Chapter 1: Do Not Disturb: Anniversary Mode
Chapter Text
Jack squinted, groaning as a ruthless beam of sunlight sliced across his face like a spotlight in an interrogation room. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, fumbling a hand toward the other side of the bed. Cold. No broad chest. No wall of muscle to snuggle against. No Bruce.
Tragic.
“Bruce,” he muttered into the pillow like a man in mourning, patting blindly in search of those absurdly defined abs. “Where’d you go, you concrete mattress?”
The bedroom door creaked open.
Jack peeked out from under the pillow, hair sticking in every direction like he’d fought a raccoon in his sleep and lost. But when he saw the doorway, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas.
There stood Bruce Wayne, six-foot, something of sleepy billionaire-slash-vigilante, wearing pajama pants, a black t-shirt, and the proudest smile in Gotham. He was carrying a tray of breakfast food that looked mostly edible. Right behind him, with the air of a long-suffering knight, came Alfred, who was clearly the one who made sure the toast wasn’t on fire.
“Happy anniversary, J,” Bruce said, voice soft, like he was trying not to wake up the whole house but couldn’t help the excitement leaking through.
“Good morning, Master Jack,” Alfred added with a graceful bow, setting a small vase with a single white rose on the nightstand. Of course Alfred brought a flower.
Jack blinked. Smiled. Then blinked again.
Oh.
OH.
His face dropped as the realization crashed into his foggy, sun-dazed brain. Anniversary. Their anniversary. He forgot.
While internal panic bloomed like a mushroom cloud, Bruce, completely oblivious, sat on the edge of the bed, beaming with all the domestic pride of a golden retriever who cooked breakfast.
“I made this all from the bottom of my heart,” he announced, eyes shining.
That smile, lopsided, sleepy, honest, melted Jack faster than any heat ray ever could.
Then came Alfred. Graceful. Regal. So very Alfred.
“More like Master Bruce wandered the kitchen aimlessly until I gently confiscated the spatula,” Alfred said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smirk.
Bruce pouted. Pouted.
It was so unfair that someone built like a Greek statue could sulk like a kicked puppy.
“But I helped!” Bruce insisted, scooting closer and lifting the mug with pride. “Look, J—I made your favourite hot chocolate. With marshmallows! The little star-shaped ones you like!”
Jack blinked. His stomach twisted.
Bruce finally caught the look on his husband’s face. The joy on his own faded to concern.
“Why that face, J?” Bruce asked, leaning in, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Jack sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his forehead like he might faint at any second.
“I—I forgot,” he whispered.
Bruce tilted his head.
“I forgot today is our anniversary,” Jack said louder, heart thudding in his chest. “I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t make you a card or write you a song or invent you a new vitamin that cures scarring—nothing!”
Bruce opened his mouth, but Jack kept going.
“I’m a disaster. A mess. I mean, I woke up screaming at the sun, Bruce! What kind of husband forgets his own anniversary?!”
He slumped back dramatically, covering his face with both hands. “I’m a bad husband. I deserve to be kicked in the shin by Dick himself.”
Bruce held back a chuckle, gently pulling Jack’s hands away from his face.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Stop that.”
Jack sniffed.
“You just got your memories back, J,” Bruce said gently, brushing Jack’s wild green hair back from his forehead. “And considering you were missing—and… well, being the Joker—for roughly two years, I don’t blame you for forgetting.”
Jack winced at the word. Joker. Even now, it clanged around in his brain like a bad echo.
Bruce pressed on, his voice firm but warm. “Before all that, you never forgot. You made every anniversary magical. You beat me every year, and I loved every second of it.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Jack’s head, lingering a moment longer than usual. “So please, stop saying you’re a bad husband. I married you because I love exactly who you are—forgetful brain glitches, dramatics, freezer cake and all.”
Jack blinked up at him, wide-eyed, lip trembling like he was trying not to melt into a puddle.
“You’re too good to me,” he whispered. “It’s suspicious. Like… supervillain origin-story suspicious.”
Bruce grinned. “That’s marriage, babe. Suspicious levels of love.”
There was a dignified ahem from the foot of the bed.
“If the two of you are quite finished being adorable,” Alfred interjected, “the eggs are getting cold. And I refuse to reheat food for two grown men with access to experimental cryo-tech.”
Bruce laughed, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Come on. Eat your breakfast before Alfred upgrades to sarcasm 2.0.”
Jack picked up the mug of hot chocolate and sniffled into it dramatically. “You’re all lucky I love you.”
“Deeply aware,” Bruce said, and kissed his temple again.
Alfred, with the grace of a man who had seen it all—from nightly rooftop chases to breakfast disasters, left the two husbands to their “bedroom breakfast,” as Jason had oh-so-proudly coined it. There was, unfortunately, no trademark paperwork. Yet.
Bruce took advantage of the moment to scoop a massive forkful of egg and bacon and shove it into Jack’s mouth like he was feeding a baby bird. Jack squawked in protest, nearly choking on love and salt.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, gave Bruce a look, and shook his head.
“How,” Jack said through a mouthful, “how are you Batman? Like—actual Batman. Gotham’s Dark Knight. The guy who terrifies criminals by glaring slightly.”
Bruce gave him a dopey, satisfied smile. “Must be the eyebrows.”
Jack poked him in the ribs. “No. I live with you. You trip over Damian’s toys. You burned oatmeal. You once used the Batcomputer to Google ‘how to win a romantic argument.’”
Bruce raised a finger. “And it worked. You cried and called me your emotionally constipated masterpiece.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack muttered, flushing.
But then something nagged at the back of his mind. He chewed slowly, watching Bruce with suspicious eyes.
“How are we even doing this anniversary thing,” Jack asked, “if the Justice League or the GCPD randomly decides Gotham’s about to fall apart without its cryptid-in-chief?”
Bruce smirked, clearly prepared for the question.
“I already called Jim,” he said, brushing a crumb off Jack’s lip with his thumb. “Told him Batman’s off-duty today. Something about a ‘high-priority domestic mission.’”
Jack narrowed his eyes.
“And the League?”
“I let them know I was taking time for urgent Gotham-related business,” Bruce said innocently.
Jack arched an eyebrow. “You lied.”
“I redirected expectations.”
Jack snorted and leaned against him. “You're lucky I like it when you bend the truth for me.”
Bruce kissed his hair. “I’d bend a lot more than that for you.”
“Gross,” came Dick’s voice faintly from somewhere outside the door. “I’m eating cereal.”
Jack cackled. “We’re in a bedroom! How are you hearing us?!”
“The walls are thin!”
Bruce just chuckled and pulled Jack closer.
Jack didn’t ask more about the League. He knew Bruce, his Bruce, would burn the moon before he gave up a day like this. And after everything, the memory loss, the Joker years, the quiet ache of not knowing who he was, Jack felt something almost sacred about just being here, fed and loved and teased.
The world could wait.
For now, this was enough.
The sun had begun its gentle descent over Gotham, casting long gold shadows across the city as Bruce and Jack stepped outside the manor. A sleek black car waited for them at the bottom of the steps, not the Batmobile, thank God. Tonight was for romance, not rocket engines.
Bruce opened the passenger door like a proper gentleman, and Jack slipped in, glancing back toward the manor windows. He could just barely make out Damian’s tiny face pressed against the glass, with Alfred standing behind him and Dick making exaggerated dance moves to distract the boy.
“Think they’ll survive two hours without us?” Jack asked as Bruce slid into the driver’s seat.
“I trust Alfred,” Bruce said. “And Dick’s mastered the art of chaotic babysitting.”
Jack chuckled, but the smile faltered slightly. His fingers curled into his lap.
Four years old. Damien was already four. And Jack had missed so much—missed his first steps, his first words, his first scowl (probably learned from Bruce), all because Jack had been Joker then. Lost in madness, a ghost with green eyes and a laugh like broken glass. He didn’t even remember meeting his own son for the first time.
He shook his head. No. Not today. Today was supposed to be good. Today was love and calm and warmth. Focus, Jack.
Bruce noticed the shift in his expression. His hand reached over and rested on Jack’s thigh, grounding him.
“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving the road.
Jack nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking too much.”
Bruce gave his leg a gentle squeeze. “We’ll make new memories. Better ones.”
Jack let out a shaky breath. “You always say the perfect thing. It's creepy.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence, the city flickering past their windows—lights coming on in shops, people hurrying home or out for the night. Gotham, for once, felt… calm.
“I really hope today there’s no villain breakout,” Jack murmured, staring out at the skyline. “You’ve had enough surprises.”
Bruce smirked. “You have no idea how hard we worked to clear the schedule.”
“‘We’?”
“Dick, Jason, Tim and I were up past 3 AM last night, sweeping the city. We hit every hot zone, double-patrolled Arkham, even bribed Harley to stay home with a bucket of glitter and a three-season box set of Golden Girls.”
Jack blinked. “You’re telling me Gotham’s peaceful tonight because you bribed my ex-therapist with vintage sitcoms?”
“She’s a sucker for Blanche.”
“…I hate how effective that is.”
Bruce grinned. “We wanted you to have this. A quiet night. A proper date. You deserve it.”
Jack turned to him, eyes soft, full of something halfway between love and disbelief. “You really are the sappiest crime lord I’ve ever met.”
Bruce pulled up in front of the restaurant—an elegant rooftop place overlooking the river—and smiled. “Don’t tell the League.”
