Archive of Our Own

Wayne Manor had endured more than its fair share of turmoil over the years—masked figures weaving through its shadowed corridors, terse arguments leaking through the cave’s thick walls, battle-worn bodies collapsing onto priceless furniture in the aftermath of long nights. But this? This was a different breed of chaos. The slow-creeping, tension-thick kind, a fuse inching ever closer to a powder keg. And naturally, Jason Todd was fairly certain he’d be the one to strike the match.

He wasn’t meant to be here yet—none of them were. Alfred’s invitation (read: royal summons) for a “family dinner” came with an explicit start time, and Jason had shown up a full twenty minutes early. Not out of courtesy, of course. He wanted to stake out a prime location—preferably one with a clear line of sight to Bruce’s inevitable attempts at keeping the evening from careening off a cliff.

His boots scuffed deliberately against the immaculate floors as he meandered through the main hall, drawing a scowl from a long-dead Wayne in oil-paint form. Every sound echoed. Even Alfred’s distant clatter in the dining room—the unmistakable rattle of cutlery and the occasional, politely repressed expletive—carried like cannon fire. For Alfred, that was practically shouting.

Rounding the corner, Jason caught sight of the first arrival—predictably, Tim—who had already claimed the study as a temporary HQ. Jason leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching as Tim muttered under his breath, one hand curled around a coffee mug, the other swiping across a tablet. His tie was askew, blazer abandoned on a nearby chair, and the shadows under his eyes had upgraded from mildly concerning to full-blown ‘corporate ghoul’.

“What’s the matter, Replacement?” Jason drawled, deliberately announcing his presence. “Can’t go five minutes without some hostile takeover to keep your hands busy?”

Tim didn’t bother to look up. “Finalising a merger, Jason. Some of us contribute to society.”

Jason gave a low whistle and stepped into the room. “You sound more like Bruce every day. Should I be worried, or are you finally growing into the role of ‘billionaire sociopath’?”

That earned a glance. Tim shot him a sideways glare. “At least I don’t make entrances like a Bond villain.”

Jason grinned, plonking himself on the edge of the desk. “Hey, if the shoe fits...”

Before Tim could return fire, footsteps echoed from the foyer, followed by Dick’s unmistakable voice—cheerful, confident, irritatingly warm. Jason perked up, abandoning Tim to his spreadsheets and heading for the entrance.

Sure enough, Dick Grayson strolled in, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, all leather jacket swagger and easy charm.

“Jaybird,” Dick greeted, dragging Jason into a one-armed hug before he could dodge.

“Get off,” Jason grumbled, not really resisting. “What are you doing here early? I figured you'd burst in dramatically fifteen minutes late like some B-list celebrity.”

Dick shrugged, dropping his bag by the stairs. “Wanted to beat Damian here. He gets testy if he’s the first one.”

Jason snorted. “He’s always testy.”

“Point taken.” Dick looked around. “Is it just you and Tim so far?”

“And Alfred,” Jason added, jerking his thumb toward the dining room. “He’s verbally threatening the turkey, I think. Might want to pay your respects before he takes a carving knife to your punctuality.”

Dick grinned. “You’re only saying that so he doesn’t yell at you.”

“Exactly.”

As they bantered their way down the hall, a voice—cool, clipped, and thoroughly unimpressed—cut through the air.

“If you two are quite done.”

Both turned to find Damian standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrow arched. Dressed to the nines, as always, but there was the faintest imperfection in his tie—a fact Jason zeroed in on immediately.

“Nice knot, kid,” Jason said. “Did Alfred let you dress yourself today?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “I tied it.”

“Well, that clears things up.”

Dick stepped in before the squabbling could escalate, clapping a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Come on, Dami. Let’s get you situated. Jason, behave.”

Jason threw up his hands. “What, I’m being charming.”

“Like a wasp in a biscuit tin,” Dick muttered, steering Damian away.

By the time they reached the sitting room, more voices joined the fray—Stephanie and Duke, chattering as they entered the manor’s echoing corridor.

“I’m just saying,” Steph was saying, “Clark being here? Feels… off.”

Duke nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Bruce is awkward enough with us. Now he’s invited Superman?”

Jason, leaning casually against a doorway, grinned. “Relax. I’ll keep things lively.”

“Define lively,” Duke said, suspicious.

“You’ll see.”

Steph raised an eyebrow. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Before Jason could elaborate, Barbara appeared, tablet in hand, exasperation already etched into her expression.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to end up cleaning up after you?”

Jason gasped, mock-wounded. “Me? Babs, how could you think so little of me?”

“Because I know you. Anyway, dinner’s in two hours. Try not to start a civil war before pudding.”

She swept off, leaving Jason to plot his next misdeed.

The manor was beginning to buzz with life. Quiet conversation floated through the halls, the odd scuff of footsteps, a door creaking open and shut. Family was arriving, one unpredictable variable at a time. And somewhere in the midst of it all—inevitably—Clark Kent was about to walk into what could only be described as a carefully concealed disaster zone.

The Girls — Cassandra’s Room

Cassandra’s room was the least extravagant space in the entire manor, which, considering she lived in a house dripping with old-money opulence, was quite the feat. No gilded mirrors or monogrammed bathrobes here. Just plain walls, tidy shelves, and a single photo frame perched near her bed—one rare snapshot of the family standing still long enough to be captured.

Cassandra sat cross-legged on her neatly made bed, calm as ever, while Stephanie sprawled across the floor in a spectacular display of melodrama, limbs akimbo like she’d taken a bullet.

“This is going to be so bad,” Steph groaned, muffling her face into her hands.

Barbara leaned against the desk, arms folded, one brow raised. “That’s what you said last time.”

Steph lifted her head just enough to shoot a glare. “And was I wrong?”

Barbara didn’t answer.

Because, no. She hadn’t been.

The last ‘family dinner’ had ended with Jason pelting Bruce with a bread roll, Tim nearly starting a fistfight over patrol jurisdiction, and Damian swearing vengeance on Dick for calling him “little D” in front of Clark.

Cassandra tilted her head. “This one is worse.”

Barbara sighed. “I was trying to be optimistic.”

“Why?” Cass asked, completely sincere.

Stephanie snorted and rolled onto her stomach. “Yeah, Babs. That was your first mistake.”

Barbara rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she looked to Cassandra. “What do you think, Cass?”

Cass exhaled slowly. Words didn’t come quickly with her—not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she waited until saying something mattered.

She scanned the room: Stephanie now half-buried in a small nest of pillows she’d stolen off the bed; Barbara, ever the strategist, watching like she already knew the answer and wanted confirmation; and Duke—yes, Duke, who had apparently defected from the boys’ camp to hide out up here instead.

Cassandra closed her eyes. She listened.

Not just to their voices, but to the rhythm of their breaths. The tension in their spines. The tiny shifts of weight that told her more than words ever could.

Stephanie was nervous, cloaking it in sarcasm. Barbara was braced for fallout. And Duke…

Cass’s eyes opened and settled on him.

Duke was the only one not pretending.

Seated cross-legged near the bookshelf, he didn’t look up as he spoke. “They’re going to fight.”

Not a question.

Cassandra nodded once. “Yes.”

Barbara groaned, rubbing at her temples. “Of course they are.”

Steph flopped again, arms out dramatically. “Why do we keep letting them go unsupervised?”

“Because we value our lives,” Duke replied without missing a beat.

“Fair.”

Cassandra turned her head slightly, gaze falling to the door. Something was already happening downstairs. She could feel it. The kind of weight that crept up the walls and through the cracks in the floorboards.

She sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

The Boys — The Batcave

The journey into the Batcave was muscle memory by now. You could drop any of them into the manor blindfolded and they’d still find the grandfather clock, trigger the hidden mechanism, and descend into the dark like they’d never left.

The air shifted as they reached the bottom—the chill of stone and steel replacing the manor’s warmth, the ambient hum of computers cutting through the silence like the low thrum of a heartbeat. The Batcomputer glowed dimly in the distance, casting eerie, shifting light over the high-tech clutter and cold surfaces.

Dick stepped off the lift first, posture loose but alert. He belonged here. Jason followed, his boots deliberately heavy on the floor. A statement. Tim was already ahead of them, beelining towards the nearest workstation, fingers twitching like the silence was too much for him. Damian lingered behind, arms crossed, his scowl deepening with every step.

Jason stretched his shoulders with a grunt. “Ah. Home sweet crypt.”

Tim didn’t look up. “Technically, it’s a subterranean command centre, not a crypt.”

Jason gave a humourless snort. “Sure, Replacement.”

Damian scoffed. “Tt. If you two are quite finished polluting the air with nonsense, I’d like to get this over with before Alfred serves the appetisers.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Get what over with?”

Damian gestured vaguely at the cave. “Whatever idiotic stunt Todd and Drake are about to concoct.”

Jason smirked. “Wow. That much faith in us, huh?”

Tim was already pulling up files. “It’s well-earned.”

Jason leaned against a metal console. “You wound me.”

Tim ignored him, fingers flying across the keyboard. Search protocols activated. Screens began flickering.

Jason tilted his head. “What are you even looking for?”

No response.

Then Tim froze.

Jason’s posture shifted instantly. “What?”

Tim’s brow furrowed. One file hovered at the top of the screen—locked. Buried. Marked not under ‘mission logs’ or ‘psych profiles’, but by a name.

JAYBIRD.

Jason’s stomach turned to stone.

Dick stepped forward. Damian’s arms dropped slightly. Even Tim paused, visibly unsettled.

“Jaybird?” Dick echoed, slow, uncertain.

Jason’s breath caught. He hadn’t heard that name—not from Bruce, not from anyone—in years.

It was personal. Intimate. Something from before.

“What the hell is that?” Jason’s voice came out too sharp, edged with something dangerously close to fear.

Tim didn’t answer. He tapped the file.

Jason lunged forward and caught his wrist before he could enter the command.

“Don’t.”

Tim barely blinked.

Jason could feel the tightness under his fingers. Tim’s pulse didn’t betray him, but Jason knew better.

Tim looked up, eyes flat. “What is your problem?”

Jason’s voice was cold steel. “You don’t touch that.”

Dick stepped in, his easy tone gone. “Jay—what’s in it?”

Jason didn’t know.

But he knew enough.

Bruce didn’t label contingency files with nicknames. Especially not ones soaked in history and regret. Especially not his.

If Bruce had hidden something under that name?

It wasn’t good.

Tim twisted out of his grip with just enough resistance to make a point. Jason let go—harder than necessary.

Tim rubbed his wrist. “Dramatic much?”

“I said drop it.”

“No chance.”

Jason’s tone darkened. “Don’t pretend this is about me.”

“It is—”

“Bullshit.” Jason took a step closer, voice low. “You don’t care what I know. You just can’t resist digging into secrets. You see a locked file and it’s like blood in the water.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about me.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Dick slipped between them, pushing lightly on Jason’s chest. “Okay, let’s just—”

Jason ignored him. “You saw the name. And your first thought was to open it. No hesitation.”

Tim folded his arms. “Because it’s about you. And if Bruce doesn’t want you to see it, that’s a red flag.”

Jason laughed. A hollow sound. “Oh, now you care about secrets? You, of all people?”

Tim’s mouth opened. Closed.

Jason didn’t stop. “You don’t get to be outraged at Bruce’s control tactics when you spent half your teenage years breaking into locked files for fun.”

Dick stepped in again, softer this time. “Jay, if it’s really about you—don’t you want to know?”

“No.”

It came out too quickly. Too harshly.

Everyone stopped.

Jason’s hands clenched into fists.

“No,” he repeated, quieter now. “If it mattered, he would’ve told me.”

And with that, he turned and walked.

Jason had nearly made it to the exit.

Nearly.

But then he heard it—Clark’s voice.

It filtered down through the cave like it didn’t belong. Warm. Casual. Too alive to echo properly in a place like this.

Jason froze.

Above him, near the landing, Dick’s head snapped up. Tim instinctively dimmed the Batcomputer screen, the earlier argument vanishing in an instant. Damian stilled mid-step. Duke’s eyes flicked towards Jason like he was expecting orders.

None came.

Because Clark wasn’t just here—he was talking to Bruce.

And Bruce hadn’t said a damn word about Superman being in the manor tonight.

Which meant either:

1. This was planned and Bruce forgot to mention it (possible but suspicious), or
2. Clark had shown up on his own (unlikely... which meant it was worse than that).

Jason backed silently into the shadows, retreating toward one of the older stone pillars. The others followed, wordless. No signal needed. It was instinct.

You heard something you weren’t meant to?

You hid.

And sure enough, the moment they ducked behind cover, Clark’s voice floated down again—clearer now, light with easy fondness. Slowing increasing in volume as they came closer to the cave.

“—I’m just saying, Bruce, you could’ve mentioned that this dinner was going to be a whole Wayne Manor production.”

Jason narrowed his eyes.

Clark sounded… caught off-guard. Not his usual level of irritated—more like surprised to find himself in someone else’s mess.

Again.

Bruce’s response was too quiet to catch, but Jason could imagine the tone. Flat. Dry. Defensive.

Clark kept going. “Oh don’t give me that, I know how you are. If Alfred hadn’t told you to do this, you’d have dodged it for another six months.”

Jason glanced at Dick, who mouthed, Not wrong.

Clark sighed, the sound closer now, footsteps shuffling across the upper stone.

“You really don’t have to make it so hard on yourself, you know,” he said. “It’s just dinner. You sit down, eat, talk a bit—preferably without anyone throwing cutlery.”

A pause.

“Okay, maybe that last part’s ambitious.”

Jason caught Duke stifling a laugh.

“But seriously,” Clark continued, voice softening, “they’re your kids, Bruce. They love you.”

Jason stiffened. The words landed like stones.

Clark’s voice didn’t falter. “They love you even when you don’t know how to show it back. Even when you’re trying so hard not to screw it up that you forget you’re allowed to be happy.”

Bruce said something then—quiet, clipped.

Clark let out a small huff of laughter. “I’m not saying you’ve got to be warm and fuzzy. God forbid. But you don’t have to be so—guarded. I’ve seen them with you. They orbit around you like gravity. Even when you’re being... well, you.”

He paused, then chuckled under his breath.

“They’re ridiculous. But they’re yours. And you—” his voice gentled, more thoughtful now “—you’ve made a home out of a war zone.”

Jason felt something twist in his chest.

“You let them stay,” Clark said. “Even when it would’ve been easier to push them away.”

The air in the cave felt denser. Charged.

“I know you don’t say much. But they get it. They get you, Bruce. Probably better than anyone else ever has.”

Another pause. Then, a shift in tone—lighter, amused.

“Well, maybe not better than me.”

Jason almost groaned aloud.

Dick clapped a hand over his mouth.

Clark kept going, unaware of the eavesdropping gallery below.

“I mean, let’s be honest here. I’ve been around since Dick was tiny enough to balance on your shoulders during patrol. Remember that? He made you carry him halfway across the East End after he refused to take the grappling line.”

Jason side-eyed Dick, who mouthed, I was six.

Clark chuckled again. “He talked about it for weeks. Kept calling it his ‘night off from cardio’.”

Jason grinned.

“But the others? They’ve all got their stories too. You don’t even realise half the time how much they remember.”

Jason leaned forward slightly, sensing something deeper coming.

Clark’s tone shifted—warmer. Nostalgic.

“Cassandra,” he began gently. “She doesn’t talk much. Never has. But the first time I met her—she trusted you.”

