he hissed at Damian, who huffed in response.

“Then why are you still here?” Damian shot back, “I certainly didn’t invite you. No one did!"

Dick groaned, pressing his hands to his temples. “Would it kill either of you to play nice?”

Jason’s gaze snapped to him, jaw clenched. “I’ve been playing nice for a while, Dick. Damian’s the one who gave you rabies!”

“Guys—”

“For the last time, Todd, I do not have rabies!” Damian interjected, his face darkening. “And you, Grayson, have no right to lecture us after siding with him!”

"Guys!"

“Siding with—oh, please!” Dick threw his hands up. “This has nothing to do with whatever happened last week. This is about you and Jason and this constant, exhausting arguing!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, guys—!” Tim tried to interrupt, but his words were drowned out as their voices rose even higher.

Cass stood off to the side, arms crossed, observing her brothers with a look of faint annoyance.

“And you got exactly what you deserved, Grayson!” Damian growled.

“Oh, go to hell!” Dick yelled, his face flushing red. “You know what? Jason was right—this family's a joke!”

“Stop!” Cass’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. The room fell silent, everyone turning to stare at her in shock. It was rare for Cassandra to raise her voice, or to intervene at all, but her patience had finally run out.

“Damn…” Jason muttered, smirking. “Even she can’t put up with your crap anymore, Dick.”

Dick scowled, a bitter look flashing across his face.

"You're just..." Cassandra sighed, her gaze moving slowly over each of them. "This. We need to fix this. Talk it out. Now." Her expression was resolute, leaving no room for argument. Her eyes held each of theirs in turn, a quiet determination in her stare. They knew, without a doubt, that this was a conversation they could no longer avoid.

Damian rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest in a defiant mirror of Cass’s own posture. “Why? There’s nothing to fix. This whole family photo idea was ridiculous from the start.”

Dick’s jaw twitched, his hands clenching at his sides as he looked ready to leap across the room. But Cass’s stern glare pinned them both in place.

Damian’s expression softened ever so slightly as he caught the gravity of her look. He huffed, his shoulders dropping. “Fine. I…am willing to listen.”

Jason reluctantly dropped back onto the couch, arms crossed. The room fell silent, and for the first time all day, they actually looked at each other.

Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Thank you, Cass," he said with a small smile in her direction before shifting his gaze to each of his brothers in turn.

"Alright, let’s break this down. First off—Damian, why did you feel the need to bite Dick?"

“I…” Damian hesitated, avoiding their eyes. “It wasn’t intentional.”

"What, so you accidentally chomped down on my hand? How does that work?" Dick snapped.

“No, it was—it was an instinct, okay?” Damian muttered, the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks. “You startled me. I…overreacted.”

Jason let out a low chuckle. The rest of the family exchanged glances, but Jason spoke up, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “Instinct or not, that doesn’t make it okay.” Damian’s gaze snapped to him, and for once, he seemed at a loss.

“…Right. It doesn’t excuse my actions,” Damian mumbled. “Apologies, Grayson. I’ll try to avoid...repeating that.” Dick’s shoulders relaxed a little, though he kept his gaze on the floor.

“I’m sorry, too,” Dick said quietly, his voice softer. “For…yelling.”

Tim leaned forward, nodding approvingly. “Good. Now, Damian and Jason—why can’t you two just be civil with each other? This constant fighting is exhausting.”

“Because he’s always starting drama,” Jason shot back, rolling his eyes. “Everything has to be a battle with him, and he acts like he’s got the moral high ground every time.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “And you never miss an opportunity to escalate it,” he retorted. “You think I’m the problem when you’re always ready to throw a punch?”

“Maybe because I’m tired of you treating everyone like they’re beneath you. You don’t get to stir things up and act like it’s no big deal!”

Damian faltered, his hand running through his hair as he looked down. “I wasn’t trying to… I just wanted things to go a certain way, and when they didn’t, I— I got carried away. I know I was being difficult.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry,” Damian muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

Jason blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “No, I—I should be apologizing,” he replied, his tone softened. He glanced at Tim, who gave him an approving nod.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Tim said with a smile, glancing over at Cassandra. “We’re all in this family, and nobody’s really at fault here.”