“I’m telling everyone.”
They stepped out of the car, and as Bruce offered his arm, Jack took it without hesitation.
Tonight was theirs.
And nothing—no villain, no ghosts, no guilt—was going to ruin it.
They stepped inside Chez Vous, Gotham’s little gem of a restaurant nestled between two ageing art galleries. The warm lighting, soft piano music, and cozy layout gave it the feel of a secret garden in the middle of a concrete city. No paparazzi. No Bat-signal. Just soft clinks of cutlery, gentle laughter, and the scent of something buttery and magical in the air.
Bruce, ever the gentleman, even when he still had faint bruises on his knuckles, walked Jack to their table and pulled out the chair.
Jack chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. “Why, thank you, Brucie.” He flopped happily into the seat like a satisfied cat in sun.
Bruce settled into his own chair across from him just as a young, blond-haired waitress approached, all poised professionalism with a notebook in hand.
“Thank you for choosing Chez Vous for your meal tonight,” she said with a bright smile. “Here are your menus. If you need anything or are ready to order, feel free to let me know—I’ll be nearby.”
She bowed slightly and stepped back, waiting a polite distance away.
Jack picked up his menu but immediately looked away to take in the space. The place wasn’t flashy or towering like the restaurants Bruce sometimes got dragged to on Wayne Enterprises charity nights. It was small, lit with golden tones, and filled with the sound of quiet conversation. Couples leaned close over candlelight. No suits. No headlines. Just people.
He loved it.
Jack turned his gaze back to Bruce, a warm flutter rising in his chest.
“You know,” he murmured, “this isn’t the fanciest place you’ve ever taken me.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”
Jack snorted. “Not at all. Honestly, you could’ve taken me to that grimy booth in Oswald’s bar, and I’d still be happy.”
Bruce smiled. “Really? Even with Penguin’s weird fish soup smell?”
Jack grinned. “Especially with the weird fish soup smell. Adds flavor to the atmosphere.”
Bruce chuckled and reached across the table, resting his hand over Jack’s.
“Tonight’s not about the place,” he said. “It’s about us. No villains. No missions. No ghosts from the past. Just you and me, here, now.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “And a suspiciously attractive waitress hovering in the corner like an NPC.”
Bruce smirked without looking. “She's doing her job.”
“She’s also clocked your jawline like four times.”
Bruce gave him a look. “You're literally married to me.”
Jack leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. “Yes, yes I am. Suffer, gorgeous.”
They both laughed, the tension of the day melting as the moment stretched between them.
Dinner arrived with all the subtlety of a royal feast. Jack blinked at his plate, then looked across the table at Bruce’s.
There sat a perfectly seared cut of Kobe beef, draped in white truffle shavings and paired with some fancy side dish that probably had a name longer than his social security number. It even sparkled faintly under the light, because yes, there was edible gold leaf folded into the garnish.
Jack looked back down at his own plate. Simple spaghetti carbonara, creamy, peppery, steaming beautifully.
And dusted.
With gold flakes.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.
Bruce, the smug bastard, just sipped his wine and smiled like he hadn’t just ordered the GDP of a small country for dinner.
Jack leaned over slightly. “I thought you said this wasn’t a fancy place.”
Bruce shrugged. “It’s cozy. Doesn’t mean the chef doesn’t know how to source from Tokyo and coat things in gold.”
Jack stared at him. “How much did you throw at this booking?”
Bruce gave a neutral sip of wine. “A reasonable billionaire amount.”
“Bruce.”
“Don’t worry,” Bruce said. “I threatened to pull Wayne Foundation funding if they didn’t let me pay full price.”
Jack opened his mouth, closed it, and decided to just say, “Thank you,” as the waitress gently placed their wine refills on the table.
They dug in, the flavors as ridiculously luxurious as the presentation. Jack had to admit, gold or not, this carbonara slapped.
“How was your day yesterday?” Bruce asked between bites, his tone soft, casual.
Jack chewed thoughtfully, recalling.
“If I remember correctly… in the morning, we went to Wayne Tower and said goodbye at the lobby. You went off to that meeting and I headed to the lab with Babs.” He twirled more spaghetti on his fork. “We’re still working on the immune response med for Scarecrow’s fear gas. We've obtained some promising results, but further testing is needed. The usual ‘don’t accidentally melt someone’s organs’ phase.”
Bruce nodded seriously, as if that was a completely normal thing to say.
“Then I came home, helped Alfred fold towels, and spent some time playing with Damian,” Jack continued. “Tried to help him build a rocket. He got mad when I added glitter to the design.”
Bruce smirked. “You should’ve known better.”
Jack rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Anyway, nothing too dramatic. Calm. Almost suspiciously so.”
He looked up. “What about you?”
Bruce, now halfway through slicing his ludicrously expensive beef, gave a resigned sigh.
“The meeting was for a new Gotham hospital. Wayne Enterprises is footing most of it. And then… paperwork. Mountains of it. You wouldn’t believe how many ways the word ‘philanthropy’ can be misspelt in legal documents.”
Jack snorted.
“After that, I clocked out, suited up, and met the boys in the Cave. We swept the city, locked down a bunch of low-level rogues, and basically made sure nobody was going to ruin tonight.”
Jack tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You really cleaned up the whole city just so we could have one peaceful dinner?”
Bruce met his gaze and, for a rare moment, didn’t deflect or joke. “Yeah. I did.”
Jack blinked. His chest went soft and warm and a little tight.
“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, trying not to tear up.
Bruce leaned in slightly. “So are you. That’s why we work.”
Bruce’s phone buzzed sharply from his coat pocket, the ringtone echoing like a fly in a museum.
He didn’t even flinch. Just took another relaxed bite of his Kobe beef, smiling like the sound didn’t exist.
Jack tilted his head, fork hovering in mid-air. “Are you… going to take that?”
Bruce barely glanced up. “Nah. I’m sure the GCPD can handle it.”
Jack blinked. “Are you sure? It might be—”
“They’ve got guns. I’ve got steak.” Bruce said, cutting another perfect slice. “My priorities are very clear.”
Jack stared. “Okay then.”
The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. The ringtone looped, louder now, almost spiteful.
Bruce froze mid-bite, jaw tightening. Then, very calmly, he set his fork down, wiped the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin, and stood.
“Excuse me, handsome,” he muttered. “Need to handle this.”
Jack watched him walk off toward the restroom, shaking his head. Gotham never let them rest for long. He sighed and went back to his carbonara. Couldn’t blame Bruce. Batman didn’t clock out—even for dinner.
Five minutes later, Bruce returned.
Calm. Cool. Smiling again like nothing happened.
He sat down, took a long sip of his wine, and casually cut into his beef like he'd just stepped out for fresh air.
Jack narrowed his eyes.
“…Bruce.”
“Mm?”
Jack leaned forward. “What did you do?”
Bruce didn’t meet his gaze. Just took another bite. “Drinking and eating with my incredibly handsome and amazing husband of all time~” he replied sweetly, in the most obviously evasive tone imaginable.
Jack stared harder.
Bruce tried to stay focused on his plate. Sweat beaded at his temple.
“Bruce.”
Still no eye contact.
One more second.
Two.
Three.
Then—
“Okay okay!!” Bruce threw his hands up. “Please stop with the glaring! That face should be illegal!”
Jack crossed his arms. “Spill it.”
“I…” Bruce muttered into his wine glass, “threw my phone in the toilet.”
Jack blinked.
“…What?”
“I flushed it.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “You flushed your Batphone?!”
Bruce winced. “It was vibrating. A lot. I panicked.”
“You panicked? You fight alien warlords without flinching!”
“But this is our anniversary! I just—I needed one night, okay?” Bruce ran a hand down his face. “One night where I wasn’t ‘Batman,’ or ‘Mr. Wayne,’ or ‘Gotham’s Broodiest Billionaire.’ I just wanted to be your husband.”
Jack stared at him. Speechless.
Then he laughed. Loud, full, and so warm it made the nearest table glance over in confusion.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You are so dramatic.”
Bruce grumbled. “You're one to talk.”
Jack reached across the table, still chuckling, and took Bruce’s hand. “I love you. But we’re buying you a new phone tomorrow.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re not mad?”
“Oh no,” Jack smirked. “I’m very mad. But also extremely turned on by the level of petty you just displayed.”
Bruce laughed, finally relaxing again. “Deal.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Bruce stew in his own ridiculousness, and then—without warning—he stood, leaned across the table, and grabbed Bruce by the collar of his shirt.
Bruce barely had time to register the move before Jack yanked him in and kissed him.
Hard. Warm. Fierce. A kiss that said I love you, you idiot, even when you flush expensive technology down public toilets.
Bruce froze for half a second, stunned—then completely melted into it. His shoulders relaxed, hand reaching up to Jack’s cheek, deepening the kiss like they weren’t in the middle of a restaurant where someone was definitely dropping their silverware nearby.
The world slipped away.
Gotham could wait.
After a long, slow minute, Jack finally pulled back, lips parted, breath just slightly uneven. He looked Bruce dead in the eye.
“Now,” he said, voice low and full of fire, “go be that bat… and kick some ass.”
Bruce, still a little dizzy—possibly from the kiss, definitely from the whiplash—let out a breathless laugh. He gave a slow nod, eyes never leaving Jack’s.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured, lips curved in a dazed smile.
