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Chapter Text

It started with a request from a recently de-aged Tim Drake.

Technically, it started three days ago, when a stray spell from Klarion hit him mid-patrol and shrank the third Robin back to age ten.

But the real chaos began when Tim stood in the middle of the manor’s living room, hands on his hips, wearing a sequined leotard, two mismatched socks, and all the conviction in the world.

“Alfred,” he declared, “I need a robe.”

Alfred, who had been polishing the silver, raised a single eyebrow. “A robe, Master Tim?”

“Not just any robe,” Tim said gravely, voice dipping into melodrama. “One with feathers. The kind a glamorous woman wears in an old movie after her rich husband dies under mysterious circumstances. And she says things like, ‘I just don’t know what happened, darling. I turned my back for one second and… he was gone.’”

Alfred blinked once. “Color preference?”

“Black. With tragedy. ”

By evening, the living room had been transformed into what Dick called “The Most Extra Funeral Never Held.”

The whole Family had been roped—and robed—into Tim’s latest dramatic vision. Jazz music played softly in the background. Fake pearls and plastic rings littered the carpet. A fog machine puffed rhythmically in the corner (Jason’s doing, obviously), and the lights were dimmed to moody noir perfection.

Everyone wore extravagant feather-trimmed robes in different jewel tones , each chosen with purpose, flair, or protest.

Tim, naturally, took center stage on a velvet chaise lounge, swathed in a flowing black robe lined in crimson feathers, a plastic champagne flute of sparkling apple juice in one hand, and a stolen ring pop on the other. He looked every bit the grieving widow, seconds from delivering a dramatic revelation or collapsing into theatrical despair over his dear Gregory. 

Cass wore a soft gray robe with black feathers, elegant and subtle, matching her quiet presence. She sat calmly near the fireplace and occasionally dropped whispered threats with eerie precision.

Dick, ever committed, wore a deep sapphire blue robe draped artfully off one shoulder. He lounged across the piano bench, tossing faux rose petals into the air. “I never liked Gregory,” he said airily. “His watch ticked too loud. Very suspicious.”

Damian, who had begrudgingly agreed to participate only after being bribed with Alfred’s cookies, wore a rich emerald green robe. He sat stiffly in a leather armchair, arms crossed. “I did not kill the husband. I was in the garden. Judging the roses.”

Jason entered with flair in a dark red robe with gold feather trim, sunglasses on indoors, swirling apple juice in a cut-crystal glass. He held a fake cigarette holder and smirked. “Maybe I married him for his money. But that’s not a crime—it’s just good business.”

Duke, embracing the absurdity, wore a sun-gold robe with amber feathers, grinning like a charming suspect in a B-list murder mystery. “Did I break his heart?” he said with a shrug. “Maybe. Did I break his neck? Who’s to say?”

Steph, true to form, wore a vivid purple robe that practically glowed, and flung herself dramatically across the fainting couch. “I just wanted the yacht! ” she wailed, tossing a silk scarf into the air. “Is that so wrong? ”

And standing at the edge of the madness, 

Bruce near the fireplace, trench coat on, notepad in hand, actual scowl fully engaged. The designated detective. The lone skeptic.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, casting a long look at the robed chaos unfolding before him.

He gestured at the suspects—Jason swirling a glass dramatically, Steph mid-faint on the chaise, Damian sharpening his glare. “Am I supposed to be investigating a family? Or are all of you claiming to be the dead man’s spouse?”

Dick waved a hand lazily. “It’s ambiguous, Bruce. Embrace the mystery.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Ambiguity doesn’t hold up in an investigation.”

Dick grinned. “It does in drama. Just commit to the scene.”

“But it doesn’t—”

Dick didn’t let him finish. He kept staring, then gave Bruce a tight, overly pleasant smile—the kind that made people brace for either a PR disaster or a rooftop confrontation. With just enough pressure to count as a warning, he patted Bruce’s arm.

“Just commit.”

And just like that, his smile softened, and he went back to his usual, easygoing self—like the threat had never happened.

Tim rose slowly, swirling his crimson-trimmed robe behind him like a cape. He turned to Bruce, eyes narrowed, voice low. “Now remember—we are all grieving . Very dramatically. ”

He paused.

“Except you. You have to find Gregory’s murderer so I can get his money.”

Bruce stared. “You’re ten.”

“And a widow, ” Tim countered.

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

And Duke?

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character.

Not even when he carried a now-sleepy Tim upstairs—robe, jewelry, and all.

As Bruce tucked him in, carefully pulling the covers over the feathered robe, Tim mumbled drowsily, “Tell the girls at the club… I won’t be at brunch. Too much… murder.”

Bruce exhaled. Then gently removed the oversized plastic necklace from around Tim’s neck.

“You’re grounded from vintage cinema for a week.”

“Mmm… tell that to Gregory… ” Tim whispered, already half-asleep.

Bruce paused at the door, then reached up to pull the cord on the new canopy Alfred had installed—dark velvet drapes swept down, closing around the bed like a curtain.

The final act.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim)—lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously trying to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Tim?

Tim fully committed to the role of grieving widow like he was auditioning for the Gotham Theater Guild. He delivered multiple monologues while lying on various pieces of furniture, dramatically rearranged the fake pearls on the floor “for ambiance,” and rang a tiny silver bell every time someone interrupted him. At one point, he declared he could only mourn “properly” if someone handed him a lace handkerchief, a string of sapphires, and complete silence while he stared mournfully into the middle distance.

Then—just as things had begun to spiral into chaos and arguments over who last saw the (fake) will—the door opened.

In walked Selina Kyle.

Wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. With a mustache. And a walking stick.

“Gregory,” she purred, “lives.”

Tim shrieked and dropped his apple juice flute. Steph fainted again. Cass slow-clapped. Jason ripped his sunglasses off as if to get a better view. Dick gasped, “Plot twist!” and rolled off the piano bench. Damian stayed seated, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin like a villain in a courtroom drama. He watched Selina’s entrance with narrowed eyes. “This is marginally more entertaining than I expected.”

Duke blinked, arms folded. “Classic”

Selina sauntered past them all with a smirk, stopping in front of the fainting couch where Tim lay dramatically draped.

She tipped her (borrowed) hat and said, “Darling, you mourned me beautifully.”

Tim gasped, clutching his chest like a scandalized would-be widow in a soap opera. “Gregory?! I gave a full eulogy in your honor!” 

Selina gave him a wink, then turned to Bruce with a sly smile. “Nice trench coat, detective. But if you were half as sharp as your jawline, you’d have checked the conservatory.”

Bruce frowned. “There is no conservatory.”

Selina gave a slow blink. “Exactly.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim)—lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness, shouting, “I REGRET NOTHING!” Steph had “fainted” a record seven times, each one more theatrical than the last, culminating in her sprawled over a fainting couch someone definitely didn’t own that morning. Cass “confessed” to the murder—then immediately “withdrew” her confession, claiming diplomatic immunity. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa after being accused of poisoning the scones—an act that, debatably, matched both the aesthetic and the mood.

Duke, meanwhile, had nearly everyone convinced he was the actual detective. He wove theories, built timelines, and monologued with just enough gravitas to make people forget this was a game. He also managed to frame every single person in the room at least once. Including Bruce. Twice.

And then there was Tim. Naturally, around hour two, he decided the stakes weren’t high enough and placed a very real call to Harley Quinn. 

She arrived twenty minutes later, wearing red stilettos sharp enough to draw blood, a power suit cut like a threat, and reading glasses no one believed she needed.

In one hand, a glitter-covered briefcase. In the other, the kind of gumption that made grown men confess to crimes they hadn’t committed.

“I’m here,” she announced, dropping the briefcase on the desk, “to interpret the will, the vibes, and the legal fallout.”