There was a pause.

“She watched you like you were something sacred. Not because you said anything, but because you didn’t. You didn’t push. You let her learn you, in her own time. And you know what? That trust? That was everything. She told me once—when we were patching up a busted shoulder after a League op—that she could tell you loved her by the way you never flinched when she moved. That she felt safe. She didn’t use the word love, of course, but it was there. It always is, with her.”

Jason felt a sudden urge to see Cass’s expression. Wherever she was, he knew she’d heard every word.

Clark exhaled softly, transitioning.

“Stephanie,” he said next, the smile audible in his voice. “You pretend you’re hard on her, but I’ve seen how you look at her when she gets a win. You beam, Bruce. You do this weird little chin tilt thing like you’re trying not to smile too much. But she sees it. She told me—told me—that she once broke her arm during a spar and you sat next to her in the medbay and made her promise to never scare you like that again.”

There was a beat.

“And then she told me you brought her a milkshake and called it ‘tactical morale enhancement’. Which is just adorable, by the way.”

Jason snorted.

Tim looked horrified.

Clark continued, undeterred. “She adores you, Bruce. Even when she’s arguing with you. Especially then, actually.”

He moved on.

“Duke—Duke’s easy. You gave him space. Let him build something on his own, not just wear a hand-me-down title and pretend it fit. You trusted him to figure it out. You even let him change parts of the cave security setup, which I know was painful for you.”

Jason blinked. That had been painful.

Clark laughed quietly. “He told me once—after one of those Gotham-wide blackout nights—that he thinks of you more like a lighthouse than a leader. Always watching. Not always close. But steady. Constant. Like you’re always going to be there, even when he can’t see you.”

Jason felt his throat tighten.

Bruce and Clark both finally entering the cave.

And then—

“Tim,” Clark said, and for the first time, there was a pause. A longer one.

“I know he frustrates you sometimes. You two speak different languages. He wants logic and plans, and you want instinct and discipline. But he looks up to you more than he knows how to say. And he tries. He tries so hard. You let him be Robin when he was barely out of middle school, and he never forgot that.”

Another pause.

“Neither did I, by the way. You gave him a symbol to hold onto when everything else was falling apart. He told me once that he knew you trusted him the day you didn’t question his analysis on that Joker case—you just acted on it. No debate, no second-guessing. He said it was the first time he felt like your partner.”

Jason glanced sideways.

Tim was absolutely still.

Clark’s voice gentled again. “He may roll his eyes, but he’d die for you. They all would.”

Bruce must have responded, because Clark’s voice changed—lower now. A beat of quiet honesty layered under the warmth.

“And they’d do it not just because they’re loyal. But because you’re their Bruce. Their impossible, obsessive, emotionally constipated Bruce.”

Jason muffled a laugh.

Then, more quietly, Clark added: “And because you love them. Even if you don’t know how to say it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bruce’s voice—softer, lower than expected.

“They love you too.”

There was a long silence after Bruce spoke—after that soft, quietly devastating admission: They love you too.

Clark didn’t speak right away. His footsteps paused in front of the batcomputer, lingering in stillness. When he did finally speak again, his voice was quieter. Warmer.

“And Dick…”

Jason glanced over. Dick’s shoulders had stiffened. His hand, still loosely resting on Jason’s arm, curled slightly at the edge of his jacket.

Clark continued—not loud, but with a weight heavier than nostalgia.

“You’ve never been the same without him.”

That alone was enough to make Jason blink.

“He’s your first,” Clark went on. “Not just as a partner—but as someone who chose you. Who stayed. And I don’t just mean your first Robin. I mean… he was the one who made you realise you weren’t as alone as you thought you were.”

Jason could feel Dick flinch. Not much. But enough.

“You were just a man with a mission back then. No rules. No kids. Just pain and purpose. Then he came along, and you had to figure out how to be something else. How to be someone that a grieving kid could look at and not see a monster.”

“You raised him before you knew how to raise anyone,” Clark said softly. “Before you’d even figured out how to raise yourself.”

A quiet exhale.

“And still, somehow, you didn’t break him.”

Clark exhaled slowly. His next words fell gently. “I watched you with him, Bruce. At first, you didn’t know how to talk to him. You’d hand him gear and expect him to intuit an entire philosophy. He didn’t. Not always. But he learned. And he taught you, too.”

Clark chuckled—faint, reverent. “It would’ve been so easy to turn him into another shadow. Another weapon. Another soldier. And for a while... I think you tried.”

Jason glanced sideways—Dick wasn’t moving. Not a twitch. Not a breath.

“But he didn’t become what you were. He became something brighter. Stronger, in a way. Because even when you couldn’t be warm, he learned how to be.”

Clark paused, voice gentling.

“That’s not in spite of you, Bruce. That’s because of you.”

Jason swallowed hard.

“Because you didn’t just train him. You trusted him. You believed in him. Even when you couldn’t say it out loud. Even when you left. Even when it hurt him.”

Jason stayed perfectly still. It felt like standing on a wire.

“He taught you how to soften,” Clark said. “How to laugh again. To hope. Do you remember that first time he swung over a rooftop on his own? You stood there like you’d seen God. And then he fell flat into a bin.”

Jason let out a choked snort. Dick elbowed him lightly.

“You panicked,” Clark said, clearly grinning at the memory. “You leapt down like he’d been shot. He got up, covered in banana peels and pride, and saluted you like it was a flawless mission.”

Jason could practically hear Dick groaning silently.

“But you didn’t yell,” Clark added. “You laughed. You laughed, Bruce.”

There was a pause. Then:

“He made you human again.”

The cave was absolutely still.

“And I know,” Clark added, more softly now, “you think you failed him. That all of them inherited your shadows. But look at what they are now. Look at what he is.”

Another beat.

“He still believes in you. Even when he’s angry. Even when he thinks you’re wrong.”

“You took him in after a tragedy that could’ve broken anyone. And you didn’t just give him shelter—you gave him purpose. You gave him wings.”

A pause.

“And then you let him go.”

That landed differently.

Jason could feel Dick’s breath catch.

“You know, I once found Dick patching up your ribs in the Watchtower infirmary. Bruce, you didn’t say a word—just sat there bleeding in silence. And Dick? He just kept talking. Kept telling this absolutely terrible story about a Riddler case and a cow. I still have no idea if it was real.”

Jason blinked. “It was,” Dick whispered, stunned. “Oh my God, he remembers the cow.”

“He remembers everything,” Jason whispered back.

Clark chuckled, clearly amused by the memory, too enamoured by it to notice the whispers. “You didn’t laugh. Not once. But I saw the way your shoulders eased. That’s what Dick does. He makes space for everyone to breathe, even when he can’t.”

“You know, sometimes I think he’s the only one who really remembers all of you. What you used to be before Gotham made you this version of yourself.”

Jason watched Dick look down, eyes glazing.

Clark’s tone shifted—lower, measured.

“And then there’s Jason.”

The words hit like a dropped pin.

Jason didn’t breathe.

Clark paused—only briefly. His voice gentler now. Wary, almost.

“You never forgave yourself,” he said. “Not for Ethiopia. Not for what came after. Not for letting him down.”

No one moved. Not behind the pillar, not above it.

“Jason was—is—fierce. Bright. So much fire it scared you. And you tried to contain it, tried to shape it, because you thought that was how to protect him. But all he ever wanted was to be seen.”

Jason’s throat felt dry.

Clark went on, quieter still. “He never needed you to be perfect. He just needed you to fight for him. And you did. Even if he didn’t see it then. You did.”

Clark sighed, his breath catching a little.

“I’ve watched you punish yourself a thousand different ways over the years. I’ve watched you keep his photo at your bedside, even when you told everyone you’d moved on. I’ve watched you run yourself into the ground trying to fix a world that already took him.”

Jason swallowed hard.

“And even after he came back—when things were messy, when he hated you—you never gave up. You never stopped trying. You let him scream at you. Let him hate you. Because you thought you deserved it. But it wasn’t your fault.”

A pause.

“You did everything you could with what you had.”

Jason’s jaw tightened.

Clark didn’t linger on it.

“People look at what happened and they see failure. But they never look at what it cost you.”

“You grieved the moment he called you ‘Dad’ and you didn’t correct him.”

Jason flinched, knees almost giving out.

Clark kept going, voice steady now. Gentle.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t point fingers. Didn’t retread blame. But something in his tone—something—carried a subtle, imperceptible shift. Like he knew there was more to say. Like maybe he’d already said the wrong thing, once before.

But he didn’t say that now.

Now he said, “You mourned him before anyone else believed he was gone. And you kept mourning him long after the world told you to move on.”

He sighed. “You know, when he was gone... when we thought he wasn’t coming back, I watched you grieve the way only you would. Quiet. Ruthless. Furious with yourself.”

Jason clenched his jaw. Looked down at his boots.

Clark exhaled again. “He still carries you with him, you know. Even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.”

Jason hated how true that felt.

“You were the first person who ever looked at him and said, ‘You matter.’ That doesn’t go away.”

Jason closed his eyes.

His fists were clenched, breath shallow.

“I think about him a lot,” Clark said. “About what was taken from him. What you both lost. And what you’ve both carried since.”

It felt as if Clark was holding back, like he wanted to say more.

“I remember you standing in the wreckage of that safehouse the day after. Nothing left but scorched concrete and blood. And you said nothing. Not a word. You just stood there for hours. Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.”

The silence after that was thick. Heavy.

“And I saw it, Bruce. I saw what it did to you. How it broke you. How you kept going anyway. You kept his room. You kept his files active. You ran search algorithms for years.”

Jason’s throat burned.

“You tried to move on, but you never stopped hoping. You never stopped punishing yourself.”

Clark’s voice softened.

“And when he came back… you didn’t even let yourself feel it, did you?”

Jason stared at the ground.

“You wanted to protect him. But all he saw was silence. Restraint. Disappointment.”

That landed like a strike.

Jason’s chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts.

“But you never stopped loving him. You never stopped believing that he was yours. That he still was, even after everything. That you hadn’t lost him completely.”

Then—

“You didn’t.”

Jason’s fists clenched so tightly he felt the leather strain.

“Because he’s here too. Just like Dick. Just like the rest of them. Still here. Still yours, whether you say the words or not.”

He didn’t know what to do with this.

Clark wasn’t done.

“You let him back in. You chose to let him back in, even when it would’ve been easier not to. And he noticed, Bruce. He may never say it, but he sees what you do.”

Another pause.

“He knows. Somewhere in there, under all that pain and anger—he knows.”

The silence that followed was profound.

No one moved. Not behind the pillars, nor the two in front of the batcomputer.

Clark said nothing more about him. He didn’t need to.

Because the silence that followed said everything else.

It said he’s still hurting. It said so are you. It said Bruce hasn’t forgiven himself, and maybe you haven’t either.

Jason folded his arms across his chest.

Dick hadn’t moved. Neither had the others.

Clark shifted again, taking a half-step closer to Bruce. His voice, when it came again, had lightened just enough to be noticeable.

“They all look up to you,” he said. “Even when they pretend they don’t.”

There was a beat of stillness.

And then Bruce spoke, voice hoarse, raw: “I don’t deserve them.”

Clark didn’t reply straight away.

Then—gently—“No one ever does. Not really. That’s not the point.”

Bruce let out a long breath.

There was a beat.

“And—dare I say—they might even like me.”

Jason snorted.

“You should see the group chat,” Clark added cheerfully. “Cass sends me photos of your cats every other Tuesday. Damian constantly begs me to spar with him so he can ‘learn Kryptonian combat’—whatever that means. I swear he’s trying to Jedi-mind-trick me into losing. Tim once asked me to do a seminar on journalism ethics at his school—didn’t show up, of course, but I still have the PowerPoint. Stephanie has a running tally of how many times I’ve corrected Bruce’s posture. And Duke—well, Duke sends me memes.”

Jason stared at the stone floor, lips twitching despite himself.

“And Dick? He taught me how to use emojis properly. Which, I’ll admit, was terrifying.”

Jason turned his head very slowly toward his brother.

Dick whispered, deadpan, “He still double-spaces after a full stop.”

Jason made a face of such exaggerated horror that Duke wheezed.

Clark chuckled, warmth trickling back into his voice. “They like me, Bruce. You can admit it.”

Bruce’s silence stretched.

Then, quietly—very quietly:

“They like you.”

Clark’s smile deepened. “Which is a miracle, considering the PR damage you do to my brand every time someone calls me your friend in front of the League.”

Jason bit back a laugh.

Bruce muttered something indistinct.

“Love you too,” Clark teased under his breath.

And that—

That’s what made all five boys freeze.

“Love you too,” Clark teased under his breath.

And that—

That’s what made all five boys freeze.

Silence.

Not the kind born from stealth or caution, but the kind that stretched—unnatural, taut with disbelief. Jason’s fingers curled reflexively around the edge of the pillar. Tim went perfectly still. Even Damian, whose tolerance for sentiment ranked somewhere between “bare minimum” and “bladed violence,” didn’t move.

Because Bruce—stoic, controlled, master of emotional subterfuge—hadn’t denied it.

Hadn’t scoffed.

Hadn’t done a damn thing.

Clark turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were finally registering the shift in atmosphere. His voice lost some of its brightness. “Wait… Bruce, they don’t know?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Which, by now, was an answer in itself.

Clark blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like his brain was catching up to something it had missed entirely. “Are you serious?” he asked, incredulous. “You didn’t tell them?”

Still nothing.

“You—” Clark took a full step back, visibly stunned. “Bruce, we’ve been married for over a year.”

Jason’s eyes snapped wide open behind the cowl. Dick audibly sucked in a breath through his teeth. Tim swore under his breath. Damian’s jaw actually dropped.

“They don’t know we’re married?” Clark said, with an astonishment so profound it might as well have been betrayal. “You planned a whole dinner—Alfred’s probably threatening the roast beast into submission as we speak—and you didn’t tell them this was why?”

“I was going to,” Bruce muttered, barely audible. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?” Clark’s voice rose half a note. “Bruce, how long were you planning to wait? Another year? Two? Wait until one of them got engaged and casually mention it in a toast?”

Jason mouthed, What the f—?

“I didn’t know how to—” Bruce cut himself off. His hands were twitching again. “They’re not exactly... receptive.”

Clark huffed, folding his arms. “You think them not being told is going to make them more receptive?”

There was a beat of silence.

And then—softly, almost like a confession—Bruce said, “I didn’t want them to think I replaced them.”

That hit like a punch to the chest.

Clark’s entire posture softened. “Bruce. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Bruce said, his voice low and rough. “They’re not just my family. They’re everything. And you are too. I just… I couldn’t figure out how to say it without breaking something.”

Clark didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, he stepped forward again, gently reaching for Bruce’s hand. He didn’t take it. Just let their fingers brush.

“You wouldn’t have broken anything,” Clark said. “They deserve to know. And you—” he looked at him, full of something ancient and fond and impossibly gentle “—you deserve to be happy. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

Bruce looked away.

Clark sighed. “I’ll give you this—Alfred really knows how to stage an ambush.”

Jason’s heart nearly stopped.

He looked at Dick, who looked at Tim, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

Clark rubbed a hand across his face. “Well,” he muttered, “guess we’re doing this the dramatic way.”

The cave seemed to inhale all at once—holding its breath, waiting.

Clark’s words still lingered in the cavern’s air, settling into the cold stone walls like something permanent. Something unchangeable.