Jack straightened his shirt collar like he was sending Bruce off to war, then plopped back into his seat with a grin. “You owe me dessert when you get back.”
Bruce stood, heart pounding in that slow, aching way Jack always triggered. “And you’re getting it. With extra gold flakes.”
“Ugh,” Jack groaned playfully. “You’re impossible.”
Bruce winked as he turned. “You married impossible.”
And with that, Gotham's most dangerous man—still slightly pink in the face—walked out of Chez Vous, heading straight toward whatever chaos was foolish enough to interrupt their night.
Chapter 2: A Little Trouble
Summary:
Damian returns from kindergarten with a wild request, not for a dog or cat, but for a hyena, inspired by Harleen Quinzel’s pets Bud and Lou. His impassioned campaign includes an adorable PowerPoint pitch, emotional manipulation, and even a dramatic midnight ambush in the Batcave. Jack initially refuses, worried about safety and legality. But when he sees how deeply Damian wants it, not as a weapon or mission tool, but as a true companion, he begins to reconsider.
Chapter Text
The living room was warm with the late afternoon sun pouring through the manor’s tall windows. The scent of tea and something freshly baked, Alfred’s doing, lingered faintly in the air. Jack sat on the couch, one leg curled under him, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he flipped through the stack of drawings in his lap. The paper was crinkled, smudged with colorful fingerprints, and drawn with the reckless energy only a four-year-old could produce.
Crayon scribbles filled every inch of the page. One figure stood proudly in the centre, a miniature Damian, cape billowing behind him in dramatic, chaotic lines. And beside him…
Jack squinted.
Was that… a dog?
It looked like a dog. Sort of. Round face, sharp teeth, big grin, tongue sticking out. Yeah, definitely a dog. Probably licking Damian’s cheek in the drawing, judging by the little red heart floating above them.
He smiled to himself and turned toward the small whirlwind currently rolling around on the floor with a toy plane. Damian had just gotten back from kindergarten and had immediately demanded juice, snacks, and a performance review of his day, priorities in order, as always.
“You want a dog, little baby?” Jack asked, grinning softly, holding up the drawing.
Damian froze mid-roll, sat up like a lightning bolt, and scowled.
“No!” he declared with the righteous fury of a tiny warrior. “That’s not a dog, daddy!”
Jack blinked. “It’s… not?”
Damian marched over and pointed dramatically at the creature in the drawing. “That’s a hyena! I want a hyena!”
Jack’s jaw dropped.
From across the room came the unmistakable sound of someone choking on water.
Dick Grayson, mid-sip, had managed to spray an arc of water straight into the air in shock. “Pffft—!” He coughed violently, eyes watering, clutching his stomach.
Jason, unfortunately seated directly beside him, looked like someone had dumped a bucket over his head.
“Seriously?” Jason said flatly, dripping from the face down. “Dude, this hoodie’s dry clean only.”
Alfred, ever prepared, wordlessly appeared beside him and handed him a towel like a seasoned pit crew mechanic.
Jason accepted it with a tired sigh. “Thanks, Alfred. Unlike some people, you understand basic personal space.”
Dick was still wheezing, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he tried to speak. “He—he said hyena, man! A whole hyena! Like—like Harley Quinn’s emotional support nightmare!”
Jack, still stunned, looked back down at the drawing. Now that he thought about it… yeah. Those ears were definitely too rounded for a dog. The grin was a little too wide. And the eyes? A little too chaotic.
“A hyena,” Jack repeated slowly, looking up at Damian like he was staring into a portal of doom. “Sweetheart, where in your tiny little brain did you even get that idea?”
Damian folded his arms. “Hyenas are smart. And loyal. And have excellent jaw strength.”
Jason choked on his laughter. “Oh my god, he’s serious.”
Jack tried not to panic. “Damian, baby, hyenas aren’t pets. They’re wild animals. They… they eat things. They bite people. They laugh weird.”
“I laugh weird,” Damian pointed out.
“You’re not helping your case.”
“I would train it.”
Jack set the drawing down carefully like it might explode.
“Okay, okay,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Let’s put a pin in the hyena conversation. Just… a very large, bright, bat-shaped pin.”
Damian frowned, clearly displeased.
Dick wiped his eyes, still recovering. “I mean… technically it’s not the worst idea he’s ever had.”
Jason raised a hand. “I disagree. Strongly.”
“Boys,” Alfred said calmly, “perhaps we can table the zoo expansion plan until dessert.”
Jack turned to Damian again, trying to soften his voice. “How about a regular pet, hmm? Something small. A fish. A cat. A… bat?”
Damian made a face. “Bats smell like guano and secrets.”
Jack sighed dramatically, leaning back against the couch cushions. “You’re lucky you’re cute, kid.”
“I get it from daddy,” Damian said smugly.
Jack blinked. “Which one?”
Damian raised both eyebrows. “Yes.”
It was nearly midnight when the Batmobile rolled back into the cave with a low, mechanical purr. The patrol had been quiet, miraculously quiet. No Joker copycats, no Scarecrow-induced hallucination orgies, not even a Riddler riddle graffitiied across city hall. Just a few carjackings, one rooftop chase, and a surprise pie donation from the ever-cryptic Calendar Man. All things considered, a peaceful night.
Bruce peeled off his cowl with a tired sigh, rolled his shoulders, and climbed out of the car. His muscles ached, his knuckles were sore, and all he could think about was three things: a hot shower, kissing his husband, and, if the gods of Gotham were merciful, getting absolutely wrecked in bed.
He didn’t even make it to the elevator.
The moment he stepped out of the Batmobile, a small shape emerged from the shadows like a rogue ninja.
Bruce startled.
“Damian?!”
There, standing perfectly still with the intensity of a tiny assassin, was his four-year-old son—in his pajamas, holding a sheet of crayon-covered paper like it was a legal contract.
Bruce blinked, utterly thrown off by the sudden child ambush. “What are you doing down here?”
Damian took a step forward, thrusting the paper toward him with a deadly seriousness far beyond his years.
“Papa,” he said solemnly. “Can I get a hyena?”
Bruce stared.
“I promise I’ll take care of him. I already picked a name. It’s Bitey.”
Before Bruce could respond, a shriek echoed through the Cave like a banshee in Chanel.
“DAMIEN ROUSETT WAYNE—GET BACK TO YOUR ROOM THIS INSTANT!!”
Bruce actually flinched.
Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, and then there he was, Jack, in a black silk robe, hair wild, and a dangerous smile stretching across his face like he was two seconds from legally losing it.
“Oh,” Bruce muttered under his breath, straightening like a soldier.
Damian took one look at his furious father and wisely backed away from Bruce, sliding behind him like a very small, very doomed hostage.
Jack stalked across the floor, robe flying behind him like a cape. “You thought you’d sneak down here and ambush your papa with the hyena?”
Damian opened his mouth to defend himself.
Jack raised a finger. “Not a word. You almost gave Alfred a heart attack when he saw your empty bed. You’re lucky I didn’t grab the tranquilizer gun.”
Bruce slowly lowered the paper from Damian’s hands and cleared his throat. “So… uh. No hyena?” Damian ask.
“NO HYENA!” Jack and Bruce yelled in perfect, synchronized parent harmony.
There was a long beat of silence.
Damian, defeated but still scheming, mumbled, “You’re all going to regret this when Gotham gets overrun with rats.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I already regret not tying you to your bed with dental floss.”
Damian sulked all the way back upstairs under Jack’s supervision, mumbling about missed opportunities and hyena-proof fencing.
Bruce stood there for a long moment, staring into the space where his family had just vanished.
He blinked. Then sighed.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, pulling off his gloves with a weary grunt. “Guess there’ll be no freaky time tonight.”
A single tear rolled down his cheek like a tragic movie hero.
The Batcave echoed softly with silence, injustice, and crushed dreams.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains and the soft hum of the Wayne Manor's security system in standby mode. The storm had passed—by storm, they meant their four-year-old son and his unhinged quest for a pet hyena.
Now, Bruce and Jack lay side by side on their massive bed, wrapped in silence. The sheets were a mess, pillows askew. Jack’s leg was draped over Bruce’s like a claim. Bruce had one arm under his head and the other resting across his stomach, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
One of them looked confused.
The other looked furious.
“You and your son,” Jack muttered, voice muffled by the pillow, “will try to manipulate your way into anything you two want. It’s genetic. I swear.”
Bruce let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating softly in his chest. “Oh, please. That behavior is from you. I’ve never seen someone con Alfred into triple desserts the way you do.”
Jack rolled his eyes and rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Bruce directly.
“Yeah, well, I don’t ask for hyenas, Bruce.”
Bruce turned his head, amused. “Yet.”
Jack stared at him. Deadpan. “I swear to God if I ever snap again, it’s going to be because of this family’s obsession with chaos.”
They lay there in silence for a moment longer, the kind of silence that only comes at night, when the world has finally stopped yelling. Jack’s hand moved up to rest on Bruce’s chest, right over his heart. He could feel it—steady, slow, real.
“…Do you think we could actually have a hyena?” Jack asked softly, brows knitting together. “Like, legally?”
Bruce blinked, then sighed. “Well… depends on the state, and the licensing. You’d need exotic animal permits, reinforced containment, insurance waivers—”
Jack groaned. “I meant more like… could we realistically have a hyena in this house without someone losing a limb?”
Bruce gave it a full two seconds of genuine consideration. “Honestly? I think we’d all lose limbs.”