Bruce just stood there, blinking.

“Why not,” he muttered, throwing up his hands and surrendering to the chaos.

Harley sauntered to the center of the room, opened her case, and pulled out a stack of bedazzled paperwork.“Alright! Who wants to take bets on who has the real will?”

The room erupted.

“Obviously it’s mine, ” Steph declared, fanning herself with a stack of napkins. “Gregory loved me most. I told him his toupee looked natural.”

Jason snorted. “He told me I was his will. Like, spiritually. That has to count.”

“You mean chaotic and legally dead ?” Duke muttered, crossing off suspects on a dry-erase board that no one had seen him bring in.

From somewhere within his emerald robe, Damian produced a full scroll. Like, a scroll. Sealed with black wax. 

Dick raised a hand. “Mine’s forged in glitter pen, but emotionally authentic.”

Cass just smirked and held up a page written in crayon. Harley squinted at it. “Wait. Is that in Latin?”

“ Old Latin,” Cass said smugly.

“None of these are valid,” Bruce sighed, already regretting the life choices that lead to this moment.

Harley’s grin widened. “Exactly. That’s what makes it fun. ”

A beat passed.

Then— click.

All heads turned as a dim spotlight flickered near the staircase.

And there stood Tim.

Ten years old, barefoot, wearing his full feather-trimmed widow robe, and holding a worn leather folder handcuffed to his wrist.

“None of you have the real will,” he said, voice low and raspy, like he’d gargled gravel and secrets. “Because I do.”

Dramatic gasps from everyone.

Tim descended the stairs one step at a time.

“Gregory gave it to me,” Tim continued, “on his deathbed. Just after the swan dive into the koi pond. His final words were—” he sniffled, voice breaking, “—‘The taxidermy owl is watching. Take the folder and run.’”

Dick whispered, “Okay, that does sound like Gregory.”

Tim unlatched the case with reverence, pulled out a stack of papers tied in red ribbon, and laid them gently on the coffee table. Everyone leaned in.

He cleared his throat. “Last will and testament of Gregory G. Moneybags. Witnessed, notarized, and sealed… in mystery.”

Duke squinted at the first page. “Wait… is that… a puzzle?”

“It’s a cipher,” Tim said solemnly. “Hidden in the margins. We’ll need to decode it using the first letters of the memoir he never published. The only one I have read.”

Harley cackled. “Oh this kid gets it.”

Tim, wrapped in his feather robe, hands behind his back, looked over the chaos with satisfaction.

Then turned to Bruce and said with a sly smile, “Detective. I believe we have… a mystery to solve.”

Bruce closed his eyes, “I’m going to get coffee.”

Somewhere behind them, the fog machine hissed to life again.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

And Duke?

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character.

Not even when the front door slammed open and in swept Jonathan Kent —wearing an oversized sunhat, elbow-length gloves, and a shawl he clearly borrowed from Ma Kent. A red rose was clenched between his teeth.

“I loved Gregory once,” Jon declared, dramatically flinging himself onto the fainting couch with surprising accuracy for someone who’d clearly improvised his entire existence.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“…Jon?” Damian said flatly. “Why are you here?”

Jon sat up and beamed. “I love the drama. And, you said we could hangout at your house. So.” He gestured broadly. “I’m Gregory’s first wife. Which also means I have a claim to the inheritance”

Tim clapped enthusiastically. “Inspired. Absolutely inspired.”

“Also Tim texted me about the dress up game” Jon exclaimed. 

“You can’t just show up and claim to be his first wife,” Damian hissed, exasperated, “And it’s more than just ‘dress-up’” he quietly added, crossing his arms. 

Jon grinned. “Too late. I’m already emotionally invested.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Emotionally unstable, maybe.”

“Gregory said I was passionate ,” Jon sniffed, tilting his chin.

“Gregory also ate paste as a child,” Damian snapped.

“Allegedly,” Jon replied primly. “He never confirmed that in the will.”

“There is no real will,” Damian growled.

“Then what exactly did I forge in purple gel pen?” Jon shot back, yanking a dramatically crumpled sheet from his shawl.

Tim gasped like he’d just seen a plot twist unfold in real time. “Wait—does that make it a forged forgery or an emotionally authenticated falsehood? Either way, I love it.”

“Tim,” Damian barked, “stop encouraging him!”

Tim only leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially to Jon, “You should accuse Damian of burning the second will in a fit of jealous rage.”

“Oh, that’s good ,” Jon whispered back, eyes lighting up.

“Do not,” Damian warned, as Jon rose slowly from the couch like a first wife scorned.

“I accuse you,” Jon said, pointing a gloved hand at Damian, “of destroying Gregory’s second will in a fit of jealous rage—because Gregory chose me for the family cruise liner and not you .”

“We don’t have a cruise liner,” Damian muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not with that attitude,” Tim said helpfully.

Jason, from across the room, called, “I had a yacht once. I crashed it. It was fine.”

“Silence, tax criminal!” Jon declared, now fully in character.

Steph applauded. “I love this show. Is there a sequel?”

Dick was already flipping through a journal. “Let’s circle back to the poisoning subplot.”

Later—somewhere between Cass’s fourth disappearing act and Steph fake-fainting into Jason, knocking him and a lamp over—Tim and Jon sat cross-legged under a table, whispering.

“Could be you,” Tim murmured.

“Could be you,” Jon replied.

They looked at each other. Then both nodded, as if that explained everything.

“It’s probably both of us,” Tim decided.

“Definitely,” Jon agreed, sipping juice from a wine glass.

“Do not form a murder alliance under my family’s furniture,” Damian barked from across the room.

“Too late!” both boys yelled back in unison.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —stretched on for five full hours of unfiltered chaos, dramatic monologues, and suspiciously well-rehearsed deaths.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness, escorted away. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times, each one louder and more elaborate than the last—at one point knocking over a lamp on her way down. Cass “confessed,” only to immediately recant, pin the blame on a fictional twin, and vanish into the fog.

Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa after being accused of poisoning the petit fours—an accusation Dick made entirely in rhyme, for reasons unclear. No one stopped him. The rhyme or the boa.

Duke played the long game. Calm, methodical, and alarmingly convincing, he had nearly everyone believing he was the actual detective. He pieced together motives, uncovered fake clues Tim had forgotten he’d planted, and somehow managed to frame every single person in the room—Bruce included. Twice.

Around hour two, the doors creaked open and in came Barbara. Dressed in a velvet shawl, dark lipstick, and a dramatic hat with netting that shaded her eyes just enough to look dangerous , she paused at the threshold with a theatrical sigh.

“I heard Gregory is dead,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain and affected grief. 

Tim nearly tripped over a candlestick in excitement. “You made it!”

Barbara arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Of course I did. I’m his estranged sister. Banished from the family estate after the Incident at the Opera.”

No one dared ask what the incident was.

She glided into the room like she owned it, wheeled to the fireplace, and poured herself a sparkling apple juice with the flair of someone who absolutely had a motive. She took a long, dramatic sip, then declared, “I have several secrets, a long list of enemies, and a forged will in my handbag. Proceed.”

“Did you have time to look over the different plot lines I sent you?” Tim asked, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Barbara smiled slowly, the kind of smile that promised both collaboration and consequences. “I did.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re definitely doing the Opera Incident plot… and the surprise reconciliation turned double cross.”

Tim gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been given a sacred text. “ Perfect! ”

From across the room, Jason muttered, “We’re all gonna die fake deaths again, aren’t we?”

Barbara sipped her drink. “Oh, repeatedly.”

From then on, she dropped cryptic comments like cigarette ash—implicating three people with a single sentence, offering family history no one could fact-check, and maintaining an air of cool, detached menace that made even Bruce hesitate.

No one questioned her. No one dared.