Jason didn’t move.

Neither did the others.

Because for once—for maybe the first time in his life—Bruce wasn’t speaking.

He was silent.

And not in the usual way. Not the deliberate kind of silence Bruce wore like armour—the kind sharpened for tactical effect, for measuring danger, for dissecting a battlefield without ever lifting his voice.

This silence was different.

It was raw. Unfiltered. A silence made not of strategy, but of something exposed. Jason could hear it in the way Bruce’s breath slowed, too slow now. Could feel it in the way the atmosphere in the cave changed—suffocating, heavy, tense in a way that didn’t belong to the mission.

Clark must have felt it too.

Because the easy cadence he’d carried all night—the quiet humour, the gentleness—evaporated, fading out like someone dimming a light. His voice, when he spoke next, was quiet. Not uncertain, exactly, but cautious.

Measured.

Like he was trying not to step too hard on broken ground.

“Bruce?”

No answer.

Jason’s gut twisted.

He heard the faint scrape of leather on stone—the sound of Bruce moving, just slightly. A boot shifting. A hand lowering from where it had rested near the console.

The Batcomputer powered down with a low, mechanical hum.

Jason tensed.

Clark took a half-step forward, posture straightening instinctively, muscles tightening beneath his flannel sleeves like he was preparing to intercept something. But Bruce didn’t move again.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t respond.

Jason could feel Dick glance at him in the dark, silent communication passing like a current. Something was wrong.

More than wrong.

Jason had seen Bruce quiet before. Had seen him retreat into himself when the weight of grief was too much, when words failed, when memory was too sharp to touch. He’d seen him post-mission, post-loss, post-failure.

But this wasn’t post-anything.

This was mid-collapse.

Clark’s expression shifted—Jason couldn’t see it, but he could hear it in the change in his voice. Softer now. Less sure.

“Bruce,” Clark tried again, “look at me.”

Still nothing.

Jason barely caught the movement—Clark lifting a hand, slow and open-palmed, not touching Bruce yet, just hovering near him, like a steadying force that wasn’t sure it would be welcome.

“Hey. I didn’t mean to—” Clark stopped. Exhaled. Adjusted course.

“I didn’t realise they didn’t know,” he said. “I thought… after everything… you would’ve told them.”

A beat.

“You’re not ashamed, are you?”

That landed like a gut punch.

Bruce’s fingers twitched at his side.

“No,” he said—low, rough, barely audible. “Never.”

Jason’s breath caught.

It was the way he said it. Like the word cost him something.

Clark stepped closer. Just a few inches.

“But?” he asked gently.

Bruce didn’t answer at first.

Then—quietly, like it wasn’t meant for Clark at all—he said, “They already lost so much.”

Jason’s chest went tight.

Clark was still now, completely still. Like he knew any sudden move would undo something fragile.

“They didn’t lose you,” he said quietly.

“Didn’t they?” Bruce’s voice cracked around the edges. “When I came back... when I kept pushing them away—when I tried to pretend the mission was all that mattered—I thought it was to protect them. But I was wrong. I wasn’t protecting them. I was protecting myself.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. His voice gentled further. “You’re allowed to protect yourself, Bruce.”

“Not at their expense.”

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, fists clenching where they rested on his knees. The words kept carving deeper, each one slicing through every assumption he’d ever made about Bruce’s choices.

“They’re not fragile,” Clark said.

“I am,” Bruce whispered.

Jason felt the breath go out of him.

Because that?

That he’d never heard.

Clark didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. He just stood there, the closest thing to immovable Jason had ever known, and let Bruce’s admission settle between them.

“I’ve always been,” Bruce went on. “But I can’t let them see that. I can’t let them think—”

“That they’re responsible for you?” Clark finished gently.

Bruce nodded once, eyes locked on the console like it held the only answers he could bear to face.

Clark’s expression shifted—something almost sorrowful.

“They’d never blame you for needing something, Bruce. Not them. Not anymore.”

“I don’t want to need anything,” Bruce murmured. “That’s the problem.”

Clark didn’t say anything.

Didn’t press.

Just waited.

Waited while Bruce breathed once. Then again. Each inhale slightly steadier than the last.

Then—

“You were right,” Bruce said finally. “I would’ve put it off. I would’ve waited until... until it was too late.”

Jason froze.

Clark didn’t speak, just let the silence settle again. Encouraging. Not pushing.

“But Alfred didn’t let me,” Bruce continued, a small, reluctant exhale escaping. “He said I’d wait until they buried me, and even then, I’d have a damn clause in my will with redacted names and initials.”

Clark let out a soft huff of laughter. “Sounds about right.”

Bruce glanced at him, something like a wry smile flickering briefly across his features before vanishing again.

“He said if I wasn’t going to tell them, he would.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Wait. This dinner wasn’t your idea?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Clark’s expression cracked into something amused and resigned. “Of course it wasn’t. You’ve been dragging your feet about this for months. I just assumed you were waiting for the right time.”

“There’s never a right time,” Bruce said flatly.

“Then maybe that’s what makes it the right time,” Clark replied, his tone soft but certain. “Because they deserve to know you chose something for yourself. Not the mission. Not the League. Not Gotham. You.”

Bruce’s breath shuddered. He closed his eyes.

Then—without preamble, without warning—he whispered, “I kept the ring.”

Jason blinked. What?

Clark’s brows furrowed faintly. “The Kryptonian one?”

A nod. Slow. Almost imperceptible. “It’s in the vault.”

Clark huffed a laugh, fond and bewildered. “You never told me.”

“You’d have made a speech.”

Jason nearly choked.

Clark’s grin returned, crooked and warm. “Probably. Might’ve proposed a second time just to see you squirm.”

A beat.

Then Bruce, deadpan: “I hate you.”

Clark leaned in, voice rich with something deeper. “No, you don’t.”

And Bruce—impossibly, unbelievably—didn’t deny it.

There was a pause.

Bruce didn’t speak.

But he didn’t walk away either.

And then—

A barely audible click.

Jason narrowed his eyes, shifting minutely in his hiding place behind the rocky outcrop. From this angle, he couldn’t see much—just the edge of Bruce’s cape, the occasional flicker of light reflecting off the screen—but he didn’t need a clear view. Not when he could read Bruce in other ways. The way the weight shifted in his steps, the subtle scrape of his boots against the stone, the slight pause in movement that always came when something on the screen demanded his full attention.

Clark must’ve caught it too, because his voice shifted—humour gone, replaced with a quieter note. Something uncertain. Hesitant.

“Bruce?”

Silence.

Jason’s fingers curled into fists against the stone, gloved knuckles pressing hard into the cool surface.

Something was off.

Clark seemed to register it first, his broad frame shifting subtly. Jason could almost hear the way the cavern held its breath in response—an instinctual stillness that came when Superman started to tread carefully. His stance changed. Less grounded. Less confident. More… gentle. Like he knew he'd just brushed against something fragile.

“Look, if I overstepped, I—”

Then—abruptly—Jason felt his own breath catch, heartbeat spiking. So loud he wondered if his heart had given everything away, if Clark had finally heard them.

He didn’t need powers to feel the shift. The atmosphere in the cave changed—like the air had thickened, pressing in tight. A strange, discordant energy thrummed at the edges of Jason’s awareness, and instinct screamed at him that something wasn’t right.

Bruce wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t reacting.

Clark noticed it too. Jason could see it in the way his head tilted—just slightly—as if he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Or hearing. His brows furrowed, and he took a cautious step forward.

“Bruce.” This time, not a question.

Still—nothing.

Jason felt something cold curl up his spine.

He could picture it clearly now—Bruce framed by the pale glow of the Batcomputer, eyes fixed to the screen, body tense not with fury, but with something heavier. More brittle.

Not anger.

Not focus.

Jason had seen this before.

This wasn’t Bruce being quiet.

This was Bruce locking up.

Frozen.

Jason had seen it before—in aftermaths, in broken places where the damage had already been done. He knew the signs.

Like when Bruce saw Jason alive.

The way Bruce’s shoulders sat too still, the stiffness in his spine unnatural, held like a man bracing against impact. The shallow lift of his chest, just barely breathing. Hands not clenched in readiness, but suspended. Hesitating.

It was panic.

Not the kind that civilians recognised. Not messy or loud. Not desperation or flailing or tears.

No—Bruce Wayne panicked in silence.

And Clark—Clark saw it now.

Jason swallowed hard, glancing toward Dick—who had also caught on. His expression had shifted, mouth pressed into a thin line, shoulders tense with understanding.

Jason recognised the way Superman’s expression shifted—saw the quiet dread settle into his posture. Clark had that look he wore when something larger than himself slipped beyond his grasp. When strength wasn’t enough.

“Bruce,” Clark murmured, softer now. “Breathe.”

Jason watched as Bruce’s head dipped, barely a motion. Just enough to suggest he was reminding himself—Inhale. Exhale.

Clark took another step forward.

Still too slow. Still too careful.

Bruce’s body remained locked. Not like he was readying for an attack. Not with intent. But as though any movement might unravel him completely.

Jason’s gut twisted.

He’d seen Bruce angry. Had watched him furious, unrelenting, a force of nature when pushed. He’d seen him hurt, bleeding, half-dead and still driving forward.

But this?

This was something else.

Clark reached out, placing a careful hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

Jason braced himself.

He didn’t expect anything. Bruce didn’t flinch from contact in the field. He didn’t break focus because someone touched him. He was trained past that.

But this—

Bruce’s entire posture shifted. Slight, but Jason saw it.

His breath hitched.

And in that moment—just for a second—Jason caught it. All the boys had.

A tremor.

Small. Fleeting. In the fingers. Something barely noticeable to anyone outside of them.

Clark saw it too.

“Hey,” Clark said, voice so soft it barely registered. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t meet his eyes.

Jason felt something tighten in his throat.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t the man who raised them. This wasn’t Batman. This wasn’t someone holding it together.

This was someone cracking.

Not over strategy. Not over failure in the field.

Not unless it was about one of them.

Jason’s mind was already racing.

Not unless it was about something Bruce couldn’t fix.

Something in the past.

Something he couldn’t control.

Clark exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair in a rare, uneasy motion.

Then, quietly, he said it.

“I’m sorry.”

Jason saw it—the small shift in Bruce’s hands, fingers curling into fists.

Clark swallowed. “I—God, I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Still, Bruce didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

Jason’s chest felt too tight.

Because whatever was on that screen—whatever name or file or image had locked Bruce in place—

It had cracked him wide open.

There were very few moments in Jason’s life where he had heard Superman sound anything less than invincible.

Clark Kent—who could lift tanks like paperweights, the guy who could stop a train with his bare hands, who could hold the goddamn Earth together if it ever came to that, who could hear a scream from half the world away—always sounded sure. Always grounded. Always certain.

He was constant.

Steady. Reliable. Always stronger than the weight of the world.

But now?

Now, Clark looked… small.

He took a step back. Just one. Enough to break contact, enough to let his hand fall uselessly to his side. And with it, the certainty in his posture crumbled.

His gaze dropped.

His shoulders sank.

And for the first time in Jason’s memory, Superman looked ashamed.

The word that came next was barely audible.

“I’m sorry.”

And this time, he meant it.

Clark fucking meant it.

Jason had heard a lot of bullshit apologies in his life. People said “sorry” all the time—when they didn’t mean it, when they didn’t care, when they were just trying to move on from the conversation, gloss over mistakes. To close a wound without looking at it.

This wasn’t that.

Clark’s voice cracked like he was apologising for something irreversible. Something that had already cut too deep to heal.

Jason’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

What the hell was he sorry for?

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

Clark’s next exhale was rough, uneven—like the weight of what he hadn’t said yet was dragging each breath from his lungs.

“I—” he started, then stopped.

Swallowed.

Tried again.

“I shouldn’t have—”

But he didn’t finish.

Because Bruce was still silent. Still hadn’t looked at him.

And that silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Jason had seen Bruce furious. Had seen him roar across comms, punch through walls, bite back at authority figures without blinking. Bruce didn’t do quiet when he was angry.

But now?

He wasn’t yelling.

He wasn’t moving.

He was standing too still. Not the alert stillness of a man preparing to strike. Not the contained tension of a detective deep in thought.

This was different.

This was restraint. Pure and complete.

This was the moment before something gave out.

Jason didn’t like it.

Didn’t like that Clark fucking Kent—of all people—was the one who had put that look on Bruce’s face.

Didn’t like the fact that Clark’s voice was still soft, regretful, quiet, like he didn’t know what to say or how to fix it.

Didn’t like that Bruce still wasn’t speaking.

The kind of restraint Jason only ever saw when Bruce was one breath away from shattering.

Clark rubbed a hand down his face, his breath hitching again.

“I—” He hesitated. “I thought I was helping.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, something dark curling in his stomach.

Helping?

“I—” Clark hesitated. His heartbeat was steady, but Jason could feel the guilt rolling off of him, pressing into the space like a weight. “I thought—I was trying to—”

He stopped again.

Because Bruce still wasn’t looking at him.

Still wasn’t moving.

And Jason—for the life of him—couldn’t figure out what the hell he was watching.

Bruce wasn’t reacting like he was angry.

Wasn’t reacting like he wanted to throw a punch, or storm out, or do any of the normal things he did when he was pissed at someone.

He was just—

Still.

Jason’s stomach twisted.

Because Bruce was never still.

Even when he was at rest, his body was always moving—muscles shifting, mind calculating, always aware.

But now?

Now he wasn’t thinking about his surroundings.

Wasn’t aware of the boys watching from the shadows.

Wasn’t watching Clark.

Wasn’t doing anything.

He was just—frozen.

And Jason didn’t fucking like it.

Clark let out another breath.

Then—quieter this time—he murmured, “Bruce… say something.”

Still. Nothing.

The silence stretched.

It wasn’t the kind of silence Jason was used to with Bruce. Wasn’t the calculated kind, the kind where he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

This was—fuck, this was awful.

This was the kind of silence that came when someone was barely holding themselves together.

Clark knew it, too.

Jason could hear it in the way he shifted uncomfortably, like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.

“I—” Clark sighed, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean for it to—”

He didn’t finish.

Because Bruce finally moved.

Not much.

Just his fingers, just barely—just enough to relax, to uncurl, to flex ever so slightly like he had to physically remind himself that he could still move.

Clark noticed immediately.

He straightened slightly, his entire body keyed in on that single movement, like it was the first real reaction he’d gotten.

Jason felt his pulse spike.

Clark took a breath.

Then, softly, he murmured—

“Bruce, I—”

And then—

Bruce exhaled.

A single, uneven, shaky breath.

And Clark stopped talking.

Because he knew.

Jason knew, too.

Knew that breath. Knew what it meant. Knew that Bruce wasn’t okay.

And Clark—Clark fucking Kent, Superman, the man who always had the right words, the right answers, the right things to say—

Didn’t say anything.

Because what do you say?

What do you say when you realize you’ve hurt someone more than you ever meant to?

What do you say when you know an apology won’t fix it?

What do you say when Bruce Wayne—the strongest man Jason had ever known—was standing there silent and breaking and barely holding himself together?

Nothing.

You say nothing.

So Clark said nothing.

Just stood there.

Still looking down.

Still looking ashamed.

Still looking like he wanted to fix something that was already too broken.

And Bruce?

Bruce just stood there, too.

Silent.

Still.

Held together by a thread.

The silence in the cave was unbearable.

It stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing against Jason’s ribs, curling tight around his lungs. It wasn’t empty—no, that would’ve been better. The silence wasn’t the absence of sound. It was full. Full of things unsaid, things unspoken, things buried beneath years of restraint and everything Bruce never let himself feel.

Jason knew that silence.

Had lived in it before, stood on the other side of it, waited for Bruce to speak and been met with nothing.

But this time?

This time, it wasn’t because Bruce had nothing to say.

It was because he couldn’t say it.

Because his throat was tight. Because his chest wasn’t expanding the way it should. Because the weight of whatever the hell he was thinking was pressing so hard against his ribs that it was a miracle he was still standing.

Clark didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do anything but watch Bruce—watch him like he was waiting for something.

Like he could see the way Bruce’s hands had stopped shaking. Not because he had found control again, but because they had gone completely numb.

Jason gritted his teeth.

Because he recognized this.

Bruce wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t cold, either.

He was breaking.

And for a long, agonizing moment, Jason thought he wouldn’t say anything at all—that he would let whatever was inside him sit there, let it rot in his chest the way he always did, let it fester into another thing no one talked about, another weight they all had to carry without knowing why.

Then—

Bruce reached out.

Jason’s breath caught.

It was a small movement. Barely anything. His hand lifted—hesitant, uncertain, fingers curled inward like he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing. Like he was reaching for Clark, for something, and stopping himself before he got there.

And then—slowly, painfully—he let his hand drop back to his side.

Jason swallowed hard.

His chest felt tight.

Because Bruce never reached out for help. Never let anyone see it when he was falling apart. Never let anyone close enough to catch him.

And Clark saw it too.

Because his throat worked like he was about to say something, about to try and fix it, about to do something—

But before he could, Bruce turned to him.

Jason felt his whole body lock up – as if Bruce was looking at Jason instead of Clark

Because Bruce—Batman, the man who never broke, never faltered, never let anything shake him—

Had tears in his eyes.

Not enough to spill over. Not enough to fall.

But enough that they caught the light. Enough that they burned, hot and unshed, the kind of tears that came from something so deep it couldn’t be touched.

Jason had seen Bruce bleed. Had seen him broken, bruised, barely able to stand. Had seen him take a hit that should’ve killed him and get back up like it was nothing.

But this?

This was worse.

Bruce inhaled sharply, but it wasn’t even. Wasn’t controlled. It was shaky, raw, struggling to hold itself together.

Clark shook his head, lips tight. “You were angry. You weren’t thinking clearly. The UN was watching. The world was watching. And I thought—”

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“I thought I was saving you.”

Jason’s pulse stuttered.

Bruce’s fingers twitched. The first sign that he was still listening.

Just barely.

Clark seemed to feel it too.

His voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper now.

“But I wasn’t, was I?”

Jason clenched his jaw.

Clark was still staring at Bruce, his expression hollow. “I wasn’t saving you,” he repeated. “I was just making you live with it.”

But Bruce was still here.

Still breaking.

His jaw clenched, breath uneven, like every word was dragging itself out of his throat whether he wanted it to or not.

Jason felt his chest go tight.

Even Superman—the man who could bench-press planets—looked like he was collapsing under it.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his hand twitched again—barely enough to notice. A tiny, involuntary flicker that Jason caught and locked onto like a lifeline.

Because movement meant something. Movement meant Bruce was still there, still listening.

Clark caught it too. Jason could see the way he leaned forward slightly, keyed in on the shift like it was the most important thing in the world.

He took a breath, about to speak again—

And Bruce exhaled.

Just once.

Uneven. Shaky.

Not loud. Not drawn out.

Just human.

And Clark went quiet.

Because he understood.

Jason did, too.

That breath wasn’t relief. Wasn’t recovery. It was a crack.

And for all Clark Kent’s power, for all his strength and conviction and belief in hope—he didn’t have words for that.

Because what do you say?

What do you say when the person in front of you has already broken, and you were the one who pushed them?

What do you say when Bruce Wayne—the unshakeable, unflinching man who carried Gotham on his back—was standing there like a man who had finally lost the one thing he couldn’t live without?

You didn’t say anything.

You just stood there and watched.

So Clark did.

Still. Silent. Ashamed.

And Bruce?

He stayed standing.

Barely.

Held together by threads Jason couldn’t see, by nothing more than sheer will and the unbearable weight of everything he’d never said out loud.

The silence in the cave wasn’t empty.

It was full. Full of grief and guilt and old wounds that had never really healed. Of everything Bruce had buried and never spoken of again.

Jason knew that silence.

Had lived in it. Had stood in it alone, waiting for words that never came, for answers that never arrived.

But this time?

This time, Bruce wasn’t quiet because he didn’t care.

He was quiet because he couldn’t speak.

Because if he did, he’d break.

Jason watched him—watched the minute tremor in his shoulders, the way his arms hung just a little too stiff at his sides, the way he wasn’t blinking.

The way his hands had stopped shaking—but not because he was calm.

Because they were numb.

And Clark?

Clark didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

He was watching Bruce like he was waiting for something. Anything.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his teeth aching from the pressure.

He knew this. He’d seen it before. Bruce wasn’t angry. Wasn’t planning. Wasn’t controlling.

He was drowning.

And for a long, terrible second, Jason thought Bruce wasn’t going to say anything. That he would let it all settle into silence again, let the weight of it pull him under for good.

Then—

Bruce moved.

A single, hesitant motion.

His hand rose, fingers curled slightly like he wanted to reach for Clark—or maybe just something.

But he stopped.

Let his hand fall back to his side.

Jason swallowed hard.

Bruce never reached out.

Never asked.

Not for help. Not for comfort. Not for anything.

And Clark?

Clark saw it, too.

He shifted, barely perceptible. His throat worked like he was going to speak, but the words caught.

And then—

Bruce turned.

Not a full turn. Just enough to glance in Clark’s direction.

Just enough for Jason to see his face.

And Jason’s entire body went still.

Because Bruce Wayne had tears in his eyes.

Not enough to fall. Not enough to streak down his cheeks.

But enough that they shimmered. Enough that they burned.

Jason felt his lungs seize up.

He’d seen Bruce bleed. Had seen him bruised and broken, scraped off the battlefield more dead than alive.

But this?

This was worse.

Bruce took another breath—sharp, shallow, barely a breath at all—and then, voice rough and raw:

“I didn’t care.”

Jason’s mind blanked.

The words didn’t register at first. They didn’t make sense. Didn’t belong.

But then Bruce continued, voice strained, jaw clenched so tightly Jason could hear the grind of his teeth from across the cave.

“I should’ve killed him anyway.”

Jason couldn’t breathe.

What were Bruce and Clark talking about?

The Clark took a step back. The batcomputer open on the same file they had left it – this is what Bruce was looking at.

FILE NAME: JAYBIRD
PASSWORD: 27-04-05

The numbers were entered with silent precision, each keystroke unnervingly loud in the stillness of the Batcave.

Twenty-seven. Zero-four. Zero-five.
Jason’s date of death.

The air shifted—heavy, dense. Even the hum of the Batcomputer seemed to hush in reverence.
The screen flickered once, twice—then resolved.
A folder opened.

No biometric lockout. No encryption. No labyrinth of multi-layer clearance protocols. Nothing to protect it like they had thought.
Just a single directory, plain and unguarded, labelled in a name no one had dared say aloud in years:

JAYBIRD

Jason’s lungs contracted like they were folding in on themselves.

He didn’t need to open it. Didn’t need to scroll, or read, or breathe.
Because he knew.

He could feel the weight of it before a single file was clicked.
Every entry, every timestamp—it all carried gravity. History.

The kind that hurt.

The kind that came with too many answers.

Because for years—years—he had believed Bruce hadn’t tried.
That he’d mourned, maybe, but not acted.
That he had let it go.
Written Jason off as collateral damage, another casualty in a war with too many names etched in stone.

That his refusal to kill had been stronger than his love for his son.

And now—

Now Bruce was standing there, body taut like wire, voice cracked around the edges, saying the one thing Jason had never dared let himself hope.

That he had wanted to.

That he would have.

That it hadn’t been justice that stayed his hand.

Not principles.
Not the Code.
But Clark.

Jason’s heart punched his ribs from the inside.

Because inside the JAYBIRD folder, the truth unfolded in cruel, meticulous detail.

There were surveillance videos. Dozens of them—tracking Joker’s movements post-Ethiopia.
Intercepted communications.
Satellite logs.
Classified S.H.A.D.E. dossiers Bruce had hacked and scrubbed.
WayneTech prototype schematics modified for infiltration and assassination protocols.
A subfolder titled: CONTINGENCY: FINAL OPTION.
Inside, it held tactical layouts for Joker’s safehouses.
Weapons loadouts.
A plan of attack.

And a single text file. No header. Just a date.

28-04-05
One day after Jason’s death.

And in that file, just six words:

“I will make him disappear. —B”

Jason felt his chest seize.
He hadn’t just thought about it. He’d prepared for it.

The weight of it hit like a bat to the sternum.
Because for all the pain and anger Jason had harboured—for all the rage he’d thrown Bruce’s way—he’d never imagined this.

And now Clark’s voice broke through, quiet. Gentle.
Regretful.

Clark’s gaze dropped to the screen, his shame replaced with grim resignation. "You kept all of it," he murmured.

"Of course I did." Bruce’s tone was flat, devoid of the anguish that had laced his earlier words. "I needed to remember every second. Every mistake."

“I thought I was saving you,” he said softly. “Saving you from something you swore you wouldn’t become.”

Jason’s pulse roared in his ears.

Bruce didn’t speak, but Jason saw it—the twitch of fingers, the slight incline of his head. Just enough to signal: I hear you.

Clark’s voice dropped even further.

“But I wasn’t, was I?”

Jason couldn’t move. Could barely think. Could only feel everything splintering.

Because Clark hadn’t stopped Bruce for Jason.
He hadn’t stepped in for the sake of morality, or the law, or some abstract sense of righteousness.

He’d done it because the world had been watching.

Because Batman wasn’t supposed to kill.

Because Superman had believed—hoped—that if he stopped him just once, maybe he’d never have to do it again.

But all he’d done was leave Bruce alone in the wreckage.
Alone with the rage.
Alone with the failure.

Alone with himself.

Jason’s breath stuttered. His vision blurred.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

What was he supposed to do with the realisation that Bruce had wanted revenge as much as he had?

That for once, Bruce hadn’t been the one pulling back?

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

The cave felt colder now.
More hollow.

Clark’s admission hovered in the air, thick as smoke.

Jason could hear every trembling breath Bruce wasn’t taking. Could feel the violence in the stillness. And Clark—Superman, the moral compass of the world—looked like he was about to shatter.

Jason almost wanted him to.

He wanted someone to yell. To break something. Anything to match the chaos inside his head.

Instead, Bruce’s hand twitched again. A betrayal of the control he always held so tightly.
Jason didn’t need to look at him. He could hear the strain in his breathing, the shift in his stance.
The guilt bleeding through in silence.

“Clark,” Bruce said—except it fractured halfway, barely more than breath.
He took a step back. As if being near him was too much.

Jason stood frozen, the cool stone of the pillar grounding him while his brothers hovered close—silent and ghostlike.
Dick’s breathing was shallow.
Tim’s eyes wide.
Duke visibly swallowing something down.
Damian—rigid and quiet—unmoving.

All of them anchored to this moment.
To him.

To Bruce.

The man Jason had spent years resenting. Hating. Blaming for his death.

And who had just annihilated all of it with six goddamn words.

“I shouldn’t have stopped you,” Clark said again, voice almost pleading now. “I thought—God, Bruce, I thought I was protecting you.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. His head turned.

“You weren’t,” he said, voice hollow.

Jason felt it deep in his gut.

“You think I didn’t know what I was doing?” Bruce’s voice cracked again, raw and bitter. “You think I wasn’t willing to live with it?”

Clark flinched. Didn’t argue.

“I knew,” Bruce continued, his tone jagged and broken. “I knew what it would cost me. I knew what I’d become. I knew what I’d lose. And I was ready.”

He hesitated. Just for a breath.
Then, quieter:

“Because he took my son.”

Jason couldn’t move.

The words cut deeper than any Batarang.

He knew the truth now. He’d seen it in the files.
But hearing it—hearing it—was something else entirely.

It shattered something inside him.

Beside him, Dick’s breath hitched. Tim looked away. Duke blinked rapidly. Damian clenched his jaw, unmoving.

Jason didn’t speak.

He didn’t know what to say.

Because what was he supposed to do with this?

What was he supposed to feel?

“I wasn’t thinking about the UN,” Bruce said, quieter now. “Or the League. Or consequences. I was thinking about him. About how I failed him.”

Jason’s eyes burned.

“I let him die,” Bruce said, voice frayed and bleeding. “I let him die.”

Clark stepped forward, eyes full of something Jason didn’t want to name.

“Bruce—”

“And then you stopped me,” Bruce cut in. “You stopped me, and I—”

He didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

The silence spoke louder than words ever could.

Jason felt like his heart had gone still.

That was it. That was the truth.

Clark hadn’t done it for Jason.

He’d done it to protect Batman.

To preserve the myth.

And he’d left Bruce alone in the aftermath.

His voice broke entirely. “Do you think I didn’t want to kill him?” he snapped, head snapping towards Clark. “Do you think I didn’t try?”

Jason closed his eyes, pain surging through every nerve.

Because Bruce had tried.

He had planned it. Had committed to it. Had been ready to trade everything—reputation, morality, himself—to avenge him.

And Jason… Jason had spent years thinking he hadn’t cared enough.

“Even after you stopped me I made the plan but…”

Clark barely managed a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And this time—this time—it wasn’t for Bruce.

It was for Jason.

For the boy they’d both failed.

The Batcave stood still, every sound swallowed whole. Even the screens seemed dimmer. The tension hung suspended like a noose.

Jason stared at the folder on-screen.

JAYBIRD

Six letters. A name once shouted across rooftops and coded into mission briefings.

Now—just a ghost. A scar.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Didn’t know how long he breathed in that truth.

Because for years—years—he had told himself that Bruce had never even tried. That he’d never even considered it. That Jason had been just another name in the long list of casualties Bruce refused to avenge.

And now—

Now Bruce was standing there, shoulders tight, voice cracking around the edges, saying the one thing Jason had never thought he’d hear.

That he wanted to.

That he would have.

That it wasn’t justice that had stopped him—it wasn’t morality, wasn’t his damn no-kill rule.

It was politics.

It was fucking Iran?

Jason felt something burn in his throat.

Because what the fuck did he even do with that?

Clark exhaled—slow, steady, like he was forcing himself to keep his composure.

His fingers curled at his sides, fists clenching for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. His heartbeat—steady, always steady—stuttered. Just for a second. Just enough for Jason to hear it.

And then—finally, finally—Clark spoke.

"I regret stopping you."

Jason barely caught the sound that Dick made.

Something small. Something sharp. Something stunned.

Because what the fuck.

Clark Kent—Superman, the goddamn moral compass of the universe, the guy who could be trusted to do the right thing even when it hurt—regretted stopping Bruce from killing the Joker.

Jason felt his breath shake.

Clark let out another sigh, running a hand down his face, looking—tired.

Clark didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Bruce’s breathing was uneven now, his control slipping with every word. "I tried, Clark. I tried, and you stopped me. You stopped me from doing the one thing I could’ve done to make it right."