Jack flopped back onto the pillow dramatically. “Great. And yet I can hear Damian planning hyena names in his sleep.”
Bruce smirked. “Bitey. Don’t forget Bitey.”
Jack let out a soft laugh, but it faded quickly. He turned his head, voice gentler now. “Maybe he wants one because he saw how happy Harleen is with hers.”
Bruce’s smile dimmed, and he nodded slowly. “Could be. He spent a lot of time with her at the clinic while you were… away.”
That silence came back—heavier this time. Not awkward. Just full.
Jack pressed closer to Bruce, resting his head on his shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the scar on Bruce’s collarbone.
“I missed too much,” Jack whispered.
Bruce kissed the top of his head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Jack nodded against his skin, voice quieter. “Still feel like I’m catching up. Like he grew into a real little person while I wasn’t looking.”
“You didn’t miss everything,” Bruce said. “And you’re not alone in raising him. We’re in this together.”
A beat.
Then Jack said, half-laughing, “But still no hyena, right?”
Bruce grinned. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Jack sighed in relief. “Thank God.”
A long pause.
Then Bruce added thoughtfully, “…but maybe a ferret?”
“BRUCE.”
“I wish today were Monday,” Jack sighed, voice thick with regret and resignation as he leaned back on the plush couch. Bruce sat beside him, one hand resting lazily on Jack’s thigh, the other cradling a half-finished mug of coffee. Both of them were still in their pajamas, faces barely awake after breakfast, and yet here they were, held hostage by their own child.
The massive screen of the Wayne Manor family movie room lit up with the default blue background of a PowerPoint setup screen. Tim stood front and center with a remote in his hand, adjusting cables and clicking through folders with surgical precision. He wore the deadpan expression of someone who had been bribed into tech support duties before he’d even finished his cereal.
This was not the family movie morning any of them had expected.
“I cannot believe he roped Tim into helping with this,” Jack muttered.
“He offered,” Bruce said under his breath, though even he sounded mildly horrified.
“I was tricked,” Tim clarified without turning around. “He told me we were going to review battle footage.”
“He is fighting,” Dick said from across the room, perched on the edge of a lounge chair, lazily sipping a taro boba tea. “Fighting for his right to own a hyena.”
Jack groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Why is my child like this?”
“Because he’s your child,” Jason said with a smirk, standing just behind the couch, arms crossed, safely out of reach of Dick’s boba-spray radius. “Also, because he’s Batman’s son, and Gotham genetics are cursed.”
“I heard that,” Damian called from offscreen.
“Oh, we know,” Jack replied.
At the front of the room, Damian emerged like a tiny, determined CEO. He was dressed in a suit. Not just a nice shirt and slacks, a full, tiny black suit with a clip-on tie and combed-back hair. His arms were crossed behind his back like a mini mob boss preparing for a board meeting.
Barbara, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the front row of chairs, slowly raised her camera and zoomed in with glee. “He even wore the suit,” she whispered. “He hates that suit. This is going in the ‘adorable blackmail’ folder.”
“He really wants that hyena, Dad,” Dick said, leaning toward Bruce with an amused grin. “Like—emotionally invested. There’s a vibe.”
Bruce stared at the screen in stoic disbelief as the first slide finally popped up.
HYENA: Gotham’s Overlooked Companion Animal
– A Presentation by Damian R. Wayne
“He’s got a title slide,” Jack muttered.
Bruce took a slow sip of coffee. “He practiced.”
“I’d run,” Jason offered. “But I’m weirdly curious how far this goes.”
“Don’t worry,” Barbara said, raising the camera. “I’m documenting it all. For future therapy.”
Jack watched his son step forward, hands behind his back like a mafia prince at a board meeting. “Good morning,” Damian said firmly. “Thank you for being here on such short notice.”
“Oh my God,” Jack whispered, eyes wide. “He’s opening like a CEO.”
Bruce just nodded solemnly. “We’ve raised a monster.”
The lights dimmed as the first real slide of the presentation clicked into view.
Slide 1: "Hyenas—Efficient, Loyal, Underappreciated"
Subtitle: Why Bitey Belongs at Wayne Manor
Damian stood tall at the front of the room, pointer in hand, his tiny finger indicating a grainy photo of a hyena mid-laugh.
“Contrary to outdated media portrayals,” he began, voice precise, “hyenas are not mere scavengers. They are intelligent, social, and possess the bite strength to pierce through steel. Useful in emergency situations, riot control, and hallway intruders.”
Jason blinked. “Hallway intruders?”
“He means Tim when he comes in at 3 a.m. for snacks,” Dick whispered.
Tim raised his hand. “I live here, Damian!”
Damian ignored them.
Slide 2: "Security Upgrade Potential"
A hand-drawn diagram showing the manor floor plan with Bitey patrol zones highlighted in red.
“The east wing is particularly vulnerable,” Damian continued. “Bitey would have a consistent patrol route, primarily in the garden, library, and my personal quarters. Additional training could include scent recognition, emergency alert barking, and emotional support growling.”
Barbara stifled a laugh behind the camera. “Emotional support growling. I can’t.”
Slide 3: "Combat Readiness Analysis"
A Photoshop monstrosity of Damian riding a hyena into battle, wielding a wooden sword, with ‘Bitey’ in body armor.
“This is not just a pet,” Damian said, dead serious. “This is a future partner in the field.”
Jack threw both hands into the air. “You don’t need a hyena to fight crime! You’re four years old!”
Damian gave him a flat look. “I’ll be five in three months.”
“That makes it worse!”
“I’ll have training time before my birthday.”
“You’re not a Power Ranger!”
Bruce covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Slide 4: "Harleen Quinzel Case Study"
A photo of Harley hugging one of her hyenas with a heart sticker over it.
“Miss Quinzel has successfully raised two hyenas. Despite her questionable life choices, her relationship with Bud and Lou has been stable and enriching. One could argue their presence increased her emotional resilience.”
Dick leaned toward Bruce. “He’s using Harley Quinn in a case study. That’s bold.”
Bruce deadpanned, “He cited his source.”
Slide 5: "Bitey’s Weekly Schedule"
Drawn in crayon: Monday = Training, Tuesday = Nap, Wednesday = ‘Maul intruders’, etc.
Jack blinked at the colorful timeline. “Why does Wednesday say ‘bite Joker if he ever comes back’? That’s not a day plan. That’s a revenge fantasy.”
Damian crossed his arms. “Preparedness is everything.”
Tim whispered, “Pretty sure that’s your influence, Jack.”
Jack pointed at him with his coffee spoon. “Don’t diagnose me with facts.”
Damian cleared his throat. “In conclusion: a hyena would not only enhance manor security, but also support my development as a responsible future protector of Gotham.”
He clicked to the final slide.
Slide 6: "Please."
One word. Centered. Bold. Font: Comic Sans.
The room fell silent.
Jack blinked. “Did you seriously end a full tactical presentation in Comic Sans?”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “I thought it would soften the pitch emotionally.”
Barbara lowered her camera, wiping away a tear from laughing too hard. “He’s terrifying. But he’s going to win awards someday.”
Jason nodded slowly. “If he doesn’t get arrested first.”
Bruce looked at Jack, silent.
Jack sighed deeply, dragging his hands down his face. “No. Still no. No hyena. You’re four. You can’t even spell 'permit.'”
As the last slide faded from the screen, the room fell into a heavy silence. Damian stood still at the front, small hands folded behind his back, expression neutral—but Jack knew his son well enough to see past the mask. The tight set of his jaw. The slight downturn of his eyes. The way his little shoulders slumped, just barely.
He was trying to look unaffected.
But he wasn’t.
Not even close.
Damian gave a small, formal bow. “Thank you for your time,” he said stiffly, then turned and walked out of the room with quiet footsteps and an invisible storm cloud hanging over him.
“Damian, wait—” Jack called, rising partway from the couch. But the door already swung shut with a soft click. His voice died in his throat.
The silence returned, heavier this time.
Jack sat back down with a long sigh, his body deflating like a balloon slowly losing air. He stared blankly at the screen, which now simply said No Signal, like it was mocking him. He ran both hands through his hair and groaned. “God… I crushed him.”
Beside him, Bruce gently reached over and took Jack’s hand in his own. He didn’t say anything at first. Just held it. Then gave it a light squeeze.
“You know,” Bruce said quietly, “this is the first time he’s ever really wanted something. Not for the mission. Not for training. Just because he thought it would make him happy.”
Jack looked down at their hands, fingers twined together, and squeezed back. He didn’t speak, but his face cracked. The guilt bled through.
“I know,” he said eventually. “I saw it. In his face. He tried so hard to hide it.”
Bruce nodded. “He’s you, J. All emotion under armor.”
Jack snorted softly. “Yeah, well. He’s got your brooding down to a science.”
From across the room, Dick raised his cup of now-melted boba tea and smiled. “So... why not just give it a shot? I mean, it’s just a hyena.”
Jack looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Just a hyena?”
“Come on,” Dick said, gesturing around the room. “This family has like… a Bat-drone army, a secret moon base, and two panic rooms. One more feral creature isn’t going to kill us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tim muttered, still packing up the projector. “That thing’s going to chew my laptop cables and eat my headphones.”
Jason, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, nodded thoughtfully. “I mean, how hard can it be? We’ve fought gods, demon assassins. It’s just one oversized dog-cat-hyena thing.”