Barbara spent the rest of the night perched by the fire, offering insight only when it made things worse. She spoke like a noir narrator, all silk and shadows:

“Greed makes monsters of men… and Gregory charged interest.”

She didn’t solve the case. She complicated it.

And Tim?

Tim looked at her like she’d just handed him a golden Oscar wrapped in velvet and danger.

It was beautiful.

It was chaos.

It was family.

Chapter Text

Dick, draped in a feather boa and wielding a dessert fork like a microphone, stood atop the ottoman and proclaimed:

“The crumbs don’t lie, the truth is near—
It wasn’t jam that brought us fear.
Petit fours turned deadly treat,
And who, I ask, refused to eat?

A prince in name, a snake at heart,
Whose alibis fall all apart.
You sipped your tea and watched us fall…
It’s you , dear Damian, who poisoned us all!”

Damian immediately launched for him.

No one stopped him.

Not the rhyme.

Not the boa.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

During the game, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness, escorted away by Tim in mirrored sunglasses and an expression that said he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times—twice onto furniture, once into the punch bowl, and once just for the drama of it. Cass “confessed,” then immediately “deflected,” blamed everything on a twin no one had heard of, and disappeared into the fog.

Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa after being accused of poisoning the petit fours—an accusation Dick made entirely in rhyme and with increasingly elaborate jazz hands. No one stopped him. The rhyme or the boa.

Duke, unshaken, quietly worked the room. Calm, methodical, and unnervingly convincing, he played the long game—framing every single person present. Including Bruce. Twice. And he never once raised his voice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character. There was a close call—right around the time the true chaos arrived, in the form of Gregory’s children.

“My stepchildren,” Tim declared dramatically, as though he’d married Gregory in a legally binding ceremony and not just for backstory flavor.

Cassie Sandsmark, entered first—heels sharp, blazer sharper. She declared herself CEO of Gregory’s company, though no one could confirm what that company actually did. Something about international assets. Or luxury umbrellas. Possibly both.

She sipped from a crystal glass she’d brought herself, leaned against the fireplace, and dismissed nearly everyone as “redundant.”

Conner Kent, leaning on the doorframe in silk pajamas, his own feathered robe, and holding a sparkling water like it was vintage champagne, sighed heavily. “I don’t need the inheritance,” he declared. “I have endorsements. And charm. And a meticulously curated brand presence.”

At one point, he attempted to file paperwork mid-game to acquire Gregory’s Tuscan Villa, citing emotional distress and “narrative rights.” Cassie, without looking up from her notes, promoted him to CFO on the spot.

He was devastated.

“CFO?” he groaned. “That sounds like… responsibility.”
“You’ll be fine,” Cassie said dryly. “Just sign the quarterly death reports.”

Bart Allen burst in with a manila envelope marked “CONFIDENTIAL – DNA RESULTS – TOTALLY LEGIT.” He insisted that he might not be Gregory’s son after all, but had already emotionally bonded with the estate and therefore demanded visitation rights to the kitchen. He conducted “investigative sprints” around the room, took fingerprints, and once shouted, “MOTIVE!” before tripping over the ottoman and declaring himself a “fallen heir.”

An hour later, Anita Fite stepped through the manor doors like she'd been summoned—not invited. Long black gloves. A veil that served no real purpose. Greta Hayes drifted in just behind her, silent and eerie in a floor-length vintage mourning gown that trailed slightly behind her, even when she stood still.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Anita said flatly, “though frankly, I predicted this six months ago in a tarot reading.”

“The card was The Fool. ” Greta finished. 

Tim, naturally, beamed. “Ah. The mysterious clairvoyants with a vendetta and a past no one dares question.”

“Mm,” Greta replied. “We prefer ‘executive spiritual consultants.’”

Duke leaned toward Cass and whispered, “I thought Tim cut the ghost subplot.”

Cass just shrugged. “Try telling Greta that.”

Jason, watching from the corner, muttered to Alfred, “Are they in the script?”

Alfred, without looking up from his crossword: “No one is, Master Jason. That’s the beauty of it.”

Anita and Greta seated themselves at the séance table Tim had repurposed from the billiards room. The velvet cloth billowed despite a complete lack of wind.

“Ask your questions,” Greta said softly. “But be warned… the answers may be vague. ”

“And judgmental,” Anita added.

Tim clapped, delighted. “Excellent! Scene six: The Reading of the Betrayed.”

Meanwhile, Bruce—who had been maintaining character with rigid dignity all evening—quietly updated his mental roster. He’d stopped being surprised hours ago.

Tim conducted them like a finely tuned orchestra.

Later, Cassie accused Conner of laundering money through a boutique shampoo line. Conner accused Bart of running a Ponzi scheme with Gregory’s art collection (which, in-game, included only one painting: a portrait of a goose in a cravat). Bart accused Gregory of being a government experiment. 

It was then that Anita Fite and Greta Hayes rose from the fainting couch in eerie unison.

“I warned Gregory this would happen,” Anita said, voice low and spine-straightening.
Greta didn’t look up from her embroidery hoop. “He ignored the veil. Again.”

“Who are they?” whispered Duke.
“No one knows,” Tim whispered back, awe in his voice.

Greta set her embroidery aside—it was a goose. With glowing red eyes.
“Balance must be restored,” she said flatly. “Through fire.”

“No fire in the house,” Bruce interjected instantly, not breaking character.

Anita calmly opened her purse. “Fine. Symbolic fire.” She held up a single match and a bottle of glitter.

No one moved.

Then Cassie cleared her throat. “So… do I still accuse Kon of tax fraud or are we pivoting to a spectral reckoning?”
Tim, visibly delighted, just grinned. “Both.”

By the end of the night, the mystery had become untraceable. Alliances shifted, inheritances were rewritten, and no fewer than three fake deaths occurred during a staged power outage.

At midnight, no one had solved the case.

Tim, draped across a velvet armchair like the widow he was, lifted a champagne flute full of sparkling cider and declared, “No matter who killed Gregory… his legacy lives on in our pettiness .”

And that, everyone agreed, was the real victory.

Chapter Text

The game had reached a moment of suspicious calm. Duke was quietly cross-examining Cassie, Bart was pretending to be a parrot for reasons no one fully understood, and Conner was still stewing over being made CFO instead of being written off in a blaze of scandal.

That was when the front door creaked open.

Everyone turned.

Red Tornado stepped into the foyer, impeccably composed and holding a small index card.

“I was informed,” he said in his usual monotone, “that this is either a mission… or a team-building exercise.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Jason leaned toward Steph. “Did Tim actually invite Red Tornado?”

Steph shook her head. “Tim invites chaos. The guests are just summoned by energy alone at this point.”

Red Tornado stepped forward. “The note also said, and I quote: ‘Batman may need assistance or a break.’ ”

From the couch, Bruce raised his hand. “Ten-minute break.”

Without another word, he stood up, walked into the next room, and closed the door. A chorus of impressed murmurs followed him.

Dick blinked. “He actually left?”

Tim, looking far too proud of himself, nodded. “He’s starting to trust the process.”

Red Tornado surveyed the room, taking in the feather boas, fog machines, and the suspicious goose painting.

Damian leaned in toward Barbara. “I give him five minutes before he short-circuits.”

“No way,” said Jason, “Three.”

Red Tornado turned slowly. “Your assumptions are statistically flawed. The Young Justice team has already prepared me for every crisis scenario.”

“Young Justice isn’t this,” Duke said, skeptically.

Red Tornado’s eyes glowed faintly. “I survived the intergalactic baseball incident. This is… charming.”

Tim dropped a monocle ( where did he get that? ) in sheer delight. 

Greta and Anita, still seated on the fainting couch like gothic oracles, raised matching teacups in silent approval.

“Shall we resume?” Red Tornado asked.