Jason swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All he could do was listen.

"And then I had to look him in the eyes," Bruce said, his voice breaking again, "and tell him I wouldn’t. Tell him I couldn’t. Because of you."

Jason’s heart hammered in his chest.

Because of you.

Because of Clark.

The Batcave’s silence was thick, a tangible weight pressing down on the unseen observers crouched in the shadows. Jason’s mind raced, each word from Bruce and Clark slicing deeper into his carefully constructed walls. His chest felt hollow, as if the weight of the air itself was too much to bear.

Bruce’s voice, ragged and uncharacteristically vulnerable, broke through again, each syllable carrying the raw edge of a confession. "He deserved to die, Clark. Not because it would’ve brought him to justice… but because he took my son." His head bowed, the faint glow of the Batcomputer casting sharp shadows across his face. "Because I… I couldn’t save him."

Clark’s posture stiffened, his towering frame radiating a guilt that mirrored Bruce’s. His voice, usually steady as steel, faltered. "You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t replay that moment every day, wishing I had let you—let us—finish it?" His broad shoulders slumped, the weight of his regret dragging him down. "I wasn’t thinking about Jason. I wasn’t even thinking about you. All I saw was a world where Batman became something else—a killer. I told myself I was protecting your legacy." He hesitated, his voice dropping into a barely audible murmur. "But all I did was fail you."

Bruce’s hand hovered over the keyboard, the movement almost imperceptible. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but with the unbearable burden of memory. The file still sat unopened, its label an unforgiving reminder: JAYBIRD.

Jason felt the blood drain from his face. That nickname—Bruce hadn’t used it in years. Not since Ethiopia. Not since then.

In the shadows, Dick’s hand found Jason’s shoulder, a silent tether in the swirling chaos. Jason didn’t shrug him off. Couldn’t. His muscles were locked tight, his focus glued to Bruce’s every move.

Clark stepped closer to Bruce, his footsteps hesitant, like each step risked shattering whatever fragile balance kept Bruce upright. "Bruce," he said softly, "you’re not the only one who failed him." He paused, his gaze searching Bruce’s profile. "But… you’re the only one who kept trying to make it right."

The words hung in the air, sharp and cutting, but Clark wasn’t finished. "I watched you spiral after that day. You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep. You took every mission, every risk. And I—I let you. I let you drown in it because I thought that’s what you needed. I thought time would fix it."

Jason’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles ached. He wanted to move, to charge out of hiding and demand answers, but his feet stayed rooted. The words were chains, holding him in place, forcing him to hear truths he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.

Clark’s next words were a whisper, but they carried like thunder in the cavernous space. "I didn’t stop you that day because I cared about Iran or the UN or your damn legacy. I stopped you because I was scared of losing you too."

Jason flinched. Dick’s grip on his shoulder tightened, a silent plea for calm.

Bruce finally moved, his head lifting just enough to meet Clark’s gaze. His eyes—red-rimmed, glistening, but still impossibly sharp—locked onto Clark with an intensity that made even the Man of Steel falter. "You didn’t lose me, Clark," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "You lost him."

Clark recoiled, the accusation landing like a physical blow. "Bruce, I—"

"No." Bruce’s voice broke, but his resolve didn’t waver. "You don’t get to apologise. Not for this. Not after what it cost."

“You should’ve heard him.”

“I should’ve heard him.”

Both Bruce and Clark say at the same time.

Damian’s voice broke the silence, sharp and cutting. “You should have told us.”

Bruce flinched, the motion so subtle that Jason almost missed it. He didn’t look up, didn’t meet Damian’s glare, but his silence spoke volumes.

“We’re not children,” Damian continued, his tone icy. “We could have—”

“You were children,” Bruce snapped, his head jerking up as his voice rose, cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I couldn’t—I wouldn’t put that on you.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, the anger bubbling closer to the surface now. He wasn’t a child anymore, hadn’t been one for a long time. But he’d been treated like one—kept in the dark, left to fend for himself in a world that had chewed him up and spit him out.

“You should have told me,” Jason said, his voice low but deadly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Or were you planning on keeping it a secret like your marriage?”

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Bruce turned to look at him, his face pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and regret. For a moment, Jason thought he might say something, but no words came.

Instead, Clark stepped in, his gaze shifting between Jason and Bruce, a frown etched deep into his face. “Jason,” he began, his tone gentle but firm, “your father—”

“He’s not my father,” Jason snapped, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Dick’s hand on his shoulder tensed, and Jason felt the weight of his brothers’ eyes on him—Tim’s sharp with concern, Duke’s soft with understanding, Damian’s narrowed in barely restrained fury.

But it was Bruce’s reaction that caught him off guard. The older man didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. Instead, he just looked at Jason, his expression unreadable, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

Jason’s chest heaved, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he tried to rein in the storm inside him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to make Bruce understand what it felt like to live with the belief that you weren’t worth saving. But the words wouldn’t come.

The silence didn’t last.

It shattered the moment Jason moved.

It wasn’t dramatic—not a door slamming or a gun drawn or a raised voice. It was the scrape of boots against the stone, measured and deliberate, echoing off the walls like a warning.

Clark looked at him.

Bruce looked away.

Jason didn’t speak at first.

He didn’t need to.

The look on his face was enough.

Bruce’s shoulders straightened, the barest echo of Batman surfacing in his posture. Not because he was ready to fight—but because he had no idea what else to be. What else to reach for.

Jason came to a stop just short of him.

Clark’s gaze flicked between them, wary. Uncertain.

Bruce still didn’t look up.

“Don’t,” Jason said, voice low.

One word. One command.

It could have meant a hundred things. Don’t lie. Don’t retreat. Don’t pretend this didn’t happen.

Bruce flinched like he understood all of them.

Jason stared at him. Unblinking. Unflinching.

“You planned to kill him,” he said, the words sharp but even. “And Clark stopped you.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You lied.”

“I didn’t,” Bruce said—hoarse, immediate. “I didn’t lie.”

“You let me believe,” Jason bit out, “that you didn’t care.”

That landed.

Bruce inhaled like he’d been punched.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said, and for once, it didn’t sound like an excuse. It sounded like a failing.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you wouldn’t.”

Behind him, Dick moved.

And that was the moment the atmosphere shifted.

Because Dick Grayson—the peacekeeper, the eldest, the glue—was no longer calm.

He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Jason and Bruce, not to shield one from the other, but to make himself seen. To make sure Bruce saw exactly what this had done.

“You let him think he was disposable,” Dick said, his voice steady, but with an undercurrent of fury that was rare for him. “You let all of us believe it. And you never corrected it.”

Bruce opened his mouth.

Dick cut him off.

“No. You don’t get to explain. Not yet.”

Jason’s breath hitched.

Dick looked over his shoulder, eyes briefly meeting his.

“You broke him,” he said—quiet, but deadly. “And then you just kept going like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t know how to fix it,” Bruce said, and it was the closest thing to begging any of them had ever heard from him.

Dick didn’t move.

“You’re Batman,” he said. “You always find a way.”

Tim stepped up then, not to support or argue, but because he couldn’t keep silent anymore.

“You had protocols for every enemy we’ve ever faced,” he said, voice thin and sharp. “Contingency plans, psychological profiles, anti-meta weapons. But you couldn’t tell your son you mourned him?”

Bruce looked like he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

Damian folded his arms. “This is beneath you.”

That hit like a slap.

Clark stepped forward. “He never meant to—”

But Dick turned on him instantly.

“No,” he snapped. “Not now.”

Clark stopped.

Dick’s eyes narrowed, voice colder than any of them were used to. “You stopped him. You thought you were saving the symbol. But you didn’t think about what it would cost.”

Clark didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

“You left him in the rubble,” Dick said, tone sharp. “Alone. With that grief. That guilt.”

Dick stepped forward, subtle but deliberate—between Jason and Clark, just enough to be a line in the sand.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low. Measured. “Don’t make excuses.”

“I’m not,” Clark said quickly. “I didn’t know you were here. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s the problem,” Jason snapped. “You weren’t paying attention.”

Bruce flinched.

“I know,” Clark said softly. “I know.”

“Do you?” Duke asked. It was the first thing he’d said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut straight through. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you only realised tonight.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped.

Tim’s eyes locked on Bruce again. “Why now?” he asked, not accusing—just tired. “Why keep it all buried for so long?”

Bruce finally looked up.

And for the first time, he looked at Jason.

“I thought,” he said quietly, “that it would hurt you more to know how close I came.”

Jason’s expression didn’t change.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said.

The room was heavy with silence.

And then Dick stepped closer to Jason—one arm slipping loosely across his shoulder. A quiet show of solidarity. Of protection.

He looked at Bruce.

“He came back,” he said. “He came back, and you kept treating him like a ghost.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Bruce murmured.

“No,” Dick agreed. “You never mean to.”

Jason didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And that—more than anything—seemed to finally land.

Because Bruce stepped forward, like it hurt to do it.

He looked at all of them. One by one.

And then—

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He didn’t say it like an excuse.

He said it like a confession.

Jason looked at him for a long moment.

And finally, Bruce.

The man who had failed him. The man who had tried.

Jason exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. He wasn’t ready to forgive, wasn’t ready to let go of the anger that had kept him alive for so long.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely alone.

Jason’s breath was shallow, the air in the Batcave suddenly feeling like it was pressing down on his chest. He couldn’t look at Bruce anymore—not with the weight of those haunted eyes bearing down on him. It was too much, too raw, too real. His legs itched to move, to pace, to do anything other than stand frozen under the crushing wave of emotions clawing at him.

“All these years,” Jason bit out, his fists clenching at his sides. “All these years, I thought—” His voice cracked, the anger and hurt bleeding through despite his best efforts to keep it together. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, but it was no use. The dam was breaking. “You let me think you didn’t care. You let me think I wasn’t worth it.”

Bruce’s mouth opened slightly, as if he was about to speak, but he closed it again just as quickly. His shoulders slumped further, the weight of Jason’s words visibly crushing him. Jason hated that he looked so defeated. Hated it because it made him feel something other than anger, and he wasn’t ready for that.

“I needed you,” Jason continued, his voice rising. “I needed you to—” He stopped, his throat tightening as the words caught in his chest. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit just how badly he’d wanted Bruce to save him, to avenge him, to care. It was too much.

“I know,” Bruce said quietly, his voice breaking. “I know, Jason.”

The simple admission made Jason’s stomach churn. He wanted to yell, to scream, to throw something at the man who had failed him in so many ways. But all he could do was stand there, trembling with a fury that felt like it was eating him alive. He had so many chances.

And then he felt it. Damian, small and steady, stepping closer. Jason barely registered the movement until his youngest brother shifted, just enough to place himself partially in front of him. The protective gesture caught Jason off guard, and for a moment, his anger wavered, replaced by confusion.

Damian’s hand moved subtly toward his pocket, his fingers brushing against the fabric as if testing its contents. Jason frowned, his attention momentarily diverted from Bruce to the strange, almost imperceptible glow emanating from the pocket. It was faint, just a flicker of green light, but it was enough to catch Clark’s eye.

The Kryptonian stiffened visibly, his gaze locking onto Damian’s hand with an intensity that made Jason’s skin prickle. Clark’s usually calm expression shifted, his jaw tightening as a flicker of unease crossed his face. Jason didn’t understand the sudden change, but he could feel the tension in the room spike as Clark took a small, almost imperceptible step back.

“Damian,” Clark said cautiously, his voice low and measured. “What’s in your pocket?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun. Damian’s hand stilled, his green eyes narrowing as he turned his head ever so slightly to glare at Clark. His expression was one of annoyance, but there was a sharpness to it, a silent warning that made Jason’s stomach twist.

“It’s none of your concern,” Damian said coolly, his tone clipped. He shifted his weight slightly, his posture as defiant as ever. Jason recognized the look in his brother’s eyes—a mix of arrogance and protectiveness that was so quintessentially Damian it almost made him smirk. Almost.

“Damian,” Clark said again, more firmly this time. His gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, who was still standing frozen by the computer, before returning to the youngest Wayne. “If that’s what I think it is…”

“It’s not!” Damian cut him off, his voice rising with an edge of frustration. His hand balled into a fist, and his body angled slightly, blocking Jason from Clark’s direct line of sight. “And even if it were, you’re in no position to comment.”

Clark didn’t look convinced.

He knew he was at fault.

Before anyone could press the issue further, the sound of footsteps echoed down the stone staircase leading into the Batcave. Jason’s head snapped toward the source of the noise, his heart leaping into his throat as he recognized the familiar cadence of heels clicking against the floor.

“Oh, thank God,” came Stephanie’s voice, light and casual despite the tension in the room. “I was starting to think you guys were planning a secret mission without us.”

Cassandra was right behind her, her movements as silent as a shadow. She didn’t say anything, but her sharp eyes immediately took in the scene—the tension, the body language, the unspoken weight hanging in the air. She froze, her gaze darting between Jason, Bruce, and Clark as she pieced together the fragments of a story she hadn’t been present for.

Barbara appeared last, wheeling down the ramp with a practised ease. “We got bored waiting for you,” she said, her tone dry. “Figured we’d come see what all the fuss was about.”

The girls hadn’t fully stepped into the room yet, their casual banter faltering as they picked up on the suffocating atmosphere. Stephanie’s easy-going grin faded, her brows furrowing as she glanced around the space. “Okay,” she said slowly, “what did we just walk into?”

No one answered. The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive, as the newcomers stood frozen on the edge of a moment they didn’t yet understand. Jason felt their eyes on him, felt the weight of their concern mixing with the unbearable tension that had already consumed the room.

And then, all at once, the fragile equilibrium shattered.

The air in the Batcave had turned to lead.

Jason’s head was pounding, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths as he fought to stay anchored in the moment. But every glance at Bruce, at Clark’s rigid posture, at Damian’s too-steady stance, made it harder to breathe. And now they were here, too—the girls standing at the edge of this storm, their confusion radiating like heat waves as they took in the fractured tableau before them.

Stephanie broke the silence first. “Seriously, what is going on?” she asked, her voice slower this time, deliberate. Her sharp blue eyes darted to each of the boys in turn, lingering a second too long on Jason, whose trembling hands betrayed the calm mask he was desperately trying to hold onto.

When no one answered, Cass shifted silently beside her, stepping fully into the cavern’s light. She didn’t speak, but her body language said enough. Her dark eyes narrowed as they swept the scene, cataloguing every tense muscle, every clenched jaw, every unsaid word. Her focus settled on Jason last, her gaze softening in a way that made Jason want to turn away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Cass always saw too much, and right now, he felt like he was unravelling under her scrutiny.

Barbara was the next to speak. She rolled her chair forward, her tone calm but edged with concern. “Whatever it is, it looks serious.” Her gaze flickered between Bruce and Clark before landing squarely on Damian. “What’s in your pocket?”

Damian’s lips pressed into a tight line, and for a brief moment, Jason almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He could see the tension in Damian’s posture, the defiance that bristled just beneath the surface, and he knew exactly what was coming next.

“It is irrelevant,” Damian snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. His hand hovered near his pocket again, and Jason caught the faintest flicker of green light spilling out before Damian shifted to obscure it entirely. “Focus on the larger issue.”

“The larger issue?” Stephanie repeated, eyebrows climbing as she gestured at the group. “You all look like someone just dropped a nuke in here. Pretty sure whatever’s glowing in your pocket counts as part of the ‘larger issue.’”