“I’ll help take care of it,” Barbara added from the floor, raising her hand like she was volunteering for a science experiment. “We’ll teach it tricks. Like not eating Alfred’s roses.”
At that, all eyes slowly turned toward Tim.
He stopped mid-click and sighed like a man who’d seen the face of resignation. “Okay,” he mumbled.
A beat.
Then Dick shot out of his seat with both arms raised.
“YES! FINALLY! THE WAYNES ARE GETTING A PET!”
He did a small celebratory dance right there by the armchair, his boba sloshing dangerously close to the carpet.
“Should we tell Alfred?” Barbara asked.
“Not until it’s in the house,” Jason replied. “That way he can’t legally stop us.”
Jack leaned into Bruce, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.
“You realize this ends with hyena paw prints in the Batcave,” Jack said, closing his eyes.
Bruce kissed the side of his head. “It’s worth it if it gets our son to smile like that again.”
After a hot shower and an hour of half-focused thesis work, Jack shut his laptop with a sigh. The words on the screen blurred into static in his head. He couldn’t concentrate—not with the image of Damian’s disappointed little face burned behind his eyelids.
He needed a break. Or a drink. Or possibly both.
So he called Harleen.
They agreed to meet at the nearest low-key bar that wouldn’t immediately explode into paparazzi flashbulbs the second someone said “Wayne.” Jack arrived first, ducking into the farthest booth in the back—the one practically melting into the shadows. He didn’t need the looks tonight. Didn’t need whispered comments or poorly hidden phone cameras. And he especially didn’t need another random woman telling him Bruce deserved better.
His nerves were still buzzing from this morning's “Hyena Summit.”
He had just pulled out his phone to check the time when a cheerful, singsong voice called out—
“Evenin’, puddin’!”
Jack looked up.
There she was—Harleen Quinzel, bright as ever, walking through the low-lit room with a massive smile, heels clicking, and a basket swinging in one arm like she was skipping into a picnic, not a bar.
Jack stood and met her with open arms. “Evening, Har.”
They embraced tightly. It was brief but warm, Harleen always gave hugs like she meant them.
“Sorry for the short notice,” Jack began as they pulled apart, “I really needed to talk to you about—”
But before he could finish the sentence, Harleen grinned and pressed a finger gently against his lips.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Let me guess. It’s about little Bat wanting a hyena, huh?”
She giggled as Jack blinked at her in confusion.
“How the hell—?”
Harleen slid into the booth opposite him and plopped the basket onto the table with a flourish. “Yesterday, your little terror called me,” she said, completely amused. “Said he needed my professional opinion on hyena care, benefits of ownership, dietary notes, and how to weaponize their bite radius.”
Jack covered his mouth with both hands. “Oh my God. He cold-called you for hyena facts.”
“And he had notes,” she added proudly. “The kid is thorough. I think I saw myself in him for a second, and I’m a little scared.”
Jack gave a long sigh and rubbed his temples. “He gave a full presentation this morning. With Comic Sans. Bruce and I just barely managed to say no before he walked off like we’d told him his birthday was cancelled.”
“Well,” Harleen said, her grin growing even wider, “then I guess this’ll be perfect timing.”
She leaned forward, dramatically lifted the lid of the basket—and Jack physically recoiled.
Inside was a tiny, spotted hyena pup.
No bigger than a loaf of bread. Barely able to sit upright. Its big paws splayed out like it had no idea how legs worked. It blinked slowly at him with wide, unfocused eyes and a dopey, half-lolling tongue. The baby hyena tilted its head... and sneezed.
Jack stared.
“Mistah J, meet Trouble,” Harleen said like she was introducing royalty. “Bud and Lou had a baby a couple of months ago. Surprise litter! Turns out hyenas don’t care about birth control.”
Jack looked at her like she'd said the animal came out of the basket with a rocket launcher. “You’re just giving him to me?”
“Well, I can’t keep ‘em all,” she shrugged. “Two is enough chaos for one apartment. So I figured: who better than my emotionally chaotic ex-villain friend turned Gotham’s hottest husband-dad?”
Jack blinked. “I’m… I’m flattered?”
“You should be! He’s really healthy. Eats like a tank. Doesn’t bite toes unless you wiggle ‘em too much.”
Jack leaned in slowly, squinting at the pup. Trouble blinked at him again with an expression that radiated exactly zero thoughts.
“…He looks like someone dropped a gremlin into paint water.”
“Yup!” Harleen said proudly. “Perfect for your kid.”
Jack stared for a long moment.
Then dropped his face into his hands and groaned. “Alfred is going to kill me.”
Harleen patted the basket. “Then die a legend, sugar. ‘Cause you’re about to make one tiny Bat very, very happy.”
The morning sun had barely started to peek through the tall curtains of Wayne Manor when Damian stirred in his bed, groggy and mildly annoyed.
Something was licking his face.
Persistent. Wet. And very… slobbery.
“Mmmgh—Alfred?” he grumbled, half-asleep, trying to shove it away with one hand.
The licking did not stop.
In fact, it got more enthusiastic.
Damian’s eyes snapped open—instinct kicking in.
And what he saw made his brain break for a second.
A small, spotted hyena pup sat on his chest, tail wagging, tongue flopping out as it happily licked his cheek like it had just found its new favorite toy.
Damian froze. Blinked. Blinked again.
Then—
“AAAAHHHHH!!!”
His scream wasn’t one of fear. It was pure, high-pitched, uncontrollable excitement.
The hyena yelped and jumped down, scampering across the room in a panic, scrambling behind Damian’s dresser with a tiny squeak.
Within seconds, the door burst open like a SWAT raid.
Dick, Jason, and Tim charged in—still in pajamas, hair wild, weapons definitely not regulation.
Dick led the way with a bo staff and a mouthful of yawn. “What happened?! You okay?! Are we under attack?!”
Jason, still holding one of his boots as a potential weapon, looked around wildly. “Where’s the fire?!”
Tim, holding his tablet like a shield, squinted through half-closed eyes. “Please don’t say clowns. I can’t do clowns before coffee.”
Damian, standing on his bed in a state of near-combustion, just pointed wildly at the dresser.
They all turned to look.
There was a beat of silence.
“…Oh,” Jason mumbled, lowering his boot. “It’s just a hyena.”
“Just?” Dick repeated, elbowing him.
Jason rolled his eyes and dragged Dick and Tim by the sleeves toward the hallway. “Go back to sleep. Not a murder emergency. We’ll ask questions after breakfast.”
But before the door even fully shut behind them, all three zoomed back into the room, peeking over Damian’s shoulders with wide eyes.
“HOW?!”
“WHEN?!”
“WHERE?!” Tim shouted, fully awake now, hands flailing like a conspiracy theorist discovering new red string.
Damian didn’t answer them. He didn’t even look at them.
He had already climbed down from the bed, his focus completely locked on the small hyena cowering behind the dresser, nose twitching, eyes wide.
He walked slowly.
Soft steps. Gentle breath.
Like approaching a scared animal in the wild.
“Hey,” he whispered, kneeling down and extending his right hand with the solemn patience of someone who knew trust couldn’t be rushed. “Hello, little hyena. My name is Damian.”
The hyena sniffed from its hiding spot. Ears perked. Hesitant.
“I don’t know where you came from,” Damian said, voice low and warm, “but if you’re here… it means someone believes I can take care of you.”
The pup took one slow, cautious step forward.
Then another.
Then—tentatively—nudged Damian’s palm with his snout.
Damian stayed still.
The hyena sniffed again.
And then, slowly, carefully… licked his hand.
Damian’s heart clenched.
Behind him, his brothers stood frozen, watching as if they'd just witnessed the crowning of a new king.
“…That’s it,” Dick whispered. “We’ve lost him. He's bonded.”
“We’re gonna need pet insurance,” Jason added.
Tim was already typing into his tablet. “I’m making a new hyena protocol file. Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm.”
But Damian didn’t hear them.
Not the teasing, not the jokes, not even Tim muttering something about "scheduling vaccinations for a literal hyena." His focus was locked on the tiny creature in front of him. Something in his face had changed—softened. The steel gaze was still there, but it had cracked open. Just enough. Just for this.
The little hyena pawed the floor, tail twitching, uncertain but no longer afraid.
Then a voice—warm, amused—spoke from the doorway.
“His name is Trouble, if you want to know.”
Damian’s head turned sharply.
Jack stood there in the hallway, arms crossed and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Bruce stood beside him, relaxed, hands in his robe pockets, eyes already watching Damian with quiet affection.
“It’s a gift,” Jack continued, “from your Auntie Harleen.”
Damian stared, stunned. His brows drew together in disbelief, trying to process it. His dad had said no. Firmly no.
“Why…” Damian started, voice small, “...why did you change your mind?”
Jack stepped forward, crouching slightly to meet his son's eyes. “Because you wanted it,” he said softly. “Really wanted it. And because sometimes… even when we say no at first, we realize later we might’ve been wrong.”
Damian didn’t say anything else.
He just ran forward and threw his arms around Jack in a tight, fierce hug—his little hands gripping the back of Jack’s hoodie like he was afraid if he let go, the moment might vanish.
“I love you, Dad,” he said into Jack’s chest.
Jack blinked. His throat tightened, but he smiled anyway, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Damian’s messy hair.
“Love you too, kiddo.”
Bruce stepped closer, his hand resting on Jack’s back, a silent echo of support.