Tim nodded solemnly. “Gregory’s estranged uncle arrives. A former clockmaker with a mysterious scar and a history of disappearing islands.”

“Understood,” Red Tornado said. “I will require a cravat.”

And just like that, the game surged on—with one more player… and ten more complications.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

And Duke?

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character.

Not even when the doorbell rang, revealing the Teen Titans in full costume and carrying themed snacks.

“We heard there was a murder,” Raven deadpanned, already halfway inside.

Beast Boy adjusted his bowler hat. “Detective Barkley, consulting zoologist, reporting for duty.”

Starfire held up a feather boa solemnly. “I am most prepared for vengeance. And snacks.”

Cyborg gave a two-fingered salute. “I hacked the RSVP list to make sure I got the good role. Tim assigned me the coroner. He even gave me fake reports.”

Donna Troy raised an eyebrow as she held up a clipboard that read Potential Suspects, Definitely Guilty. “Apparently, I’m the lawyer. Or possibly the judge. The script keeps shifting.”

Wally zipped in beside her with a tray of suspiciously glittery cupcakes. “Sorry I’m late. I had to interrogate the bakery. Just to stay in character.”

Bruce stood in the doorway. Silent. Immovable.

Behind him, Dick popped his head into the hall. “Oh yeah—did I forget to mention I invited the Teen Titans?” He grinned. “Tim had backup characters written just for them.”

“And I invited the Outlaws,” Jason added from the stairwell. “He asked me last week. Gave me a whole invitation script.”

Roy and Artemis appeared in the driveway, still arguing over prop weapons. Bizarro followed behind them, carefully holding a porcelain teacup.

Starfire beamed. “Timothy was most diligent with his invitations! I received two—one for each group of heroic companions. It was considerate and also mildly alarming.”

Bruce closed his eyes.

“Come on, B,” Jason nudged. “You let Tim run a murder cult in the living room. What’s a few more suspects?”

Dick elbowed Bruce. “You said it was about family, remember?”

A long silence.

Bruce exhaled.

“Fine,” he said at last, stepping back. “But no more players.”

Everyone cheered. Bizarro was promptly assigned head of security and began solemnly inspecting everyone’s shoes for “not crime.” 

Beast Boy launched into his first interrogation—with Ace the Bat-Hound—demanding to know where he was during the petit four poisoning and whether he'd had “motive, means, and access to a snack table.” 

Cyborg began analyzing the prop evidence with increasing concern. “Guys, I think one of these fingerprint kits is actually real.”

Donna took detailed notes on everyone’s supposed motives, including a full chart titled Who Knew Gregory, Who Hated Gregory, and Who Spelled Gregory with an ‘i’.

Wally vanished and reappeared with snacks that no one remembered preparing. “All baked goods accounted for. Except the lemon bars. Suspicious.”

Artemis declared that the written characters were “limiting” and promptly invented her own—a weapons heiress with a vendetta and very dramatic lighting. Tim approved the change on the condition that she incorporate a long-lost twin plot involving an unsuspecting Roy.

Roy, mid-sip of punch, choked and demanded a rewrite. Tim handed him a monocle instead.

Raven perched silently on the edge of the fireplace, sipping tea and offering no details about her character. When questioned, she simply said, “I’m the plot twist,” and made the lights flicker.

At the end of the night, Bruce stood in the doorway, watching as the last wave of sugar highs gave way to yawns and collapsing costumes. Accusations had quieted. Feather boas were abandoned. Someone—likely Roy—had fallen asleep in a decorative suit of armor.

Did they solve the murder?

Unclear.

Did it matter?

Not at all.

Because what Bruce saw—amid the glitter, gaudy jewelry, and the scattered remains snacks—was his children. Laughing. Teasing. Letting go. Being kids.

Tim leaned against Bruce’s leg, valiantly fighting the inevitable, his eyelids drooping, crown askew.

“Did you have fun?” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Bruce looked down, and with a softness rarely heard in his voice, replied, “Yes. I did.”

He lifted Tim gently, careful not to dislodge the glittering sash or the toy dagger tucked in his belt.

This chaos—this storm of drama, friendship, and five-hour mysteries?

Bruce wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

And Duke?

Wait. Where was Duke?

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

More importantly, only because Tim absolutely needs supervision at all times,—where was Tim?

He scanned the room again. No Tim. No Duke. No chaos gremlin or chaos gremlin wrangler. Both gone.

Bruce cleared his throat in that special way that made everyone still. “Pause the game.”

Dick looked up from dramatically swooning into a fainting couch. “What? Why?”

“Two players are missing,” Bruce said flatly.

Jason stopped mid-sip of his “arsenic tea.” “Wait… you're right. Where is Tim?”

“And Duke?” Steph added, peering under a chaise. “He’s usually monologuing by now.”

Within seconds, the game was on hold and the Bat-family scattered—checking hallways, bathrooms, ceiling vents (just in case). Bruce even activated the internal security scanners—only to get a static glitch and a cupcake recipe.

Then—just as Bruce was about to bring in Alfred on the search—the lights went out.

All at once.

Total darkness.

Then—

Click.

The lights snapped back on.

Standing in the center of the room: a large cardboard box. Stamped dramatically across the front in red marker—a giant “R.”

Everyone stared.

The box hissed slightly. Mechanized hinges opened. Smoke puffed out. Then—

Voices. Multiple. Layered like a chorus through a voice modulator:

“We are Robin. And we have submitted a new storyline. It’s now a kidnapping mystery.”

Jason’s eyebrows went up. “Okay that’s... a little cool.”

Before Bruce could ask how , the box flaps folded down and out popped Tim—wearing a cloak made of neon “Missing” posters and holding a magnifying glass the size of a dinner plate.

“It’s a murder mystery slash seek-and-find bonus round,” he announced grandly, striking a pose. “Points awarded for dramatic reveals and proper search technique.”

Behind him, Duke emerged from a hidden panel in the wall, grinning and holding up scorecards. “You lost us and your snacks. Minus ten, Bruce.”

Bruce stared.

Long silence.

Then he squinted at Duke and Tim “What caused the security glitch? And why did it display a cupcake recipe?” 

Duke shrugged, utterly unbothered. “We Are Robin.”

Steph squinted. “Wait—what’s We Are Robin ?”

Dick, already digging through his prop notebook, replied, “Bunch of teens fighting crime while Batman was MIA. It was a whole movement. Capes optional, attitude mandatory.”

“Sounds fake,” Steph muttered. “Is there an application process?”

Duke raised an eyebrow. “It was community service with flair.”

Bruce turned back to Duke. “So someone hacked the security system?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then who did?”

Duke crossed his arms. “I’m not a snitch.”

Bruce closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower.

Dick patted him on the shoulder. “You raised very committed theater kids who also have a healthy mistrust of authority figures, Bruce.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Yeah. This is on you, man.”

Tim beamed. “So—ready to start Act II?”

Bruce reopened his eyes.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But if anyone else disappears, I’m setting the manor to lockdown.”

From somewhere—possibly the box, possibly the vents—the We Are Robin collective replied in eerie unison: “ Look in the box for additional resources. Also, some of these mysteries are on a time limit that started two days ago. ”

And the game continued.

Now with bonus side quests.

And apparently… a resistance movement.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

And Duke?

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character.

Except for the phone call he received mid-way through the night. 

He stepped briefly into the hallway, answering with a low, “Gordon.”

Jim sighed on the other end. “Just checking—there hasn’t been an actual murder, right?”

“…No.”

“Because someone—Tim, I assume—sent over an envelope with ‘evidence’ suggesting the tragic demise of one Lady Clementine Worthington and honestly, Bruce, I’m not unconvinced it was real. There were blood spatters. And vintage pearls.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a game. A murder mystery. Tim’s running it.”