That got a reaction. Clark’s expression darkened ever so slightly, but his unease didn’t dissipate. If anything, it deepened, his broad shoulders squaring as he tried to hold his ground. Jason could see the way Clark’s eyes darted, once again, to Bruce, but the older man was silent—eerily so. Bruce hadn’t moved from his place by the computer, his head still bowed, his face half-hidden in the cold glow of the monitor. His silence was deafening, and it was driving Jason up the wall.

Jason’s patience snapped like a brittle twig.

“Oh, for God’s sake, will you all just shut up?” he barked, his voice loud enough to make everyone flinch. His chest heaved as he turned on them, his glare moving from Damian to Stephanie to Clark, before finally landing on Bruce. “This isn’t about whatever the hell Damian’s hiding or whether Clark’s freaking out about it. This—” His voice broke, and he inhaled sharply, his fists clenched at his sides. “This is about you.”

The last word was hurled at Bruce with the force of a thrown dagger, sharp and aimed to wound. Jason’s hands trembled as he took a shaky step forward, his body vibrating with barely contained fury.

“When?” he asked, voice shaking. “When were you going to tell us? Before dessert? After patrol? Or were you just gonna let Alfred announce it in the family newsletter?”

Bruce’s head lifted slightly, his eyes meeting Jason’s for the briefest of moments. And there it was again—that raw, unfiltered regret that Jason hated as much as he needed to see. It made his stomach churn, his blood boiling in his veins.

“You kept this,” Jason spat, gesturing wildly at the computer behind Bruce. “You kept all of it. Every mistake. Every failure. Every goddamn second of my death. And for what, huh? So you could wallow in it? So you could feel sorry for yourself?”

The cave dropping in temperature at every breath.

Bruce’s lips parted as if to respond, but Jason didn’t let him. He didn’t want to hear it—not now, not ever. “You don’t get to do that,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to play the martyr, Bruce. Not when you couldn’t even bother to tell me the truth.”

“Jason…” Dick’s voice was soft, pleading, but Jason ignored him. His focus was entirely on Bruce, the man who had failed him, the man who had broken him.

“You let me think you didn’t care,” Jason said, his voice trembling with emotion. “You let me think you chose your precious code over me. And now you’re standing here acting like you’re the victim? Like you’re the only one who’s allowed to feel guilty?”

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch under Jason’s words, but the slight tremor in his hands betrayed him. Jason saw it—saw the way his father’s mask was slipping, cracking under the weight of the confrontation. And for the first time, Jason felt something that scared him more than his anger.

He felt pity.

The realisation hit him like a freight train, and he staggered back a step, his breath hitching. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Bruce. He didn’t want to see the broken man behind the Bat. But the more he stared, the harder it was to hold onto his anger. The fury that had been burning so brightly just moments ago was dimming, replaced by a hollow ache that made his chest feel too tight.

Behind him, he heard movement. A soft shuffle, a quiet whisper of cloth, and then Cass was there, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or pull him back. She just stood there, steady and silent, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed.

Jason’s throat tightened, and he turned his head away, unable to look at Bruce any longer. His gaze fell to the floor, his vision blurring as the weight of everything threatened to crush him. He didn’t care if Clark was still watching, or if Damian was still bristling, or if the girls were piecing together the mess they’d walked into. He didn’t care about anything except the ache in his chest and the silence that was threatening to drown him.

And then, softly, he heard Stephanie’s voice.

“Jay,” she said gently, her tone free of judgment or sarcasm. “Whatever this is… You don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and broken. “Don’t I?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Because it sure as hell feels like I do.”

The room fell silent again, the tension thick enough to choke on. Jason didn’t move, didn’t look up, didn’t dare let anyone see the tears that were threatening to spill over. For once, no one pressed him. No one tried to fix it or make it better. They just stood there, caught in the wreckage of everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t.

Jason stood there, rooted in place, the echoes of his own voice still reverberating in the heavy air of the Batcave. His chest heaved, and his hands shook at his sides, but his fury wasn’t burning quite as hot anymore. It was as though someone had thrown a bucket of water on the fire that had been raging in him just moments ago. Now it simmered, embers glowing faintly, casting strange shadows across his thoughts. He clenched and unclenched his fists, as if trying to will the anger back to life, but it kept slipping through his fingers like sand.

His brain decided now was a great time to pipe up.
You’re not as mad as you think you are.

Shut up.

No, seriously. Look at you. Not even yelling anymore. What’s next? Hugging it out? Maybe a heartfelt game of catch with dear old Dad?

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond—not outwardly, anyway. This was the last thing he needed. His inner monologue had a habit of showing up at the worst possible times, and right now, it was on a roll.

Face it, Todd, the voice continued, smug and infuriating. You wanted to rip his head off five minutes ago, but now you’re just standing here, thinking about how sad he looks. Admit it—you’re a softie.

I will set the Cave on fire.

With what? Your overwhelming charisma? Your ability to scowl people into submission? Oh, wait, I know—

I am literally not doing this right now. Jason squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing himself to focus. His brain was like a bad roommate who never shut up, and unfortunately, there was no door he could slam to make it stop.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Bruce. Still standing there. Still silent. Still looking like the weight of the world was balanced on his broad shoulders. The faint light from the computer cast long shadows across his face, making him seem even older than he was. Jason hated it. Hated how small and human Bruce looked in that moment.

See? You feel bad for him.

I don’t.

You do.

Jason’s lip curled slightly, and he tore his gaze away from Bruce, letting it drift across the others instead. Dick had moved a fraction closer, his hand still hovering near Jason’s shoulder, as though debating whether to offer comfort or keep his distance – Jason knew Dick was holding on barely better than him. Cass stood to his left, her steady presence grounding him in a way he didn’t fully understand. Stephanie was frowning, her sharp blue eyes flicking between Jason and Bruce as though trying to decode a particularly difficult puzzle. Barbara watched from a few feet back, her expression unreadable but tinged with concern.

And then there was Damian.

Of course.

The little brat was still standing in front of him, his hand suspiciously close to his pocket, his whole posture screaming back off. Jason almost laughed. He didn’t need Damian’s protection—not from Clark, not from Bruce, not from anyone. But the fact that Damian was standing there, bristling like an overprotective cat, made something in Jason’s chest ache.

He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Focus, Todd. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than Baby Bat playing bodyguard.

Bruce finally moved.

It was subtle—a small shift of his weight, his hands unclenching at his sides—but it was enough to draw everyone’s attention. He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy and uneven, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and raw.

“I owe you the truth,” Bruce said, his words carrying the weight of a confession. His gaze lifted, meeting Jason’s eyes, and Jason felt a spark of the old anger flare up again. But it didn’t take hold. Not completely.

Bruce hesitated, as though searching for the right place to begin, and the silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he spoke again.

“I knew,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I knew the Joker had you. The second I saw that message—‘Come and get your Robin’—I knew what he’d done. What he was planning doing, torturing you, I-.”

Jason stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. The memory of that day—of the crowbar, of the laughter, of the cold, hard floor beneath him—rushed back with startling clarity.

Clark couldn’t meet his eyes.

Clark knew that if was paying attention that day — like he should have been today — then he could have saved him.

Bruce continued, his voice steady despite the pain etched into every word. “I thought I could make it in time. I thought—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “He’d never gone that far before. This far. I underestimated him. Again.”

Jason’s breathing hitched, and he fought to keep his expression neutral.

“When I got to the warehouse,” Bruce said, his eyes fixed on the floor now, “it was already too late. The building was…” He swallowed hard. “The building was gone. Just rubble and ash. I found you in the wreckage. Your face, your small body, so small.” His voice broke on the last word, and for a moment, he looked like he might stop.

But he didn’t.

“I thought I could save you,” Bruce said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I thought… if I could just get you to Leslie’s clinic in time…” He trailed off, his head bowing slightly. “But you were already gone.”

Jason’s heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.

“I carried you out of there,” Bruce continued, his voice growing quieter with each word. “I buried you. And then I…” He exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping. “I failed you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jason’s mind was spinning, the conflicting emotions crashing into each other like waves in a storm. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. A strange, aching sort of understanding. He didn’t know what to do with any of it, so he just stood there, his fists clenched, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Behind him, someone shifted—probably Dick—but Jason didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.

Bruce’s voice cut through the silence again, softer this time. “You can hate me for what I did. For what I didn’t do. I won’t blame you for it.”

Jason’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, his jaw clenching. Hate you? he thought bitterly. I’ve hated you for years, Bruce. But now…

He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.

Bruce’s next words were barely a whisper. “I never stopped caring about you, Jason. Not for a second.”

“You heard what Clark said, and I know you saw what was in the file.”

Jason closed his eyes, his hands trembling. He could feel the others watching him, waiting for him to respond, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, his inner voice piped up again.

You’re not mad anymore, are you?

Jason exhaled sharply, his shoulders trembling as he fought to keep himself together.

Shut up.

Jason didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Bruce’s words hung in the air, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. I never stopped caring about you. They were words Jason had yearned to hear for years, but now that they’d been spoken, they felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

He could feel his family’s eyes on him, waiting for him to react, to do something. But his thoughts were a chaotic mess, his emotions a volatile cocktail of rage, grief, and something that felt dangerously close to vulnerability. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling as he tried to hold it together.

But, of course, Jason Todd wasn’t exactly known for his composure.

“You—” His voice cracked, and he immediately hated himself for it. He cleared his throat and tried again, his tone sharper now, almost venomous. “You never stopped caring, huh?” He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and jagged. “Well, congrats, Bruce. Gold star for you. You really nailed the whole ‘loving father’ thing.”

Dick shifted beside him, clearly bracing himself for the incoming explosion. Jason didn’t disappoint.

“Do you know how many nights I spent wondering why?” Jason’s voice rose, the raw emotion bleeding into every word. “Why you didn’t save me? Why you let that clown beat me to death and then just—just left me there?” His breathing was ragged now, his chest heaving as the words poured out of him like a dam had broken.

“Jason…” Dick started, he could feel the temor, but Jason whirled on him, his eyes blazing.

“Don’t!” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t you dare try to stop me right now, Grayson.”

Dick raised his hands in a placating gesture, but Jason didn’t stop. He turned back to Bruce, his anger boiling over.

Jason needed this.

“You say you cared,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “But you didn’t fight for me. You didn’t cross the line. You didn’t—” His voice broke again, and he swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Bruce took a hesitant step forward, his face a mask of guilt and regret. “Jason, I—”

“Don’t!” Jason barked, pointing a finger at him like a loaded weapon. “Don’t you dare try to explain. Don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re the victim in this.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Jason’s ragged breathing. He looked at Bruce, then at Clark, his gaze burning with a mix of fury and anguish.

“Oh, and you,” Jason said, his voice dripping with venom as he turned his attention to Clark. “Mr. Perfect. Mr. ‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way.’ You knew.”

Clark opened his mouth, but Jason didn’t give him the chance to respond.

“You didn’t just know, you caused it.”

“You could have heard him,  what he was going to do—what I was going through—and you didn’t do a damn thing!” Jason’s voice cracked again, but this time, he didn’t try to hide it. “You just stood by and let it happen. Because that’s what you heroes do, isn’t it? You look the other way when it’s not convenient for you. When it doesn’t fit your stupid moral code.”

Clark’s expression was a mix of shame and pain – nothing Clark could say would change what he did, or lack thereof.

“Jason,” Dick said softly, stepping closer, but Jason immediately turned on him, his anger flaring like a wildfire.

“And you!” Jason said, jabbing a finger at Dick’s chest. “Don’t act like you’re innocent in all this, Grayson. You were off doing your own thing—playing Nightwing, living your perfect little life in Blüdhaven—while I was getting beaten to death in some godforsaken warehouse!”

“You said you cared.”

“I was your little wing,” Jason said barely audible.

Dick flinched, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he did something completely out of character—something that threw Jason off his game entirely.

He grabbed Jason by the shoulders.

Jason froze, his body going rigid as Dick’s hands tightened slightly, his grip firm but not painful.

“Stop it,” Dick said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to Jason’s shouting. “Stop tearing yourself apart over this.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Dick’s demeanour. This wasn’t the Dick Grayson he was used to—the golden boy, the perfect big brother with a joke for every occasion. This was someone else entirely. Not the same person who had lost it at Bruce just moments ago.

“You’re angry,” Dick continued, his tone soft but unyielding. “And you have every right to be. But don’t let it eat you alive, Jason. Don’t let it destroy you.” Not anymore than it has.

Jason’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought he might actually break. But then his walls snapped back into place, and he wrenched himself out of Dick’s grip, taking a step back.

“Don’t,” Jason said, his voice trembling. “Don’t act like you care now. It’s too late for that.”

Dick’s expression softened, but he didn’t argue. He just watched Jason with a look that made his chest ache—a mix of guilt, sorrow, and something that looked dangerously close to love.

Jason hated it.

Why couldn’t Dad and Dicky just hug him? Was he too much? He didn’t want this.

“Jason…” Bruce’s voice broke through the silence, and Jason turned back to him, his anger flaring again.

“What?” Jason snapped. “You got something else to say, old man? Another excuse? Another apology I didn’t ask for?”

Bruce shook his head, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. “No excuses,” he said quietly. “No apologies. Just the truth.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He just crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze cold and unyielding.

“I should have done more,” Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should have crossed the line. I should have…” He trailed off, his hands clenching at his sides. “I should have been better. For you.”

Jason felt his chest tighten, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral.

“But I didn’t,” Bruce continued, his voice trembling. “And I’ll live with that failure for the rest of my life.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Bruce’s words pressing down on everyone in the room.

Jason didn’t know how to respond. Part of him wanted to scream, to lash out, to throw something just to feel the release of it. But another part of him—the part he hated, the part that still cared—just wanted to collapse into Bruce’s arms and let himself be a kid again.

Before he could make a decision, a voice broke through the tension.

“Enough.”

It was Clark.

Jason turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?”

“I said enough,” Clark repeated, his voice firm but not unkind. “This isn’t just on Bruce. It’s on both of us.”

Jason’s lip curled, but before he could respond, Damian stepped forward, his small frame radiating defiance.

“You’re right,” Damian said, his voice sharp and cutting. “It is on you. You knew, and you did nothing.”

Clark blinked, clearly startled by the younger Wayne’s boldness.

“And now you stand here,” Damian continued, his green eyes blazing, “pretending to be some paragon of virtue while my brother stands in pieces. You’re no better than him.” He gestured sharply toward Bruce, his hand brushing his pocket.

Jason noticed the faint green glow before Clark did, and for a moment, he thought he might actually laugh.

Clark took a small step back, his normally calm demeanour faltering. “Damian, just–” he started, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Damian’s hand stayed where it was, his posture unwavering. “Don’t test me, Kryptonian,” he said coolly.

Jason, for all his anger, felt a flicker of amusement at that. A corner of his lips twitched upward, but it was a bitter thing, more sneer than smile. He bit it back quickly before anyone could notice, though, not entirely sure why he cared.

“Well?” the youngest Wayne said, his tone cool and cutting. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself, Kent? Or do you prefer to cower in silence?”

Jason blinked, surprised at the audacity. Damian had no chill. Not that Jason was complaining—it was nice to see someone else taking shots for once—but even he thought the kid might be pushing his luck.

Clark opened his mouth, no doubt to try and say something. It might have been all that was needed to calm Jason down, but before a word could escape, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Steady, measured, and unmistakable.