Finally, they could put this behind them—

“…You’re right… It’s your fault!” Jason yelled, pointing accusingly. Dick groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. Damian was already on his feet, the tension simmering between the them like a pot once again ready to boil over.

“Wait—!” Tim shouted, but it was no use; his pleas fell on deaf ears. "How is it my fault?! If anything—" However, Cassandra was quick on her feet.

“Wall. Now. No more fighting!” Cass ordered, pointing toward the living room wall. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, her four brothers trudged over and sat against the wall in silence.

Cassandra folded her arms and looked at Jason. “Why is this Tim’s fault? Go on, explain,” she demanded.

Jason answered immediately, “He could’ve sent his location. Or asked for help. I mean, did you really expect me to think you’d just disappear on purpose?”

“Yes, exactly!” Damian chimed in. “Drake has a habit of vanishing at critical times.”

Tim glared. “I got kidnapped.”

“Which is entirely your fault,” Jason retorted.

“No! That is a bad thing to say, and none of you should ever think it, let alone say it!” Tim snapped. “This isn’t even an argument; it’s victim-blaming! And as the person kidnapped, I am deeply offended that you would even suggest—”

“You could've said no,” Damian shrugged.

“What?! What am I supposed to say to my kidnappers? ‘Hey! Wait! I know you’re taking me for ransom, but could we reschedule?’” Tim exclaimed. “You have no sense of—”

“You could have fought them off!” Damian interrupted. “Instead, you had to rely on Nightwing for a rescue!”

“Like Dickie-bird needed another win,” Jason scoffed.

“And so do you, apparently! You’re still angry about it!” Tim groaned. “This is such a ridiculous argument because, ultimately, all of you are wrong.”

“Except me,” Cassandra chimed in, raising her hand.

“Except Cass, but she didn’t have anything to do with it anyways,” Tim amended.

Dick and Jason shot Tim annoyed looks, while Damian just huffed. “If you want me to admit I was wrong, then fine,” Damian said, glaring. “Proclaim your righteousness.”

“I will,” Tim replied with a nod.

Cassandra looked around at each of them, her voice firm but calm. “Are we all calm now? No more fights. Got it?”

Dick glanced at his brothers, nodding. Jason stayed quiet, while Tim, who seemed ready to answer, just shrugged.

Damian was the last to speak, and after a long moment, he sighed. “If everyone else is done being immature, then perhaps I’ll stop fighting.”

“Good enough," Cass said with a gentle smile, glancing around at her brothers, her expression softening. "Let’s figure out how we can fix this." She reached down, pulling out the binders she had 'borrowed' from Bruce's study and a his laptop, filled with files of family photos and scrapped ideas.

“Okay,” Cassandra flipped through one of the binders, “first things first. Are we aiming for a specific date?”

Dick hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before Christmas, so we can give the photos to Bruce as a gift. Which…means we don’t have a lot of time.”

Cass hummed thoughtfully, flipping through the binder. "The photographer he likes is fully booked until February. Actually, all of the photographers are,” she reported. “Unless we can find someone else, it’s not looking good.”

Jason frowned, his mind already whirring with alternatives. “Can’t we just…take the photos ourselves?”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “I believe Father wanted them professionally done.”

Cass’s eyes sparkled with a sudden idea, a wild grin spreading across her face. Everyone leaned in instinctively, curious. “But he also wanted them to be real,” she said. “Family pictures. Candid, not just patched together.”

“There is only so much one can do with this family.” Damian sighed, crossing his arms

“Idea!” Tim shouted suddenly, springing to his feet. “As long as nobody gets kidnapped or starts any arguments, I think this could actually work.”

***

[December 17, 2024, 06:39 AM]

The morning had been oddly quiet at the Wayne manor. When Bruce walked into the kitchen, yawning and reaching for his mug of coffee, he raised an eyebrow at Alfred, who was already busy with his daily routines.

"Where is everyone, Alfred?" Bruce asked, noticing the unusual silence.