Jack turned his head, looking past the mop of black hair pressed against his shoulder to the rest of the room. Jason. Tim. Dick. Even Trouble the hyena, now curling up near Damian’s foot like it had already claimed him.
His voice came quiet, but steady. “I love all of you. Every single one of you weirdos.”
Dick was the first to move—bouncing forward and nearly tackling them both in a bear hug.
“Group hug!” he declared, wrapping his arms around Jack and Damian like an excited octopus.
Jason rolled his eyes but followed. “Ugh, you saps. Fine. Just this once.”
Tim, sighing but smiling, slid in next, mumbling, “Somebody better take a picture of this. No one’s gonna believe it happened.”
And then—
“Ahem.”
Everyone turned.
Alfred stood just outside the door, holding a tray with a teapot and four mugs, brows arched in confusion at the pile of humans and hyena tangled in the middle of the bedroom.
Jack grinned at him. “Come on, Alfred. You're part of this too.”
There was a pause.
And then, with all the grace of a man who’d been serving chaos for decades, Alfred stepped forward and joined the hug—one arm carefully balanced around the side, the other still holding the tea tray without spilling a single drop.
Trouble gave a small yip and wagged his stubby tail.
It wasn’t the family they’d expected.
But it was the one they’d built.
And in that moment, hyena and all… it was perfect.
Chapter 3: Sleepy Bat
Summary:
Jack began worrying when Bruce didn’t return from patrol by his usual time. Discovering him still obsessively decoding Riddler’s new game deep in the Batcave, Jack quietly let him be, choosing trust over confrontation. But the worry simmered.
Morning came, and Bruce was still missing from the breakfast table. Tim confirmed Bruce had sent him to bed rather than involve him further in the case, not wanting to deal with Jack’s lecture. Jack masked his concern with jokes, but the seeds of exasperation were planted.
Notes:
Hello! My name is Kisachi, and I’m the writer behind this Batjokes slice-of-life story. First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read this book. It truly means a lot to me. I know that this particular AU might not appeal to everyone, especially since Batjokes is often associated with a darker, more toxic dynamic, but I wanted to try something a little different. Instead of leaning into the usual tropes of chaos and smut, I’m aiming to create a version of their relationship that’s more grounded, heartfelt, and, most importantly, readable for those who enjoy softer or more character-driven narratives.
I’ll admit, I’m not an expert on the full expanse of the DC Universe, and that’s part of why I’m reaching out here. If you happen to have more knowledge about Gotham, like special locations, lesser-known villains, or even just fun lore that often gets overlooked, I’d be incredibly grateful if you shared it with me. My goal is to keep the story as respectful and accurate to the universe as possible, while still putting my own spin on things. Your help can really go a long way in making this story even better.
If you have ideas, prompts, or “what if” scenarios you’d like to see brought to life in this AU, please feel free to leave a comment! I’m always open to suggestions, and I’d love to collaborate with readers who are just as passionate about these characters as I am. If I use your idea, I promise to credit you properly, it’s the least I can do!
Once again, thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope you enjoy this softer side of Gotham, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
With love,
Kisachi 💜🃏🦇
Chapter Text
“Now,” Jack said, tapping the syringe against his palm with theatrical calm, “how long exactly did you think you were going to sleep?”
Bruce blinked up at him, eyebrows raised, trapped like a very large, very guilty caterpillar in a cocoon of blankets. The comforter had been expertly wrapped around his body, arms pinned, legs bound, with his head sticking out at a slight angle. The Batman was officially down, forcibly tucked in by his husband.
“…Non?” Bruce offered, voice rising like a guilty child trying to charm his way out of detention. He gave a weak chuckle.
Jack’s expression didn’t budge. Except for one thing: his mouth slowly curled into a wide, unnerving smile.
“Wrong,” Jack whispered, voice low, playful, and dangerous.
Bruce winced. “I deserved that.”
“Yes,” Jack said, matter-of-fact. “Yes, you did.”
But how did we get here?
Let’s rewind, two days earlier.
48 Hours Ago
The early morning air in Wayne Manor was silent except for the soft tapping of keys.
Jack sat cross-legged in bed, surrounded by papers, blueprints, a tray with half-finished toast, and three empty mugs of hot chocolate. His laptop screen glowed, casting gentle light on his face as he tinkered with data for a new medical project, a blood-oxygen neutralizer for low-breath environments. Nothing fancy. Just another idea that might save lives.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
5:12 A.M.
His fingers froze.
Jack’s heart gave a familiar, tight twist.
Bruce wasn’t back.
He always returned by 3 or 4 A.M. after patrol, maybe later if the night was especially rough. But 5:12? That was concerning.
He immediately reached for his phone and pulled up the tracking interface synced to Bruce’s suit. The bat symbol flickered for a moment, then resolved to a pulsing dot.
Still in the Batcave.
What the hell?
With a frown, Jack shoved aside his work, slipped into his slippers, and threw on his robe. Every step out of their bedroom echoed louder than it should. The manor was still sleeping, and even the shadows seemed to lean in with curiosity.
He moved quietly through the long hallway, the thick carpets of Wayne Manor muffling his steps. The air was cool in that eerie, timeless way only ancient mansions could hold—like the walls remembered every secret they’d ever been asked to keep.
At the grandfather clock, Jack slid the minute hand to the precise angle. The gears clicked, ancient and smooth. The wall creaked open to reveal the hidden entrance. And just like that, the warmth of the house faded behind him, replaced by the chill breath of stone.
He descended.
Down the dark spiral stairwell, through the carved rock and dim lights, into the heart of the Batcave.
And there he was.
Bruce.
Still fully suited in the Batsuit, minus the cowl, sitting in front of the Batcomputer. The screens glowed across his face, sharp angles cast in cold blue light, as he typed furiously, decoding something Jack couldn’t quite read from the distance. His jaw was tight. His posture rigid. The mask was off, but the Batman was still fully present.
Jack paused halfway down the steps, not wanting to disturb him. He folded his arms, hugging his robe closer. His gaze lingered on Bruce’s back, on the stiff armor, on the tension in his shoulders that didn’t seem to loosen, ever.
It hit him like a wave. The familiarity of it all.
It felt like the old days again.
Back when Jack was still recovering, physically and mentally, after the Ace Chemicals accident. When Bruce had pulled him from that toxic hell, given him a room at the mansion, offered him a second chance without even asking for anything in return. Back then, Jack didn’t know the man behind the kindness. He thought Bruce Wayne was just a handsome billionaire with too many late nights, too many injuries, and a habit of disappearing.
He used to sit by his bedroom window, waiting to hear the front doors creak open in the early hours, assuming Bruce had just returned from some fundraiser or wild party.
Until that night.
Jack would never forget it.
The night he wandered out of his room and saw Bruce in the kitchen, shirtless, bleeding, his torso a canvas of fresh bruises and purple-black contusions. Alfred was there, calm and composed, stitching him up like it was routine. Because it was.
Jack had frozen in the doorway, heart hammering in his chest, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. That was the night the illusion shattered. That was the night he learned who Bruce really was.
It was terrifying.
But it was also the night Jack truly began to know him.
And without that moment, without that secret, raw vulnerability—he never would’ve fallen in love. Never would’ve dared to get close. Never would’ve become this: a husband, a father, a partner in every chaotic part of Bruce Wayne’s double life.
Jack exhaled quietly, the memory fading back into the shadows of the cave. He looked at Bruce again. Still typing. Still chasing answers. Still too stubborn to sleep.
He considered going down, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, dragging him upstairs to bed.
But instead… he smiled.
There was comfort, oddly, in seeing Bruce this way. Alone in his cave, obsessing over crime data. But this time… not alone because he was hiding. Alone because Jack trusted him to come back. And because Bruce didn’t have to hide anymore.
He turned away quietly and made his way up.
Halfway through the hall, a thought struck him.
Bruce wasn’t working with Tim tonight. No Robin beside him. No calls out to the Justice League. Just solo work.
Just him.
It was late.
Too late for arguments. Too late for lectures.
Unless...
Jack turned away and padded softly through the manor, past the hall where Tim’s room sat behind a half-open door. He paused, leaning just slightly closer, listening for any tapping, typing, or the sound of Tim whispering code into a mic.
Nothing.
Jack let out a relieved breath and nodded. Good. At least one of them was sleeping.
He didn’t knock.
Didn’t barge in.
Just trusted the silence and moved on.
He reached their bedroom, his and Bruce’s shared sanctuary. The lights were soft and low, the bed still unmade from earlier when Jack had been working through notes. He slipped under the covers, still warm from the heating pad he’d left on his side.
As he closed his eyes, his mind whispered with worry. But deeper than that, stronger than that, was trust. Trust that Bruce would come up when he was ready. Trust that he wasn’t pushing himself to the edge, not this time.
And if he was?
Well… Jack still had that syringe tucked in the nightstand. Just in case. With a quiet chuckle, Jack let the dreamscape take him.
Morning came like a quiet apology.
Sunlight spilled lazily through the tall windows of Wayne Manor’s kitchen, casting warm beams across polished countertops and the long oak dining table. The smell of fresh eggs, crisped turkey bacon, and toasted sourdough filled the air, Chef Alfred’s signature breakfast, carefully curated with just enough nutrients to satisfy both growing vigilantes and sleep-deprived scientists.
Jack sat at the table, robe loose around his shoulders, sipping a steaming mug of hot chocolate while watching his two youngest boys eat like miniature wolves.