“Uh-huh. Because this ‘game’ also included fake tax records, a feather from a boa that was definitely lit on fire, and something labeled ‘the widow’s final confession’ that was postmarked from Blüdhaven.”

“…It’s complicated.”

“That’s what Barbara said,” Jim muttered. “Look, I don’t need to get wrapped up in whatever dramatics you people are staging over there. I’ve seen Macbeth with less death. Just—don’t let it spill into Gotham proper.”

Bruce sighed. “You’re welcome to join.”

There was a beat of horrified silence.

“Bruce. I say this with decades of respect, grudging admiration, and a permanent eye twitch—”

Bruce waited.

“—I like Alfred, I like your kids. I even like your dog. But if I step into your house and get accused of poisoning a duchess, I will file a report, press charges, and possibly retire.”

“I could donate—”

“There is not enough money in the known universe to get me tangled in Wayne Manor game night.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Understood.”

“Good. And if someone mails me another coded invitation, I will personally hand-deliver it back. With glitter.”

“Noted.”

“Good luck,” Jim said. “And for the record? I think you lost control of the narrative three crimes ago.”

He hung up.

Bruce turned, just in time to see Tim standing on the coffee table, announcing to the room that Ace—now wearing a shawl and what might’ve once been a wig— “is the mysterious Countess Von Barkington.” Cass dutifully tossed rose petals for flair as Ace stoically endured the costume, regal and resigned.

He sighed again.

And walked back into the chaos.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

As Duke was about to pull off another flawless frame-up job on Bruce, he paused.

Something about the clues— the cadence , the meticulous wordplay, the layered misdirection—itched at his brain. Too flashy. Too theatrical. Too familiar.

“…You didn’t,” Duke said slowly, turning toward Tim.

Tim, perched suspiciously on the arm of a Victorian fainting couch, tilted his head. “Didn’t what?”

Duke narrowed his eyes. “I’m honestly not even surprised he agreed to this.”

Tim grinned like the cat who definitely replaced the canary with a live parrot for dramatic effect. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

“Does this feel familiar to anyone else?” Duke asked the room.

A chorus of head shakes.

“Not even you ?” he said, staring at Bruce.

Bruce answered flatly. “Duke, I haven’t known what’s going on in this house for 80 years.”

Alfred, without missing a beat, replied, “A generous estimate, Master Bruce. I believe it began with the circus incident. Or perhaps the second one.”

Duke gave a that’s fair nod and turned back to the wall, muttering, “Yeah… sounds right.”

Methodically, he tapped across the perimeter—then stopped. He knocked once. Then twice.

Then punched straight through the false panel.

Bruce turned slowly at the sound of crumbling drywall. And there—behind the wall—sat Edward Nygma , the Riddler himself, wearing a velvet smoking jacket, sipping tea from a mug shaped like a question mark, and surrounded by an array of screens, cables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of mood lighting behind him.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned his gaze on his de-aged middle child.

“Timothy. Why is Edward Nygma in my house?”

Tim practically beamed. “Uncle Eddie! He’s helping with the game.”

Bruce stared at him.

“You forged legal documents again, didn’t you.”

Tim waved a dismissive hand. “Only a little. For ambiance.”

Bruce rubbed at his temples. “We have ambiance. It’s called a chandelier.”

“Which no one notices anymore,” Tim countered. “Eddie brings panache.”

Edward raised his mug. “Guilty, Your Honor. This has been glorious. The tension! The misdirection! The Countess Dog costume! Did you see the lighting on the ballroom confession?”

He turned toward Duke with a fond nod. “I’m so proud of you for catching on.”

“You used twelve fake ciphers, four red herrings, and a crossword buried inside the piano sheet music,” Duke said, flatly. 

“Thank you for noticing!” Edward clapped once, delighted. “Also—how long did it take you to catch on? Be honest.”

“I had a hunch by clue ten. Confirmed by seventeen. And” Duke said, smug.

Tim leaned over the arm of the couch, grinning at Duke. “Told you he’d be proud.”

Riddler clasped his hands dramatically. “Proud? I am beside myself. I mean, look at you two—perfect blend of brains, flair, and just enough disregard for boundaries.”

He gestured between them, then turned to the rest of the family. “To be clear—and I want no confusion on this—Tim and Duke are my favorites. No offense.”

“Offense definitely taken,” Jason muttered.

Riddler shrugged. “You shouldn’t have said my riddles were derivative.”

“That was ten years ago! ”

“I hold grudges like they’re rare comic books,” Riddler said serenely. Then he added, “First editions.”

Steph raised her hand. “Wait—do the rogues all have favorites?”

“Oh, definitely, ” Riddler said without hesitation.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Do we want to know who belongs to whom?”

Riddler grinned, all teeth. “Oh, absolutely not. ”

Ace barked once. Riddler gave a dramatic gasp.

“Don’t worry, Countess!” he declared to the dog. “Your innocence will be proven by Act III! ”

Bruce closed his eyes. He exhaled.

Tim leaned into his side and whispered, “Still think the game was a bad idea?”

Bruce sighed deeply. “You brought a supervillain into my house.”

Tim smiled brightly. “A supervillain who helped us with family bonding.”

“…I’m going to regret this in the morning.”

“Technically,” Edward cut in, “you’re going to regret it right now, because Act II has already started and someone—” he pointed at the R on his monitor “—just triggered the time bomb subplot.”

“What time bomb subplot?” Dick asked warily.

“Ohhh,” Tim said, eyes sparkling, “ that time bomb subplot.”

And the manor descended once again into chaos.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character.

Except when he slightly broke character when the front door opened. His gaze flicked toward the sound, the faintest crease in his brow breaking through the performance.

“Detective Montoya?” Bruce asked, still fully in noir detective mode, trench coat and all, as he turned toward the door.

Renee Montoya stood at the threshold, unimpressed. Her gaze took in the fog machine, the costumed chaos, and—finally—Ace, who wore pearls and a velvet cape, reclining like he ruled the estate.

“I was told there’d be a body,” she said flatly. “Not a dog in pearls and a velvet cape.”

Tim looked up from where he was adjusting Ace’s ruffles. “Countess Aceline, please.”

“You named the dog?” Renee blinked.

“He has a title,” Tim said, clearly offended. “Respect the process.”

Bruce sighed. “Why are you here?”

“Gordon said something about a possible crime scene,” Renee replied, stepping inside. “I figured it was one of your usual Tuesday night specials. I brought forms.”

“You brought—” Bruce started, then stopped. “You thought there was an actual murder?”

“I thought there was a chance there was an actual murder,” Renee clarified. Her eyes scanned the parlor, pausing briefly on Jason in handcuffs, Steph passed out dramatically across a chaise lounge, and Cass halfway through a somersault out a window. “Now I’m not sure if that would be better or worse.”

“You’re the new constable,” Tim said brightly, walking over. “Fresh out of the academy, brought in to make a name for yourself.”

Renee blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Tim beamed and held out a character card. 

Renee took the card slowly. “ Constable Detective ?”

“That’s right,” Bruce said, stepping in without breaking character. “You’re my backup. We were meant to meet at the harbor, where one of Gregory’s fake deaths occurred before his actual death.” He gave her a cool look. “What kept you?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Nope,” Renee said, deadpan. “Not doing this.”

She turned to Alfred, who was already pouring her tea.

“You’re all in on this?”

“I merely support the arts, Constable,” Alfred said smoothly.

Later that night

The manor door opened.

Kate Kane stepped inside cautiously, eyes narrowing at the distant echo of dramatic piano music and the hiss of a still-running fog machine. Bruce happened to be passing by in the hall.

“Is Renee here?” Kate asked.

Bruce paused. “Yes… did she call you?”