Jason’s head snapped toward the door just as Alfred appeared, his impeccable posture and composed expression somehow making the tension in the room feel even sharper.

“Masters,” Alfred greeted smoothly, his tone neutral but carrying that subtle authority that only Alfred Pennyworth could manage. His sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on Jason, then Damian, and finally Bruce, as though taking stock of the situation without needing a single word of explanation.

“Dinner is served,” Alfred announced, his gaze shifting pointedly to Bruce, as if to say ‘I trust you’ll handle whatever this is before we proceed.’

Jason felt his jaw tighten, the shift in atmosphere grating against his already frayed nerves. Of course Alfred would show up now. The man had impeccable timing, like some kind of omniscient butler god.

“We’re in the middle of something,” Jason said, his voice sharp and dripping with irritation.

Alfred’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, the faintest arch of his brow was the only indication he’d even heard Jason’s tone.

“Indeed, Master Jason,” Alfred replied evenly, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “However, I must insist. The meal will not remain warm indefinitely, and I trust you’ll find the environment in the dining room more conducive to civil conversation.”

Jason barked out a laugh, short and humourless. “Civil conversation? Yeah, good luck with that.”

Alfred didn’t react, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Be that as it may, I believe everyone could benefit from a brief reprieve.” His eyes flicked back to Bruce, his tone softening just slightly. “Particularly you, sir.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to argue, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. He sighed, his shoulders sagging in a way that made Jason feel... something. Not pity, exactly, but it was close.

“We’ll be there shortly, Alfred,” Bruce said quietly, his voice strained.

Alfred inclined his head, his expression giving nothing away. “Very good, sir.”

He turned to leave, his footsteps as precise and deliberate as when he’d arrived. Jason watched him go, his emotions twisting in a way that made him want to hug punch something—or someone. Probably Bruce.

But before the silence could swallow them again, Dick clapped his hands together, the sound startlingly loud in the oppressive quiet.

“Well,” Dick said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving. Dinner sounds like a great idea, don’t you think?”

Jason turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You’re just gonna pretend this—” He gestured vaguely at the room, his frustration boiling over. “—didn’t happen?”

Dick held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not pretending anything, Jaybird,” he said, his tone light but not unserious. “I’m just saying maybe we could, I don’t know, take a break before someone ends up throwing a punch.”

Jason scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well, don’t tempt me.”

“Jason.”

It was Bruce’s voice this time, low and tired, but it still managed to cut through Jason’s anger like a blade. Jason turned to him, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“What?” Jason snapped, his tone harsher than he intended.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He just looked at Jason, his expression unreadable but his eyes... They were something else. Guilt, sorrow, something raw and unspoken that made Jason’s chest ache in a way he hated.

“We should go,” Bruce said simply, his voice steady but quiet.

Jason wanted to argue, wanted to yell and scream and throw Bruce’s failures back in his face. But the fight drained out of him before he could muster the energy.

“Fine,” Jason muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and heading for the door. “But don’t think this is over.”

He didn’t wait for a response, brushing past everyone on his way out. He didn’t even care where they were headed; he just needed to move, to get out of that suffocating room and away from the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

Behind him, he heard the others shuffle to follow, their footsteps hesitant but steady. No one spoke, the tension lingering like a storm cloud as they made their way to the dining room.

Jason didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep it together.

And the last thing he wanted was to let them see him fall apart.

The dining room was a stark contrast to the heavy, tension-filled Batcave they had just left. The long table was set meticulously, as always, with Alfred’s unmatched precision. The chandelier overhead cast a warm glow that softened the edges of the room, but it couldn’t quite smooth out the unease that followed them in.

Jason slouched into the room first, his footsteps heavier than usual, though his gait betrayed his mental exhaustion more than anything else. His eyes scanned the table automatically, zeroing in on his usual spot a few seats down from Bruce. A part of him hesitated. Something about slipping into the familiar routine, like everything was normal, grated against him in a way he couldn’t name.

So, in a decision that surprised even himself, Jason ignored his chair and dropped into the seat directly next to Bruce.

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor was sharp and deliberate, drawing everyone’s attention for just a moment. No one said anything, though. Tim raised an eyebrow, and Duke glanced between Jason and Bruce with a flicker of curiosity, but neither commented.

Dick, who usually took the seat next to Bruce out of habit, faltered for half a second before smoothly moving to Jason’s other side. “Guess I’m sitting here,” he muttered lightly as he settled into place, his tone casual enough to fool anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

Jason didn’t look at either of them. He sat stiffly in the chair, his arms crossed as he stared at the empty plate in front of him. The space between him and Bruce felt... strange. Not tense, exactly, but charged. Like the air was waiting for someone to speak first.

Alfred entered shortly after, gliding into the room with his usual grace as he began serving dinner. He moved between them with practised ease, placing dishes down and asking polite, neutral questions about preferences. No one dared to refuse him, even Jason, who muttered a quiet, “Thanks,” when a plate of roasted vegetables landed in front of him.

When everyone had been served and Alfred stepped back to observe silently from his post near the door, the room finally settled into a semblance of normalcy.

At least, on the surface.

Jason stabbed at a piece of broccoli, his expression unreadable, while the others hesitated before eating. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the soft clinks of utensils against plates and the occasional scrape of a chair.

It was Bruce who broke the silence, though his voice was subdued. “Is everything to everyone’s liking?” he asked, a generic enough question to invite conversation without forcing it.

“Perfect as always, Alfred,” Dick answered quickly, smiling over at the butler. His tone was warm and genuine, but there was a forced brightness to it that Jason immediately clocked.

Jason didn’t look up, his fork still poking absently at his food. “Yeah, it’s great,” he muttered, the words automatic but not insincere.

Alfred inclined his head, his expression unchanging. “Your approval is most gratifying, Master Jason.”

Jason rolled his eyes at the formal tone, but there was no bite to it. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched briefly before he returned his focus to his plate.

Across the table, Tim and Duke were exchanging cautious glances, clearly debating whether to say anything. Damian, meanwhile, sat perfectly composed, his posture immaculate as he silently surveyed the room. His gaze lingered on Jason for a moment longer than necessary before he returned to his meal.

It wasn’t until Jason finally reached for the salt that the moment shifted.

Or rather, didn’t reach for it.

The saltshaker was right in front of him, within easy reach. But instead of grabbing it, Jason turned his head slightly toward Bruce, who was sitting so close their elbows might have bumped if Jason leaned just a little more.

“Pass me the salt,” Jason said, his voice even, almost casual.

Bruce blinked, caught off guard by the request. He glanced at the saltshaker, then at Jason, who was looking at him expectantly, his fork still poised midair.

It wasn’t the request itself that was strange. It was the way Jason said it. There was no edge to his tone, no sarcasm or mockery. It was... normal.

And then Jason added, almost as an afterthought:

“Dad.”

The word slipped out so smoothly it almost didn’t register at first.

But it did.

Bruce’s hand stilled for the briefest of moments, his eyes flicking to Jason with a softness that was startling in its intensity. He didn’t say anything, though. He just picked up the saltshaker and handed it over, his movements deliberate but steady.

Jason took it without a word, sprinkling a little over his food before setting it back down. He didn’t look up, but the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Across the table, Tim froze mid-bite, his fork hovering an inch from his mouth as he processed what had just happened. Duke let out a quiet, surprised laugh that he quickly tried to cover with a cough, glancing at Jason as though to confirm he’d heard right.

Even Damian, who prided himself on his composure, blinked once, his lips parting slightly before he schooled his expression back into neutrality.

It was Dick, though, who reacted most noticeably.

Sitting directly to Jason’s right, Dick’s head snapped toward him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something almost resembling pride. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something—probably something teasing, knowing Dick—but he caught himself.

Instead, Dick settled for a grin. A real one. He didn’t bother hiding it as he turned his attention back to his plate, but not before shooting Clark a pointed look.

It wasn’t subtle.

Clark, who had been watching the entire interaction in silence, winced under the weight of Dick’s glare. The once-pristine Superman—the unshakable Boy Scout—looked thoroughly chastened, his shoulders hunched slightly as he avoided everyone’s gaze.

Jason didn’t miss it. He leaned back in his chair, his smirk growing just a fraction wider.

“Something wrong, Kent?” Jason asked, his tone light but unmistakably smug.

Clark shook his head quickly, his voice low. “No, nothing.”

“Good,” Jason said, popping a piece of broccoli into his mouth and chewing deliberately.

The tension in the room began to ebb, slowly but surely. Conversation picked up in fits and starts, mostly led by Duke and Tim, who seemed eager to fill the silence.

Jason stayed quiet for the most part, but he didn’t feel the same tightness in his chest that he’d carried into the room.

For the first time in a long while, he felt... okay.

The dining room was alive with the hum of light conversation by the time dessert was served, the earlier tension mostly dispelled. Alfred, ever the orchestrator of peace in the manor, had brought out an assortment of pies and pastries that were too enticing for even Jason to turn down. He sat back in his chair, his plate of cherry pie nearly clean, looking far more at ease than anyone could have expected after the events of the day.

Clark, on the other hand, sat at the far end of the table nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. His broad shoulders were hunched ever so slightly, his usual unshakable confidence replaced with the look of a man who had been emotionally run over by the Batfamily bus.

And, boy, were they still revving the engine.

“Okay, so,” Tim said, breaking the relative calm as he leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes darting around the table like he was about to propose something both brilliant and terrible. “How long are we doing this?”

Jason, who had been quietly savouring his victory pie, raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Dick, sitting across from Tim, caught on immediately and grinned. “Pretending we hate Clark,” he clarified, gesturing toward the aforementioned superhero with his fork. “I mean, we’re justified, right? Just a little. But we all know it was bad timing and not, like, malicious.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “True. But also, Jason did die, so…”

Jason waved his fork lazily, his tone casual but laced with mock gravitas. “Exactly. I died. Which means we’re morally obligated to make him suffer, at least for a little while.” He shot a glance at Clark, who was valiantly trying to look unbothered but failing spectacularly. “Nothing personal, Big Blue. Just family bonding.”

Clark groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is not how I imagined today going.”

Duke chimed in from his spot near the end of the table. “Honestly, you should’ve seen this coming. You did walk into the Batcave without checking your surroundings. Rookie mistake.”

Barbara snorted. “Rookie mistake for Clark Kent, of all people. You have superhearing! How did you not notice?”

Stephanie leaned forward, her chin propped on her hand as she grinned mischievously. “Yeah, Supes, what happened there? Did your spidey-senses malfunction?”

“That’s Spider-Man,” Clark muttered, his tone half-defeated, half-exasperated.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is that what bothers you?” Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Not the fact that you barged in unannounced and triggered all of this?” He gestured vaguely to himself and then the rest of the room. “Way to go, by the way.”

Clark looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

“I thought you guys knew that was coming, not that I meant for-”

Damian, who had been sitting quietly through most of the conversation, finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the chatter with practised precision. “Father, are we truly allowing this juvenile behaviour to continue unchecked?” His tone was sharp, but the glint of amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

Bruce, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the meal, sighed deeply. He set his fork down with deliberate care and looked around the table, his expression a mixture of exasperation and reluctant fondness.

“Clark is an ally,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

“And,” Bruce paused, “My husband.”

“Though this was not the way I planned to tell you all,” They all knew he would never have if they hadn’t heard it from Clark, though the girls had figured it out quite a while ago. “We’ve talked… and the case is settled for now. In turn, I expect everyone to act accordingly.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jason, grinning like the troublemaker he was, raised his hand. “Define ‘accordingly.’”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to know.”

Dick clapped Jason on the shoulder. “I think that’s a green light, little wing.”

“Sure sounds like it,” Tim agreed, nodding sagely.

Even Duke joined in, lifting his glass of water in a mock toast. “To family bonding.”

Bruce glared at all of them, but the effect was somewhat diminished by the soft, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but the warmth in his expression was undeniable. It was the look of a man who, despite the chaos, was quietly thankful to have his family together.

“Well,” Barbara said, breaking the moment as she leaned back in her chair. “If we’re really going to do this, we need to be strategic about it.”

Stephanie nodded eagerly. “Yes! We need a plan. A schedule, even.”

“Are we seriously organising a revenge prank against Superman?” Duke asked, though the grin on his face said he was fully on board.

“Oh, absolutely,” Dick said, leaning forward like a conspirator. “But we’ve gotta pace it out. Can’t hit him all at once or it loses the impact.”

Tim pulled out his phone, his fingers already flying across the screen. “Okay, I’m setting up a shared calendar. Everyone gets at least one slot.”

Jason laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that seemed to surprise even himself. “You guys are ridiculous. But yeah, I’m in.”

They had no fear, talking as if the target was not seated across from them.

Clark groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “Bruce, help.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded Clark with a look that was almost pitying. Almost.

“You have super hearing,” Bruce said, his tone dry. “Maybe next time you’ll remember to use it.”

Clark let out a defeated sigh, and Jason couldn’t help but chuckle. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on his chest felt lighter, the room felt brighter, and for once, he was content to just be.

Family bonding at Clark’s expense? Yeah, he could live with that.

Bonus Scene:

The Justice League’s conference room was a marvel of modern engineering, designed to withstand everything from the heat of a solar flare to a full-blown invasion. It was spacious, sleek, and incredibly secure.

It was also currently hosting a very pink-haired Superman.

Clark sat at the head of the table, his normally composed demeanour cracked just enough for a thin thread of paranoia to bleed through. His hair, once the pristine black that matched his cape, was now a shocking, vibrant pink—a shade so eye-searingly bright it could have doubled as a distress signal.

He fiddled with a data-pad in his hands, his shoulders tense, his gaze darting around the room like he expected an ambush.

Bruce, of course, was seated beside him, the picture of stoic composure. If one ignored the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, he might as well have been carved from stone.

“You seem… tense, Kal-El,” Diana said from across the table, her brows furrowed in concern.

“I’m fine,” Clark replied, his voice a touch too high-pitched to be convincing.

Barry, leaning back in his chair with an energy drink in hand, raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because you look like you’re about to either fly off or burst into tears. And, uh, what’s with the hair?”

Clark sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s… complicated.”

Hal smirked from his spot at the table, gesturing to the pink mess atop Clark’s head. “Complicated how? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you lost a bet with a bottle of dye.”

“It’s not dye,” Clark muttered, his eyes narrowing. “It’s worse.”

Before anyone could ask what that meant, Clark stiffened in his seat, his head tilting slightly as his super hearing picked up something. His face darkened, his eyes darting toward the far corner of the room.

Bruce didn’t move, but internally, he was fighting a losing battle against pure amusement.

“Kal-El?” Diana prompted, leaning forward slightly. “What is it?”

“I heard—” Clark started, but then he froze, his expression twisting into confusion. He turned back to the room, his brows knitting together. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Barry asked, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I heard a heartbeat,” Clark said, his voice low. “But then it disappeared.”

“Clark,” Hal said slowly, exchanging a look with Diana, “you okay, buddy?”

Clark ignored him, his eyes narrowing as his gaze swept the room again. His shoulders tensed, and for a brief moment, he looked like he was about to leap out of his chair. But then, just as quickly, he relaxed, his expression flickering with frustration.

Bruce, ever the picture of calm, folded his hands on the table. “Perhaps you’re imagining things,” he said, his tone dry but perfectly neutral.

Clark shot him a sharp look. “I’m not imagining things.”