Damian, eyes lit with excitement, had practically inhaled half his plate already.
“Tim!” he said suddenly between bites, voice too loud for the morning. “Will you help me train Trouble today? I want to increase his speed and dodging accuracy. Maybe attach bells to him.”
Jack blinked. “Attach what now?”
Tim raised an eyebrow mid-chew. “You mean after you come back from kindergarten?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
Damian paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. Then nodded, mouth already full. “Yes. Kindergarten first. Then combat training.”
Tim gave a soft chuckle. “Sure, D. Trouble will probably outrun me anyway.”
The moment the agreement was sealed, Damian practically glowed. He began shoveling down the rest of his breakfast like it was the final round of a food competition.
“Damian, you want to choke yourself?” Jack sighed, reaching across the table with a napkin to clean off his son’s messy cheek.
“Sorry,” Damian muttered through a mouthful.
Jack leaned back and looked around.
The kitchen felt… incomplete.
The smell of breakfast. The sounds of siblings teasing. The gentle clatter of utensils. All of it was perfect.
Except for one thing.
“Tim,” Jack said, his voice lowering, “do you know where your other father is?”
Tim didn’t look surprised by the question. He set down his fork, glanced at Damian, who was now focused on getting the last egg onto his fork with surgical precision—and then back at Jack.
“Probably still in the cave,” he said quietly. “Still working on the Riddler case.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Still?”
Tim nodded. “Last night, we found a playing card and a photo on a crime scene, some thug delivered it, said it was from Nygma. I wanted to stay and help… but Bruce said it was too late. Said I had school, and you’d yell at him if he kept me up.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, half-exasperated, half-amused. “He’s right. I would yell.”
Tim grinned into his orange juice. “He also said, and I quote—‘Tell Jack I didn’t go full-speed on solving this. I took a half-speed nap.’”
Jack blinked. “A half-speed nap? That’s not a thing!”
“It is to Bruce,” Tim shrugged.
Jack shook his head, brushing hair from his face. “Of course he thinks speed-running through a Riddler death maze is fine. Because nothing says fun like under-sleeping and playing chess with a madman.”
Damian piped up, eyes sharp. “Trouble could help track Riddler.”
Jack gave him a look. “Trouble is a baby hyena. Trouble would chew the wires. Or the map. Or the Riddler.”
“…Exactly.”
Jack groaned.
“I swear, this entire family is feral.”
Tim raised his glass. “And we get it from you.”
It was late, Wayne Manor late. That strange pocket of time between midnight and dawn when the house felt too big and too quiet, the kind of silence that could only be broken by the creak of old wood and maybe someone landing through a window.
Dick had just returned from Jump City after wrapping a tense week-long mission with the Titans. No explosions this time. Barely any injuries. He was proud. Exhausted. And in desperate need of chocolate milk.
Still in his suit, minus the mask, he slipped in through the side entrance and walked casually toward the kitchen, humming softly to himself. Just a quick drink. Then maybe bed. Or the couch. Or Bruce’s armchair, if Alfred didn’t catch him.
The kitchen lights were dimmed to their soft nighttime setting, casting the room in golden warmth. Familiar. Safe.
Dick opened the fridge with a smooth motion, pulled out a chilled carton of chocolate milk, and scanned the counters for a cup.
But before he could even reach—
A hand silently appeared beside him and offered a glass.
Dick, running on autopilot, smiled and took it without a second thought. “Oh, thank you.”
He poured the milk, took a long sip, and sighed.
Perfection.
He closed his eyes, savoring the taste, the calm.
Then his brain caught up.
Wait.
Who handed him that glass?
His eyes snapped open.
He turned around slowly.
And there, sitting perfectly still at the far end of the kitchen island, was Jack.
Not just Jack. But Jack in full unblinking gremlin-mode, elbows on the counter, fingers steepled, a gruesomely wide smile stretched across his face like he’d just stepped out of a horror movie.
The kind of smile that said I know something you don’t, and it’s terrible for you but very funny for me.
“Hi, Dick,” Jack said, voice low and syrupy. “How was your day?”
Dick blinked.
Jack tilted his head slightly, smile somehow widening.
Dick blinked again.
The glass slipped from Dick’s hand, shattering across the tile with a crisp, sharp crack.
The chocolate milk carton tumbled next, bouncing once, then hitting the floor with a splattering splat that sent brown liquid across the pristine kitchen tiles like a crime scene.
Dick’s knees wobbled. He staggered back against the fridge like he’d taken a blow to the chest. His back slid down the cold steel surface, his eyes locked wide with a cartoonish stare. Then—thud.
He passed out.
Right there. On the floor. In the middle of the chocolate milk puddle.
Jack blinked.
He tilted his head, confusion quickly rising to match the panic bubbling in his chest.
“Wait—what?” he mumbled, getting to his feet in a blur. “What?! I just asked how your day was!”
He rushed around the counter, crouched beside Dick, and gently patted his face. “Hey. Dick? Dickie? Nightwing? Firstborn? Are you okay?!”
No response. Still unconscious. Still sticky with milk.
Jack groaned and looked around like someone else might appear to help. No one did. Of course not. It was the middle of the night.
“Great,” Jack muttered, already pulling Dick up with a grunt. “You’re slim but still built like a tank. What is this—pure acrobat muscle?!”
Lifting him was awkward. He managed to drape one of Dick’s arms over his shoulder and drag him toward the hallway like a man hauling a very sleepy, milk-scented scarecrow. Every step echoed with wet sock sounds thanks to the puddle they’d left behind.
“Why did I marry into this circus,” Jack muttered to himself, adjusting his grip. “Oh right, because I love pain and chaos. Obviously.”
Once upstairs, he kicked open the door to Dick’s old bedroom, maneuvered the deadweight onto the bed, and gently wiped at the chocolate milk smears on his cheek with the hem of his sleeve.
He pulled the blanket up over Dick’s chest, tucked it neatly under his arms like Alfred always did, and ruffled his hair with a soft touch.
“There,” Jack whispered, half-annoyed, half-affectionate. “Now you’re clean, unconscious, and not lying in a milk puddle. You’re welcome.”
He stood there for a moment, watching his oldest son snore quietly, face finally peaceful.
Then he let out a long sigh.
“Okay. That’s done. Let’s go back downstairs and—” Jack paused. His eyes narrowed. “Wait... I was waiting for something...”
He turned toward the hallway, remembering.
Right.
Bruce.
Still not back.
Still in the Batcave or god-knows-where, probably wrestling a villain or emotionally avoiding sleep.
Jack groaned, rubbed his eyes, and made his way back down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Right,” he muttered again. “Let’s continue waiting, shall we?”
Morning arrived slowly at Wayne Manor, cloaked in grey light.
Rain tapped gently against the tall kitchen windows, a quiet rhythm that filled the otherwise silent room. Alfred Pennyworth, as always, was up before the rest of the house—his morning routine carried out with clockwork grace and a posture as proper as ever. He adjusted his sleeves, tied his apron, and walked calmly toward the kitchen, already making mental notes of what each family member might like for breakfast.
He was halfway through a mental grocery list when he stepped into the kitchen, and froze.
Jack was already there.
Sitting perfectly still at the table.
Back straight.
Eyes wide and unblinking.
And smiling.
It wasn’t his usual smile, the soft, warm one he gave Bruce when their son said something clever, or the gentle one he wore while stirring hot chocolate.
This smile was bigger.
Tighter.
Unnatural in how still his face was.
For one brief, gut-clenching moment, Alfred’s pulse skipped.
“…Did the Joker come back?” he asked, quietly but firmly.
Jack didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t move, just waved lazily with one hand, as if he were sitting poolside with a cocktail.
“Morning, Alfred,” Jack said, voice flat and sing-song. “Making breakfast?”
Alfred stepped closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder like someone trying not to wake a sleepwalker. “Master Jack?”
Jack blinked slowly, like he was rebooting. Then he turned to look up at Alfred. His expression softened.
“Yeah. Sorry. Been here a while,” Jack said, dragging his fingers through his messy green-streaked hair. “Didn’t sleep.”
Alfred’s gaze narrowed slightly, but he simply gave a small nod. “Well then. Would you like to help me slice some vegetables?”
“Sure,” Jack replied, pushing up from the table and heading toward the cutting board like a man on autopilot.
As he took a potato and began peeling it with practiced ease, Alfred studied him from the corner of his eye.
“Still waiting for Master Bruce?” Alfred asked softly.
Jack’s smile dimmed, but he nodded.
“I thought he’d stop doing this,” Jack muttered, focusing too hard on the knife in his hand. “After everything. After... me.”
Alfred’s hands paused over the eggs.
Jack went on, voice growing quieter. “He has so many people now. Friends. Kids. Me. He doesn’t have to be alone in it anymore. Doesn’t have to carry everything.”
The knife clinked against the cutting board.
“I know he trained himself to sleep two hours a day,” he muttered. “And I told him that’s insane. Even when I was the Joker, sleep was sacred. Eight hours minimum. Nine on a good day.”
He let out a dry, humorless laugh.
Alfred didn’t answer at first. He finished cracking the eggs and set the bowl aside. Then he spoke, his voice slow and deliberate.
“He actually did stop,” Alfred said. “After marrying you. After building this family.”
Jack stopped slicing.