“No. I got an invitation from Tim. Said Renee would need backup for an important sting operation.” She gestured at her outfit—sharp but civilian. “Since it was addressed to me directly, I didn’t wear the Batwoman suit.”

Bruce closed his eyes. Slowly. Painfully. “Follow me to the library.”

Inside was barely controlled chaos.

Jason was mid-monologue about offshore bank accounts. Steph was fainting again. Cass had stolen the boa and was vanishing into the fog. Ace—the Countess—was eating a cucumber sandwich. And Duke was loudly accusing Barbara of orchestrating the whole thing from a hidden room in the east wing.

Kate made her way over to Renee. “So. This is the sting operation?”

Renee gave her a look. “What operation?”

Kate frowned. “The one Tim told me about.”

“You mean the ten-year-old?”

“He’s older than that.”

Kate looked around the room—the dramatic lighting, the over-costumed Waynes, the theatrically suspicious dog. Her gaze landed on Tim, adjusting a candlestick like it was evidence.

She blinked once. Then twice. Slowly, disbelief gave way to a long-suffering kind of resignation.

“Bruce, you owe me for gas,” she said, sighing.

“You’re not even mad?” Renee asked, watching as Kate accepted a glass of sparkling apple juice.

Kate shrugged. “I’ve been to worse parties. And honestly, this is pretty tame for Tim”

Just then, Alfred appeared beside her, offering a neatly folded costume on a silver tray.

“Good Evening, you are Master Tim’s long-lost stepsister,” he explained calmly. “Returned from exile with amnesia and a mysterious fortune.”

Kate stared at him. Then nodded. “I’m in.”

The game continued until hour five, where most of the inhabitants had crashed out on various fainting couches that seemed to multiply when no one was looking. Detective Montoya had left a bit ago to update Gordon on the non-murder case, promising Kate she’d see her later.

“So Tim was de-aged?” Kate asked casually.

“Yes,” Bruce grunted.

“Have you said ‘no’ to any of his requests yet?”

Bruce quickly looked elsewhere.

“You are a weak man, Bruce Wayne.”

From the corner of the room, a drowsy voice mumbled, “He agreed to the fog machine in under ten seconds.”

Bruce closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, Jason.”

Jason snorted. “Can’t. Gregory  might rise from the dead.”

Somewhere in the distance, the fog machine hissed again.

Chapter Text

Later, after the villain reveal, the ballroom confession, three more “deaths,” and Kate and Tim’s choreographed slap fight, Renee stood outside on the patio, dialing her phone.

“Gordon,” she said flatly when he answered. “From now on, every time you send me to deal with the Waynes is one step closer to an HR complaint or my resignation.”

“What happened? You found a body?”

“Oh, I found the ‘body,’ Jim. Name was Gregory. Pronounced dead on the fainting couch by Alfred in a top hat. I’m fairly sure he was Tim’s fictional husband.”

“…So no actual victim.”

“No actual victim. Just an overacted tragedy and an aggressively committed cast. The prime suspect was a German Shepherd in pearls who they called Countess Aceline.”

“That’s… Ace?”

“Yes, Jim. The dog.”

Silence. “And you stayed for this?”

“I thought I was walking into an actual homicide, not a five-hour period drama where the killer might be anyone , including Bruce Wayne or a dog.”

“You’re the detective. Shouldn’t you have suspected something?”

“Suspected what? That you were sending me into the middle of an amateur theater production with more costume changes than a Broadway show?”

“…Technically, I just said ‘possible suspicious death at Wayne Manor.’”

“Next time you get that call, you’re coming with me.”

“You’re writing this up as unfounded, right?”

“Oh, I’m writing it up, Jim. And you’re buying me dinner while I do it." she paused. "In fact, you owe me several dinners-five hours worth of dinners.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —dragged on for five relentless hours.

During the first hour, there was a knock at the front door.

Bruce frowned. They weren’t expecting anyone else—at least, not according to the carefully maintained guest list.

When Alfred opened the door, a man and woman stood there, both holding a thick cream-colored envelope embossed with a dramatic black W.

“Uh, hi,” the man said. “We’re Victor and Rosa Vasquez. We got an invitation for tonight.”

Bruce stepped into view, brow furrowing. “You did?”

Victor held up the envelope like it was Exhibit A in a high-profile trial. “Yeah. Said to come dressed for something called The Widow’s Club. We are hoping this is not an elaborate kidnapping plot. Or if it is, that you at least feed us first.”

Rosa gave him a look, then smiled warmly at Bruce. “We’re not late, are we? Alfred and I discussed the RSVP a few days ago—he assured me we’d be welcome.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to Alfred.

Alfred, perfectly unbothered, replied, “Indeed, madam. And you are, in fact, precisely on time.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed further, but Alfred was already gesturing for them to come inside.

“How exactly do you know Tim?” Bruce asked, voice mild but carrying that subtle I would like a complete background check now edge.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Victor said cheerfully. “Our boys Freddie and Eugene play an online farming game with Tim and Damian. Something about running a vineyard, raising goats, and occasionally getting into fights with the local fisherman?”

Rosa nodded. “Apparently your two are very good at it. I think Freddie still owes Damian three crates of blueberries—or maybe it’s Tim who owes Freddie. Either way, someone’s holding a grudge.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but Alfred spoke first. “If I may, sir—those particular gaming sessions were, to my knowledge, Master Timothy’s attempt— when he was older —at sibling bonding with Master Damian. In his own… uniquely pixelated way.”

Bruce blinked once. “…fights with a fisherman?”

“Precisely, sir,” Alfred said smoothly, ushering the newcomers toward the parlor.

Within moments, six kids trailed in behind them, each in varying degrees of “formal” attire—ranging from Mary’s immaculate black dress to Darla’s pink cardigan with a glittery “Detective” badge stickered on.

“Family of the dearly departed Gregory,” Alfred announced smoothly. “Do watch your step; the Countess Aceline has been most unsteady since the tragedy.”

Ace, sprawled on a chaise in a string of pearls, let out a low, perfectly timed sigh.

Tim, resplendent in full widow’s attire, swept into the room. “Ah! The Vasquez household. Gregory spoke of you often—mostly in his will. Welcome.”

The children reacted exactly as six siblings at a murder mystery would: Billy immediately began asking who might benefit most from Gregory’s death, Mary declared they had all come to clear the family name, Freddy pulled out his list of theories and conspiracies, Eugene pulled out a tablet to "catalog evidence”, Pedro just stared suspiciously at Bruce, and Darla gasped at the sight of the “Countess.”

Bruce glanced at Alfred. Alfred, unhelpfully, only arched an eyebrow and murmured, “They were on the list, sir.”

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion, general smugness, and a suspiciously enthusiastic knowledge of accounting terms no one asked for. Steph had “fainted” seven times—twice during the same interrogation—and still insisted she was perfectly fine, thank you very much. Cass “confessed” to everything except what anyone asked about, then deflected so expertly she practically disappeared into the fog, leaving only a faint scent of lavender and mystery behind.

Duke? Duke had convinced everyone, at least for a few minutes, that he was the real detective. Twice. He also managed to frame everyone else in the room for at least one crime—including Bruce, who was still trying to figure out how exactly he got dragged into this mess. 

Their new guests added their own brand of delightful chaos.

Billy kept loudly questioning everyone’s motives like he was auditioning for a true-crime podcast—complete with dramatic pauses, sudden gasps, and wildly unfounded theories. “Who really benefits from the deceased’s demise? I’m looking at you, Jason… and possibly you, Darla. No one’s too innocent in this house.” At one point, he even demanded a chalkboard so he could draw a conspiracy web that connected half the guests to an underground marmalade-smuggling ring.