And then it happened again.

A single heartbeat.

It was faint but distinct, echoing in Clark’s ears for only a moment before vanishing as if it had never existed.

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. But when he focused on the spot, there was nothing there—no movement, no heat signature, no sign of life.

Bruce allowed himself a single blink of satisfaction behind his cowl.

“What’s going on?” Diana asked, her tone tinged with concern now.

“Someone’s here,” Clark said firmly, standing abruptly. He scanned the room, his gaze sharp and searching. “Someone who shouldn’t be.”

Diana frowned, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Clark said, his voice firm. “I know what I heard.”

Barry leaned forward, clearly enjoying this far too much. “What did you hear? A ghost? A ninja? A ghost ninja?”

Clark shot him a glare that could have melted steel.

“It’s not a ghost,” he said, exasperated. “It’s a heartbeat. It’s faint, but it’s there. And it keeps disappearing.”

As if on cue, another heartbeat flickered to life—closer this time—only to vanish a second later.

Clark turned sharply toward the sound, his frustration growing.

From his seat, Bruce remained perfectly still, though internally, he was making a mental note to up the Batfamily’s allowance for creativity.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Clark?” Hal asked, his smirk widening. “Maybe the pink hair’s throwing off your equilibrium.”

Clark ignored him, his focus still trained on the room. But every time he thought he’d pinpointed the source, the heartbeat vanished, leaving him with nothing but silence.

Meanwhile, hidden in various nooks and crannies of the League’s headquarters, the kids were having the time of their lives.

“This is perfect,” Stephanie whispered, her voice barely audible through the comms. “Did you see his face just now? He looks like he’s about to snap.”

“I told you the lead-lined suits would work,” Tim replied, his tone smug. “He can’t track us unless we let him. And he can’t hear us with the masks.”

“I’m impressed we got the suits made so quickly,” Duke added. “You sure you didn’t already have these ready, Tim?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Jason’s laughter crackled through the comms. “This is gold. Look at him—he’s practically sweating. Big Blue, brought down by a couple of disappearing heartbeats. I love it.”

“Keep it quiet,” Damian hissed. “You’ll ruin the operation.”

“‘Operation’?” Jason repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. “Relax, Baby Bat. We’re just messing with him.”

Back in the conference room, Clark’s paranoia was reaching new heights. The random heartbeats were growing more frequent, each one lasting just long enough to catch his attention before vanishing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Barry whispered to Hal, who shrugged.

“No idea. Maybe Batman finally broke him.”

At that, Bruce allowed himself the faintest of smirks.

“Something funny, Batman?” Clark snapped, his frustration boiling over.

Bruce tilted his head ever so slightly. “Not at all.”

The children, hidden and watching, dissolved into silent laughter.

The heartbeats started again.

Clark’s head whipped to the left so fast that Barry swore he heard something crack. “There! Did you hear that?” Clark snapped, his voice a mix of triumph and exasperation.

The room fell silent as everyone strained to listen. For a brief, tense moment, it seemed like Clark might have finally lost it.

But then, faint and fleeting, a single sound thudded somewhere above them before cutting off entirely.

“Okay, I heard that,” Barry admitted, sitting up straighter.

Diana frowned, her hand tightening around her lasso. “It sounded... like it came from the ceiling.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Clark exclaimed, his hands gesturing wildly. “Something’s going on here!”

Hal leaned back in his chair, his smirk replaced by a wary expression. “You think it’s, what, intruders? Spies? Ghosts?”

“I swear to Rao, it’s not ghosts,” Clark groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Bruce, on the other hand, sat unmoving, his gaze cool and calculating as always. Inside, though, he was doing everything he could to keep from smirking. His children—his wonderfully chaotic, impossibly resourceful children—were playing this perfectly.

Another heartbeat, this time louder, closer. Clark snapped his head up, staring at the ceiling with laser focus. His eyes narrowed, his super hearing cranked up to max, and—

Silence.

Clark’s jaw tightened as he stood abruptly. “They’re up there.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Hal asked, looking around.

Bruce spoke for the first time in several minutes, his voice low and clipped. “Focus on the meeting.”

“But there’s—” Clark began, only for Bruce to cut him off with a sharp look.

“Whatever you think you’re hearing can wait,” Bruce said, his tone brooking no argument. “The League has more important matters to address.”

Clark stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t believe you’re this calm about—”

Thud.

Every head snapped up toward the ceiling as the sound of footsteps—loud, deliberate, and completely unstealthily—echoed above them.

Barry blinked. “Okay, now I know I heard that.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, his expression utterly unimpressed. “Probably structural shifting. It happens.”

Clark glared at him. “Structural shifting doesn’t have a heartbeat.”

Before Bruce could respond, the footsteps intensified, scattering across the ceiling like a herd of very clumsy elephants. A shriek followed, being muffled by the masks, too faint for anyone but Clark to hear clearly.

“Tim!”

“Don’t look at me; it was your grappling line that gave out!”

“It did not—oh crap, the panel’s loose—”

The sound of snapping metal filled the air, followed by a collective groan from the ceiling.

And then, without warning, the entire ventilation panel gave way.

The Batkids fell through the ceiling.

Jason, Tim, Damian, Dick, Stephanie, Duke, and Cassandra landed in a sprawling heap directly on the Justice League’s conference table, sending papers, data-pads, and coffee cups flying.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Barry broke it first. “What. The. Hell.”

Clark looked like he was going to combust. His wide eyes darted between the children and Bruce, his face an even mix of I told you so and oh no.

Bruce, meanwhile, remained completely still, his hands folded on the table. His expression betrayed nothing, but inside, he was howling with laughter.

Jason, who had somehow ended up sprawled half on the table and half on Dick, groaned as he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you that panel was weak.”

“You were the one stomping around like a drunk elephant,” Tim shot back, untangling himself from Damian.

“Would you all get off me?” Damian growled, shoving Stephanie off his leg.

“Not my fault you’re the size of a footstool,” Stephanie quipped, hopping off the table with a grin.

Duke straightened his jacket, glancing around at the bewildered League members. “Uh… hi?”

“What is going on?!” Hal shouted, standing so fast his chair toppled over.

Diana’s eyes narrowed, her hand already on her lasso. “Do you know who they are, Batman?”

Mini-batmans’, batmen, women? But they weren’t black suits, but made of colour?

Bruce didn’t even blink. “No one important.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Dad?!” Barry exclaimed, his head whipping between Bruce and Jason.

Tim smirked as he adjusted his lead-lined suit, giving Barry a little wave. “Hi. Surprise?”

Clark, looking like he was seconds away from a breakdown, gestured wildly at the group. “This! This is what I’ve been hearing all day!”

Hal squinted at Jason, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a second. Isn’t that—”

“Nope,” Jason cut him off quickly, hopping down from the table. “No idea who you’re talking about.”

Hal wasn’t convinced. “You’re the guy with the helmet – the red one. The one on the League’s watchlist!”

“Yeah, well, your watchlist sucks,” Jason shot back, already moving toward the door.

“Are we just going to ignore the fact that they got in here without any of us noticing?” Diana asked, her tone sharp.

Tim grinned, already tapping at his wrist-mounted device. “Trade secret.”

“Children,” Bruce said, his voice low and clipped. “You have thirty seconds to vacate the premises.”

“More than enough time,” Cassandra said quietly, already blending into the shadows near the door.

Clark looked like he might actually cry. “Bat—”

“I warned you,” Bruce said, his tone as close to amused as it ever got. “Check your surroundings next time.”

Before anyone could react, the kids disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving nothing but a few scattered papers and a shattered ceiling panel in their wake.

The League sat in stunned silence, staring at the mess left behind.

Clark groaned, sinking into his chair and burying his face in his hands. “I’m never living this down.”

Bruce leaned forward slightly, his voice calm and measured. “If we could return to the agenda, we have pressing matters to discuss.”

Diana looked at him, her expression torn between exasperation and suspicion. “Batman. Who were they? You cannot have that many children – perhaps a joke from the only team in Gotham?”

Bruce’s lips twitched, just barely. “No one important.”

Barry was the first to speak. “Did we… did we just get kid-bombed?”

“One of them is a criminal?!” Hal was losing it.

Across the table, Clark let out another groan, and Bruce filed this day away as one of the best in recent memory. He was definitely saving the footage.

The Batfam was gathered in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, the remnants of their latest escapade finally fading into memory. The chaos of their mission to torment Superman had been fun while it lasted, but now? Now it was time for a well-earned reward: ice cream.

Jason leaned against the counter, a bowl of mint chocolate chip in hand, his leather jacket still half on because, of course, he refused to fully relax even at home. He scooped up a bite of ice cream, his other hand holding an old, well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Tim sat cross-legged on the counter next to him, scrolling through his tablet with one hand and eating rocky road with the other. Duke was perched on a stool, working his way through a sundae that could have rivalled a work of art, while Stephanie and Cass were sharing a massive bowl of cookie dough ice cream, giggling about something only they seemed to understand. Damian, of course, was pretending he was above it all, sitting at the table with a modest bowl of vanilla and an expression that screamed I’m tolerating this chaos for now.

Alfred, ever the silent observer, was tidying up the kitchen even though he clearly didn’t need to. He gave the group a glance over his shoulder, the faintest hint of amusement on his otherwise stoic face.

“I assume the evening’s entertainment was a success?” Alfred asked, his voice as polished as ever.

Jason looked up from his book, smirking. “If by ‘success’ you mean Clark is probably one heartbeat away from a full breakdown, then yeah. We nailed it.”

“I almost feel bad for him,” Duke admitted, licking a spoonful of whipped cream off his sundae. “Almost.”

Tim snorted. “Don’t. He can handle it. He’s Superman, for crying out loud. A little paranoia is good for him.”

Stephanie grinned, nudging Cass. “I mean, did you see his face when we fell through the ceiling? Priceless.”

Jason let out a low chuckle but shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, it was great. But honestly? I’m done. It’s getting in the way of my reading time.” He gestured to his book with his spoon. “I just want to enjoy Pride and Prejudice in peace, and I can’t do that if we’re spending every other minute plotting new ways to freak out the Boy Scout.”

Damian frowned. “I told you my plan to replace his toothpaste with hot sauce was efficient and effective.”

“It was also way too much effort,” Jason countered. “Seriously, it’s time to let it go.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who started it.”

“And now I’m ending it,” Jason said firmly, pointing his spoon at Tim. “Let the man rest. He’s probably already half an inch from calling it quits.”

“Plus, we can’t go back to having only one dad now.”

In the Watchtower’s conference room, Clark sat slumped in his chair, visibly deflated after the day’s events. His pink hair wasn’t helping. It practically glowed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the room, and despite his best attempts to keep a straight face, Barry had taken no fewer than seventeen pictures on his phone and was one step away from making them his wallpaper.

Bruce, of course, was as stoic as ever, seemingly unaffected by the chaos that had just unfolded. He was mid-sentence, discussing the latest League intel, when Clark’s head tilted ever so slightly.

“Superman,” Bruce said sharply, his gaze flicking to him with practiced annoyance. “Focus.”

“I—uh—sorry,” Clark stammered, sitting up straighter.

But he couldn’t help it. His super hearing had just picked up something from miles away, cutting through the chatter of the Watchtower like a clear bell. It was faint at first, but then he honed in, his focus narrowing.

“…and I’m just saying,” Jason’s voice drawled, laced with irritation, “it’s getting in the way of my reading time.”

“You’re the one who volunteered to be the bait,” Tim replied, his voice faint but amused.

“I did it once,” Jason shot back. “Once. And then someone decided we needed to keep it going for, what, days? Weeks? He’s pink now. That’s enough. Let the man breathe.”

“You’re the one who dyed his hair!” Stephanie said, laughing.

“And I’ll do it again if he tries to lecture me about ‘justice’ one more time,” Jason muttered. “But I’m done. I’ve got better things to do. Like rereading Pride & Prejudice. Again.”

Clark blinked, relief washing over him like a wave. He let out an audible sigh, a sound so uncharacteristically loud that the entire room turned to stare at him.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Superman.”

Clark froze. “What?”

“You’re listening in on them, aren’t you?”

“I—uh—” Clark scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Maybe?”

Bruce let out a sharp exhale, his voice low and dangerous. “We are in the middle of a meeting.”

Barry snorted, leaning forward with a grin. “Wait, hold on. Who’s ‘them’? And why does Superman look like he just avoided a firing squad?”

“The children, they must be the ones that Kal-El is referring to.” Diana may be too quick to catch one.

Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce shot him a warning glare that could have frozen lava.

Diana, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow. “Whoever they are, they clearly rattled you, Kal-El. Care to explain?”

“It’s, uh…” Clark hesitated, his gaze darting to Bruce.

“Don’t,” Bruce said, his tone clipped.

“It’s his kids,” Clark blurted.

The room went silent.

“Flash was joking when he said that–”

Barry, who had been mid-sip of his drink, immediately choked, sputtering as he stared at Clark. “Batman has kids?”

Diana frowned, clearly processing this new information. “You mean sidekicks. The Robins.”

“No,” Clark said, his pink hair somehow making him look even more flustered. “I mean kids. Like actual children.”

Hal raised a hand. “Hold on. Are we saying Batman has been playing daddy and running around Gotham at night breaking jaws?”

“That’s not even the best part,” Barry said, his voice pitching up with excitement. “How did they get into the Watchtower without tripping the alarms? That’s what I want to know!”

Diana crossed her arms. “That is a good question. Batman, care to explain?”

Bruce, still composed, leaned back in his chair. “No.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Wait a second.” He tapped his chin, glancing between Bruce and Clark. “Kids. Disappearing heartbeats. That weird vibe they all had when they dropped through the ceiling...” His eyes widened. “No way.”

Hal looked at him, confused. “What?”

“No way,” Oliver was in disbelief, that could not be who he was thinking about.

Oliver screamed, pointing at Bruce. “Only Brucie has that many kids AND lives in Gotham.”

The room exploded.

“What?!” Diana exclaimed, her normally calm demeanour cracking for the first time.

“No way,” Hal said, staring at Bruce like he’d grown a second head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Arthur muttered, his arms crossed.

Bruce, ever the professional, didn’t react.

“Well,” Barry said, looking entirely too pleased with himself, “it all makes sense now. The money. The tech. The kids. You’re totally Bruce Wayne.”

“I hate to admit it,” Hal said, frowning, “but that... actually tracks.”

Diana stared at Bruce for a long moment, then sighed. “This explains far too much.”

Clark, who had been quietly shrinking into his chair, suddenly straightened, his face breaking into a mischievous grin. “You think that’s shocking?”

Bruce turned to him, his voice low. “Clark.”

“And you didn’t tell me, ME?!” Oliver still not believing it, “How does Clark know– Wait, this mean– Dude you invited me and still didn’t tell me?”

Clark ignored him. “We’re married.”

The room fell into chaos.

“WHAT?!” Barry practically shrieked.

Diana’s jaw actually dropped, something that hadn’t happened in centuries. “You’re married to Batman?”

Hal buried his face in his hands. “I need to lie down.”

Arthur stared at Clark, then at Bruce, then back at Clark. “You know what? This is above my pay grade.”

Clark, clearly enjoying the reaction far more than he should, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Yup. Married. Happily, too.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I will kill him later.”

As the League continued to devolve into hysteria, Bruce allowed himself one small victory.

He’d definitely be making a copy of this footage.