"They were up before me, sir,” Alfred replied with a shrug. Bruce grimaced. That never happened. The sun was just beginning to rise, and it was far too cold for any of them to be awake, let alone out somewhere in this weather.

"They didn't head to school already, did they?"

"It's winter break," Alfred reminded him, prompting Bruce to groan.

"And they still got up before you? Are you sure the world isn’t ending?" Bruce gave Alfred a suspicious look over the rim of his coffee mug. Mornings at Wayne Manor were always chaotic—usually because of Alfred’s efforts to get them all moving.

"Perhaps it is," Alfred replied, bemused.

Bruce followed Alfred to the windows overlooking the gardens, staring out at the faint traces of morning light. "You don’t suppose they’re out there doing something foolish?"

"They are well-behaved young adults," Alfred's tone suggested he meant the exact opposite.

Bruce hummed thoughtfully, tapping the edge of his mug. After a moment, he tilted his head, and he and Alfred exchanged a knowing look.

"Should we check on them?"

Alfred nodded, and the two began a search around the mansion. They checked the bedrooms, the library, and even the Batcave, where they often found the children planning something borderline reckless. But no one was there.

Finally, as they were about to give up, Alfred’s phone chimed with a text. Bruce was beside him instantly.

Alfred read aloud, his brow furrowed, "'We're in the garden. Dress warmly, please.'"

Bruce raised an eyebrow, both curious and mildly concerned. "They actually want to be out there in this weather?" he muttered.

Bundling up in their thick winter coats, Bruce and Alfred braced themselves against the sharp bite of winter as they made their way into the snow-covered garden. As they approached the noise of distant laughter, Bruce noticed something strange in the distance—twinkling lights and ribbons fluttering in the morning breeze.

They stopped, taking in the scene. Lights were strung between the trees and along the garden walls, shimmering softly in the pale sunlight. Each archway was decorated with garlands of flowers that seemed better suited for spring than a frosty winter morning, and white ribbons adorned the trunks of the trees, their ends swaying gently.

Bruce glanced at Alfred, awe creeping into his expression. “When…did they manage to set all this up?”

Alfred shook his head, equally stunned. Gentle music played somewhere nearby, a melody Bruce recognized but couldn’t quite place.

As they walked through the last archway, their jaws dropped.

The garden had been transformed into a magical winter wonderland, as though they'd stepped into another world entirely. Snow covered the ground in a pristine blanket, and the soft lights reflected off of every surface, bathing the area in a warm, golden glow. In the centre of it all stood the children, bundled up in warm clothes, looking…happy.

Damian and Jason were laughing together—actually laughing. Damian’s eyes shone, his wide smile filled with rare, unguarded joy. Jason was relaxed and had a soft grin on his face.

Dick stood next to Cassandra, his arm slung around Cass’s shoulders as they chuckled at something, but they fell silent when they noticed Bruce and Alfred approaching.

“Well?” Dick called out, stepping forward with a smile. “Are you two just going to stare, or are you going to join us?”

Bruce and Alfred looked at each of the kids. Cass wore her favourite purple jacket with gold buttons that caught the morning light, a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. Damian and Dick wore matching dark green coats with white linings, while Jason, true to form, had on his leather jacket, dark sweatpants, and a red scarf.

Dick grinned and clapped his hands. "Welcome to the Wayne family photo shoot! We figured, since we messed it up so badly last time, we’d give it another shot ourselves."

Bruce scanned the group, counting each head.

"Where's Tim?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern as he held his breath.

“Here!” Tim called, he was setting up the camera. He wore black pants and a blue and grey woollen sweater with small diamond patterns along the cuffs and collar, which sparkled faintly in the light. His eyes, still a little red-rimmed, shone brightly, and a small, dimpled smile softened his expression. The dark grey scarf and beanie he wore added a casual charm, the beanie covering his messy hair.

“We know it’s important to you,” Tim said, his voice sincere. “So, yeah, here it is.”

"Very important to all of us." Damian added with a slight huff, his chin tilted up.