Mary, instead of trying to calm things down, leaned into the absurdity—at one point staging a “secret meeting” in the pantry with Steph and Duke to form an alliance. She strode back into the parlor with an overly dramatic speech about “the fall of the Gregory estate,” then promptly tried to bribe Cass with a plate of cookies to “switch sides” and join her faction.

Freddy dramatically collapsed into a chair every time someone mentioned the “murder weapon.” Twice he declared himself “dead” just to see what would happen. Tim, quick on his feet, clapped his hands and declared, “Flashback!” with theatrical flair. “Let’s revisit the victim’s final moments!” Freddy, grinning, got right back up and played along, adding even more dramatic flair to each “flashback” scene.

Eugene had commandeered the desk in the corner, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys like he was breaching a high-security server instead of researching an imaginary inheritance. He’d roped Barbara into his “investigation,” the two of them whispering over glowing screens and exchanging grim nods. Every so often, Eugene would announce that he’d “unearthed damning digital evidence” and slam down a printed spreadsheet like it was the smoking gun—though no one could quite figure out how the Wi-Fi was suddenly three times faster when he was done.

Pedro had been watching Bruce like a hawk all night, quietly noting every move. When Bruce finally asked if he was making him uncomfortable, Pedro shook his head and said, “No, just making sure you don’t get too comfortable. Tim said to keep you on your toes.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, feeling the weight of Pedro’s steady gaze.

Darla had teamed up with Ace, who was lounging around in pearls like the royal canine he was, to spy on every conversation—though Ace mostly snoozed on the job, only waking to offer dramatic barks at perfectly timed moments. Darla, undeterred by her partner’s lack of professionalism, scribbled tiny notes in a glitter-covered notepad and darted between rooms with all the stealth of a sugar-fueled ninja. Every so often, she’d dramatically gasp and whisper, “Suspicious…” to no one in particular before vanishing again.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character. Not even when Duke tried to pin a scandalous accusation on him. Not when Billy loudly theorized about the inheritance being a front for international crime. Not even when Ace performed a perfectly timed howl that made the entire room jump.

Only once, very briefly, did Bruce glance toward the ceiling, as if silently pleading for an end to the madness.

Chapter Text

The chaos had mostly moved toward the kitchen, leaving Bruce in the parlor with Rosa and Victor Vasquez. Rosa sat back on the couch, exhausted but smiling, while Victor looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or question every life choice that brought him here.

“Well,” Rosa said at last, her tone hovering between admiration and disbelief, “your family knows how to commit to a performance.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Performance,” he echoed, glancing toward the hall where Pedro was still tracking him like an overzealous security guard.

Victor chuckled. “I think half of them forgot this is a game.”

“I’m not sure the other half ever knew,” Bruce admitted.

Rosa smirked. “Parenting children really is just… adapting to whatever disaster they invent on the spot.”

Bruce gave a dry huff of agreement. “And pretending you’re in control of the situation.”

Victor leaned back, nodding knowingly. “Your kids really know how to turn an evening into a…production.”

Bruce shrugged slightly. “I tried limiting some things.”

“Mm-hm,” Rosa said, unconvinced. “For the record, I think Darla and Ace knows exactly what happened. She’s just milking the suspense.”

Bruce glanced at her. “Really?”

Rosa nodded. “Smart kid. Knows how to keep her audience hooked.”

From the hallway came Freddy’s exaggerated death groan, followed by Tim’s immediate cry of, “Flashback time!”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “This is going to be a long night.”

Victor raised his coffee cup in salute. “To surviving the chaos.”

Bruce gave a small nod and lifted his own cup. “To surviving.”

Rosa laughed softly. “You sound like a man who’s been through it.”

“I have,” Bruce said simply, but the corner of his mouth curved just enough to suggest he wasn’t entirely complaining.

Victor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever try making a rule in your house and have it immediately turned into a competition to see who can break it most creatively?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “That’s every rule in my house.”

Victor let out a quiet “hmm,” the sound carrying more understanding than words ever could.

They all sat in companionable silence for a moment, punctuated by a loud crash from the kitchen and Tim’s distant, “It was self-defense! ”

Rosa smiled knowingly. “I knew they’d all get along just fine.”

Bruce allowed himself a genuine smile. “That’s the problem.”

Chapter Text

A Day Before the Widow’s Murder Mystery Club

“Alfred,” he declared, “I need a robe.”

Alfred, who had been polishing the silver, raised a single eyebrow. “A robe, Master Tim?”

“Not just any robe,” Tim said gravely, his voice dipping into melodrama. “One with feathers. The kind a glamorous woman wears in an old movie after her rich husband dies under mysterious circumstances. And she says things like, ‘I just don’t know what happened, darling. I turned my back for one second and… he was gone.’”

Alfred blinked once. “Color preference?”

“Black. With tragedy.”

Two hours later, Tim sat at the head of the dining room table, finishing his demand for a feathered widow’s robe and the event worthy of it. Around him, Alfred listened with his usual, measured patience, Bernard practically vibrated with excitement, and Ives rubbed his temples like he already regretted agreeing to this.

“So,” Ives said slowly, “let me make sure I’ve got this right. You want me to create a role-playing game with multiple plot twists, subgenres, costume changes, and props… in less than ten hours?”

Tim beamed, undeterred. “Yes. Exactly.”

Ives groaned. “That’s not a plan, that’s a breakdown waiting to happen.”

“Well, you won't be on your own,” Tim said cheerfully, as if this were the most reasonable request in the world. “That’s why Alfred and Bernard are here.”

Alfred inclined his head.

Bernard, however, brightened. “Don’t worry, I came prepared,” already rummaging in his backpack. He slammed a binder onto the table, flipping it open with a flourish. Charts, sticky notes, and color coded tabs, “Behold!”

Bernard pointed proudly. “Option one: a cursed yacht party and an Atlantean conspiracy. Option two: a wife possesses her husband to solve her own murder and manage her bakery. Option three: alien body-snatchers crash a funeral under diplomatic immunity. Lasers are optional.”

Tim’s grin widened with each suggestion. “Yes. Perfect. All of them.”

“Three seconds in, and Master Bernard had already derailed the meeting,” Alfred remarked, amused.

Ives, sketching, didn’t miss a beat. “That’s how it always goes. I let him and Tim burn energy on each other, then later I take one or two of their ideas so they think they built the plot.”

Alfred arched his eyebrow. “Efficient.”

“Necessary,” Ives replied.

On cue, Bernard started doodling a spaceship in the margin of his notes. Tim started adding his own characters to Bernard’s plots. And Alfred and Ives only traded a resigned look before settling back into the real work of shaping the game.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim) —lasted five full hours.

By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic.

Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

And Bruce? Bruce never broke character… though by hour three, he did quietly retreat into the study long enough to place a call.

“Lucius,” Bruce said in a low, urgent tone the moment the line picked up, “I need you to come to the manor. Now.”

There was a beat of silence before Lucius’s voice came through, calm and mildly amused.
“Well, hello to you too. How are you this evening?”

Bruce exhaled. “…I’m fine,” then added “It’s a family thing.”

“Ah.” Lucius sounded far too pleased. “So, not business.”

“No,” Bruce admitted. “Just… another adult presence would help. Come to the manor.”

Lucius chuckled, smooth and knowing. “Tell me, Bruce—how many people did you try for help before me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “…That doesn’t matter.”

“So, quite a few, then.”

Bruce didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Mm. I see.” Lucius leaned on the silence just long enough to make Bruce regret the request. “You know, I’ve weathered my fair share of chaos at WE while you disappeared at…opportune times. And now, after years of missing various meetings, suddenly you’d like me to sacrifice my quiet evening?”

“I won’t miss the next three,” Bruce said immediately.

Lucius gave a short, amused hum. “Bruce, you’ll miss them. You always do.”

“Lucius”

“But,” Lucius went on, his tone smooth with just a hint of amusement, “I’ll be generous. I won’t come myself, but I’ll send reinforcements. Someone who can share the… burden of your current predicament.”

Bruce frowned. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” Lucius admitted.

Click.

There was a knock at the manor door not ten minutes later.

Alfred opened it to reveal Luke Fox, looking mildly confused but composed. “Dad said you needed me.”

“Right this way, Master Luke,” Alfred said, voice calm as ever, “you’ll want to see what you’ve walked into.”

Luke’s eyes swept the room, taking in the feathered robes, mood lighting, and barely contained chaos. Then, with a small smirk, he straightened his posture and followed Alfred to a table in the corner where a wooden box sat, filled with folded cards.

“Master Tim anticipated extra players,” Alfred explained. “Each card is a character, ready to slot into the narrative seamlessly. Pick one, and you’re in.”

Luke reached into the box and pulled a card. Unfolding it, he read aloud: “Lost Heir.” His voice carried a dramatic flourish, emphasizing each word. “The secret heir, long hidden from the world… until now.”

Tim’s grin nearly split his face. “Perfect! You’re exactly who the story needed!”

Luke glanced at the room, then, leaning slightly on the table with mock gravity, added, “I shall claim my birthright… and seek vengeance for the slights committed against my fortune.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “He’s good.”

Luke swept his arm theatrically toward the room. “All of you are suspects in this tragic tale, and I will discover the truth.”

Steph flung herself dramatically across the couch. “ANOTHER HEIR?!”

Jason groaned into his hands. “We’re never getting out of this alive.”

Bruce glared at the phone still in his hand. “…You’re making this worse,” he muttered to the absent Lucius.

And somewhere, in his own quiet living room, Lucius Fox was no doubt smiling.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim)—lasted five full hours. By the end, Jason had been “arrested” for tax evasion and general smugness. Steph had “fainted” a record seven times. Cass “confessed,” then promptly “deflected,” and ultimately vanished into the fog with eerie silence. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa—an act that, debatably, matched the aesthetic. 

And Duke? Duke nearly convinced everyone he was the real detective—while simultaneously managing to frame every single person in the room. Including Bruce. Twice.

But about an hour in, just as Bruce began piecing together his first serious line of questioning,  the front doors opened, and Helena Bertinelli entered the manor like a figure out of a noir film. Alfred, already prepared, presented her with a suit coat and fedora from Tim’s stockpile of costumes. 

Tim beamed as if Christmas had come early. “You’re just in time! You’re my bodyguard—the widow’s fiercely loyal shadow.” He shouted, handing her a notecard.

Helena raised an unimpressed brow but donned the suit coat and hat with sharp finality. “Bodyguard,” she confirmed dryly. She skimmed the note—half directions, half Tim’s scrawled doodles of her standing protectively in front of him. Then tilted her head toward Bruce. “Guess that makes me your problem.”

From that moment on, Bruce’s progress as the designated detective ground to a crawl. Every time he tried to press Tim for answers, Helena intercepted like a professional. 

When Bruce leaned over the table to arrange evidence cards, Helena’s hand landed flat on them. “He’s not answering any of your questions without legal counsel present.” Tim immediately straightened, radiating smug delight. “That’s right. No statements without my bodyguard.” 

Jason nearly choked on his drink. “Legal counsel? He’s not even under arrest.” Tim shot back, “Yet,” while Helena simply folded her arms, perfectly impassive.

Every time Bruce tried to question Tim, Helena stepped between them, arms crossed, expression flat and deadly serious.

“He’s grieving,” she said for the fourth time that night, glaring at Bruce like he was the intruder here. “I won’t let you harass him.”

Tim, swaddled in his feathered robe on the chaise lounge, eyes teeming with delight. “Finally. Someone who understands.”

And Bruce could almost ignore the glint in Tim’s eye—almost—but he couldn’t ignore the faint, deadly sincerity beneath Helena’s act. Because if it wasn’t a game, if Tim really were in danger, Bruce knew she’d stand exactly where she was now.

Finally by hour four, Bruce cornered Tim near the fireplace. “Where were you at the time of the murder?” he asked, deadpan. 

Tim opened his mouth, but Helena smoothly stepped between them, answering with the ease of someone used to running interference. “Nowhere near the scene. He was indisposed.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Indisposed how?” “Classified,” Tim said with absolute relish. “Sealed under client confidentiality,” Helena added, utterly straight-faced. 

Steph toppled off the couch, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Barbara, observing with a wineglass in hand, leaned toward Dick. “She knows Tim is just using her to stonewall Bruce, right?” Helena, without even glancing away from her self-assigned charge, replied, “The kid wanted a bodyguard. I’m doing my job.” 

Tim clasped his hands to his chest. “She believes in me.” “She’s obstructing justice,” Bruce muttered. Dick’s grin was wicked. “First time in history someone, besides Alfred, managed to stonewall Batman in his own house.”

And through it all, Bruce never broke character.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the game—officially dubbed The Widow’s Club Murder Mystery (Starring Everyone, Especially Tim)—lasted five full hours.

From the moment the game began, it became clear Bruce was outnumbered. Jack and Janet Drake, having arrived precisely at start time with the solemnity of theater patrons at opening night, were already seated in the best “audience” chairs. They treated every line Tim delivered as though it belonged on Broadway.

“Brilliant delivery, son!” Jack declared after Tim’s very first monologue.

“Pefection, darling, you really command the room,” Janet added, clasping her hands like a patron saint of drama.

Tim glowed under the attention, soaking up their applause with every dramatic gesture. Which, of course, only made things harder for Bruce, who was attempting—futilely—to piece together the actual mystery.

Whenever he leaned in with a carefully worded question, Janet would cut across with, “Oh, let him build to it, detective, Tim has such a sense of timing.”

If Bruce pressed too much, Jack would chuckle and say, “Patience, Brucie, the boy knows what he’s doing. Let the genius work.”

At one point, after Jack’s third “note,” Bruce deadpanned, “I wasn’t aware critics were allowed at crime scenes or” gestures vaguely “funerals.”

Jack only beamed, missing the jab entirely. “Sharp wit, Brucie! Good improvisation.”

Later, when Bruce tried to cut through Tim’s increasingly convoluted timeline with a clipped, “None of this holds up in an investigation,” Janet fixed him with one of her famous stares and arched eyebrow—the kind she used to silence entire boardrooms and win hostile takeovers without raising her voice. Bruce stopped cold. For a split second, his jaw tightened, like he might press the point anyway. Then he caught the message in her eyes—don’t you dare ruin this for Tim—and relaxed his jaw with a sharp exhale, resuming his role without another protest.

The other kids weren’t helping. Jason egged the Drakes on, clapping the loudest after every “reveal.” Steph fainted more extravagantly with each round, always timing her collapses so Jack could praise Tim’s “commanding presence.” 

Cass vanished halfway through Act One only to reappear in Act Two, whispering to Janet that she’d “always suspected the gardener,” which Janet then dutifully announced to the room like an inspired audience insight. Damian tried to strangle Dick with a feather boa, which Janet called “a bold creative choice.” 

Barbara leaned forward with a smirk, feeding Tim extra details on motive or alibis whenever his story began to wobble, while Dick, ever the showman, threw himself into exaggerated gasps and stagey gestures that made Tim’s reveals land like full-blown curtain drops. And Duke? Duke framed everyone—and still somehow managed to get applause from Jack.

Through it all, Bruce never broke character. He refused to. But every step forward in his investigation was derailed by Tim’s proud parents and his equally enabling siblings. Every pointed question turned into an opportunity for Janet to gasp, for Jack to scribble “notes” like an adoring critic, and for Tim to shine brighter.

By hour five, Bruce could only conclude one thing: this wasn’t just Tim’s game. It was an entire family conspiracy—one he was powerless to solve.