Jason looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t want to leave you hanging after all that trouble you went through.” A faint blush crept up his face, either from the cold or the embarrassment, and Bruce’s heart swelled with pride.

“Photos, then?” Cass said, gesturing toward a tripod with a camera mounted on top. Bruce and Alfred smiled, stepping forward to join the kids.

They arranged themselves in front of the tripod, Bruce and Alfred in the centre with their children around them. As the camera focused, Bruce looked at each of them, feeling a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. He hoped this moment would last forever, captured and framed, something they could always look back on.

“Say cheese!”

***

[December 25, 2024, 8:09 AM]

The Christmas tree casting a warm glow over the room. Damian lay on his stomach near the fire, while Alfred, Dick, and Jason took up space on the couch. Tim perched by the window, a mug of hot chocolate in hand, while Cassandra lounged on the armrest nearby, with hot chocolate as well.

Bruce carefully unwrapped his gift, taking his time not to tear the wrapping paper. He lifted the package away and looked at what was inside, his eyes widening as he took in the framed photo. A broad smile spread across his face as he held it up for everyone to see.

Dick groaned, covering his face with his hand and dragging it down in exasperation.

Damian scrunched his nose in disgust.

“I told them to burn it,” Tim shrugged, unbothered.

Cass hummed, “I liked it.”

“Probably because you were the only one who came out looking halfway decent,” Jason muttered, shooting her a glare. Cass gave him a half-shrug in response.

“It was your fault,” Damian pointed at Jason accusingly. “You pulled everyone down with you!”

"You were trying to strangle me!”

Dick stepped between them, raising his hands in a desperate attempt to keep the peace. “Hey, it’s Christmas—” And his gift was a slap in the face.

“That’s the spirit of Christmas,” Tim toasted Cass with their hot chocolates.

“Oh, don’t think you’re off the hook!” Jason snarled, jabbing a finger at Tim.

“What?” Tim raised his hands defensively. “How is this my fault?”

“You tripped me!” Damian lunged forward, and Tim backed up in alarm.

“It was Jason! He pushed you into me!” Tim protested, trying to dodge Damian’s grab. But Damian managed to snag his ankle and pulled him back toward the couch, causing Tim to lose his balance and fall to the floor with a loud crash as his mug clattered.

While the siblings continued their…unique form of bonding, Alfred and Bruce stood by the fireplace, carefully hanging the framed photo on the mantel

Bruce felt a warmth spread through him as he looked at the photo. The soft glow of sunrise bathed the scene, casting a golden light over the entire group. Damian and Jason were caught mid-tumble in the background, one of Damian's hands were gripping Jason’s collar while Jason was yelling, one arm pinning back Damian’s as Damian's other hand attempted to reach for him with a half-hearted jab.

Dick was frozen in horror as he tripped over Jason, one arm stretched out toward Bruce, who was just barely keeping his balance by gripping Alfred’s arm. Adding to the photo, Bruce was wearing pyjama pants, a detail that seemed to capture how wonderfully planned it was.

Tim was already halfway buried in the snow, having been the first to go down. His eyes were wide, his expression one of pure shock, like a deer caught in headlights, and his mouth full of snow.

And then there was Cassandra, who had sidestepped the commotion entirely and stood off to the side, looking pristine and unbothered. She looked at the camera and wore a radiant smile, the only one managing to keep her composure.

Right after the photo was taken, a gust of wind tipped the camera, sending it toppling into a nearby snowbank, and just like that, their family photoshoot was over. By some miracle, they managed to salvage the SD card, though the camera had short-circuited from the snow and refused to turn back on.

Bruce chuckled, feeling a warmth settle in his chest. “It’s perfect…”

Alfred smiled, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “I took the liberty of rescheduling a professional shoot for February. It was the soonest opening available.”

“Sounds perfect.” Bruce smiled, a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. “They won’t escape it next time.” It would be wonderful, he thought, to finally have the house decorated with family photos, lining the hallways, filling his study, even in his room. The frames were already waiting; all they needed were the pictures to go in.

But for now, at least, he could hang up this one—imperfect, chaotic, and wonderfully real.