“But when you disappeared…” Alfred sighed, resting his hands on the counter, staring down at the cutting board. “When that villain took control of young Master Jason... and you sacrificed yourself to save them...”
Jack closed his eyes. His chest tightened.
Alfred continued.
“Bruce and the children searched for you. Day and night. No rest. Barely food. With the League’s help, with every resource they had, they turned the world inside out. But you were gone. And Bruce—”
He stopped, the pain clear in his voice.
“He didn’t just blame himself for Jason’s brainwashing. He blamed himself for losing you. For not stopping that villain in time. For letting you become…”
Alfred hesitated.
Jack nodded. “...The Joker.”
There was silence for a moment.
The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the soft click of the kitchen clock.
“He never stopped believing you were still in there,” Alfred said. “Even when the Joker laughed in his face. Even when you nearly—”
Jack flinched.
Alfred stopped himself, then exhaled.
“Even then. He held on. And when you came back, he refused to rest until you remembered who you were. Until you were you again.”
Jack sat down slowly on the nearest stool, staring at the counter.
“Jason helped, too,” Alfred added. “Though he won’t admit it. Still blames himself for pulling that trigger.”
Jack rubbed his face. “He shouldn’t. None of them should. Not even Bruce.”
“I know,” Alfred said. “But you know them. Guilt is in the blood.”
Jack looked up, eyes weary. “So what do I do?”
Alfred straightened his posture, smoothing his vest like a general preparing for battle.
“You make him sleep.”
Jack blinked. “What?”
Alfred leaned in. “You’re the only person alive who can out-stubborn Bruce Wayne. So whatever it takes, soothing words, threats, hugs, needles, I don’t care. Make him sleep.”
Jack stared at him.
Then laughed.
A real one.
Short, sharp, and startled.
He grinned slowly, the fatigue in his shoulders melting into something sharper, determination.
He reached for the peeler again, set it down with precision, and smiled toward the hallway like a man plotting a very soft crime.
“Gladly,” Jack said.
Bruce was close.
So close.
The Batcomputer screens glowed with layered scans, Riddler codes, satellite triangulations, and dozens of riddle-based file names only he could navigate. His fingers danced across the keyboard, tracing breadcrumbs left behind by Gotham’s most frustrating genius. Piece by piece, the puzzle came together, one more thread leading to where the victims were held.
He barely blinked.
He didn’t hear the footsteps.
Didn’t notice the drop in air pressure behind him.
Didn’t register the faint scent of lavender oil mixed with... something chemical.
But he felt it, too late.
Eyes locked on the screen, his instincts suddenly screamed, danger. He tensed, trying to turn—
But before he could react, a hand wrapped around his mouth.
A soft rag, sweet-smelling, wet, pressed against his face.
Chloroform.
His body jerked in protest. Muscles tensed. Arms tried to push back. But the scent filled his lungs before he could stop it. Vision blurred. Limbs lost their weight. The screens flickered in and out like distant stars.
And then, darkness.
Sometime later…
Bruce’s eyes fluttered open.
His body felt heavy.
Too warm.
He blinked up at the ceiling, heart pounding.
Soft lighting.
Familiar ceiling fan.
Crisp white trim.
His bedroom.
He tried to move, and that’s when he realized, he couldn’t.
His entire body was encased in layers of blankets. Arms pinned to his sides. Legs wrapped tight. Only his head and shoulders free. Like a human burrito.
No suit.
No utility belt.
He was in nothing but his boxer briefs.
“What the—”
Panic gripped him for a second until he turned to his left and saw the bedroom window. The moonlight. The silence. No one screaming. No alarms.
Okay. Okay. Home.
Then he turned to the right.
And met those eyes.
Piercing green.
A wide smile that didn’t quite reach the edges of his face.
Jack sat on the bed beside him, perched like a cat who just finished pushing a vase off the counter and didn’t regret a thing.
“Hello, Brucie,” he said sweetly.
Bruce’s blood ran cold. And warm. And confused. All at once.
“J-Jack,” he croaked. “Hi. Hello, my beautiful husband. Lovely to see you…”
Jack said nothing.
Just tilted his head.
Bruce gulped.
“W-What are you doing to me?” he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he felt. “I-I was working… The Riddler—”
Jack raised a finger and pressed it softly to Bruce’s lips.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “No Riddler talk right now, Brucie. Daddy’s home, and Daddy is done playing detective tonight.”
Bruce stared, wide-eyed. “But—”
“I’m aware of what you were doing,” Jack said, standing and walking with slow, exaggerated grace toward the nightstand. “That’s why I finished your decoding for you while you were napping. The victims are being held at an abandoned warehouse in Burnley. Alfred already sent the boys.”
Bruce blinked. “What?”
“I told you,” Jack said, picking up a syringe. “I can do your job. Now you just need to do mine.”
“Which is what exactly?”
Jack turned to him, expression glowing.
“Sleeping.”
Bruce stared at the syringe.
Jack waved it gently in his fingers. “Just a little melatonin cocktail. Nothing scary. No needles if you behave.”
Bruce tried to wiggle, but the blankets were expertly wrapped. Of course they were. Jack had years of practice sedating injured vigilantes, assassins, and, on one memorable occasion, Jason during a tantrum.
“This is… this is a kidnapping,” Bruce said, eyebrows raised.
“This is a rescue mission,” Jack corrected, uncapping the syringe with a flourish. “You don’t sleep. You obsess. You guilt-trip yourself into another all-nighter. Again. And again. And again.”
Bruce pouted. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Jack stepped closer, voice softening now. “You’re shaking. You haven’t eaten and left your cocoa mug in the freezer.”
“I was testing cryogenic—”
“Shut it.” Jack leaned in. “You are going to take this dose, snuggle into your burrito of love, and sleep for at least eight hours. Then you’re going to wake up, and we’re going to cuddle, and maybe—maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you check in with the boys.”
Bruce opened his mouth.
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Bruce closed his mouth.
“…I love you,” Bruce mumbled.
“I know,” Jack grinned. “You’re lucky I do too.”
He tapped Bruce’s forehead gently.
“Now,” Jack said, tapping the syringe against his palm with theatrical calm, “how long exactly did you think you were going to sleep?”
“…Non?” Bruce offered, voice rising like a guilty child trying to charm his way out of detention. He gave a weak chuckle.
Jack’s expression didn’t budge. Except for one thing: his mouth slowly curled into a wide, unnerving smile.
“Wrong,” Jack whispered, voice low, playful, and dangerous.
Bruce winced. “I deserved that.”
“Yes,” Jack said, matter-of-fact. “Yes, you did.”
And with that, he injected the dose into a vein in Bruce’s arm, gentle, clean, practiced.
Bruce’s eyes drifted closed seconds later.
The last thing he heard was Jack humming softly, tucking the blankets tighter, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like:
“Stupid bat. You’re mine.”
Chapter 4: Laughter and Silence
Summary:
On a quiet Saturday evening, the Batfamily gathers for Dick’s chaotic invention: The Game of Knowing, a spin-the-bottle game where embarrassing stories must be told. Jack is reluctant, more interested in his Amazon plant research, but he’s dragged in by Dick.
Notes:
I never thought it will become this long! There suppose to be more like Jack getting to know Tim more each other, but sadly it was too long... And also I don't have enough energy to make longer... So I am sorry you guys need to wait more.
Chapter Text
It was a Saturday evening in Wayne Manor, the kind of night when the city outside was quiet enough to make the house feel unnervingly normal. Every member of the Bat-family had found their way to the living room, sprawled across the plush carpet in a loose circle.
In the center, glinting under the soft lamplight like a strange artifact of social doom, sat a single empty glass bottle.
Jack stared at it like it was a ticking bomb.
The circle was Dick’s idea, of course, born out of sheer pettiness after he and Jason had spent breakfast trading increasingly ridiculous stories to one-up each other. Somewhere between Jason’s tale about Dick getting stuck in an air vent during a stealth op and Dick’s vivid recount of Jason tripping into a fountain mid-chase, the idea had been born.
“Game of Knowing,” Dick had called it. Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on the one who spins it has to tell an embarrassing, cringe, or otherwise mortifying personal story when the bottle pointing at them. No exceptions.
Jason had grinned like the cat who just broke the canary’s neck. “Finally, a game worth playing.”
Everyone seemed weirdly eager. Damian sat upright with a predatory look like he was about to cross-examine a suspect. Tim had already pulled out his phone, clearly prepared to take notes. Even Alfred, who was perched elegantly on the nearby armchair with his tea, had the faintest spark of curiosity in his eyes.
Jack… did not share the enthusiasm.
He had better things to do, far better things. Upstairs in his study, he had notes and sketches spread out across the desk, research on rare Amazonian plants Bruce had brought back from a League mission. If he could isolate the properties of some of those herbs, he might be able to develop a potent yet safe antidote for a whole range of toxins, Scarecrow’s fear gas, Ivy’s pollen, even some of the more obscure smiling gas formulas.
That kind of work mattered.
This? This was a family-led inquisition disguised as a party game.
But no, apparently, participation was mandatory, courtesy of his “first child” in the family. Dick had been the one to grab him by the wrist and drag him into the living room with the kind of energy only an eldest sibling could wield. “C’mon, J! You’ve gotta be part of this. Family bonding!”
Now here Jack sat, cross-legged on the rug, one eyebrow arched in pure skepticism, while the others shifted impatiently. The bottle sat there in the middle, innocent and menacing at the same time.
Bruce, lounging at Jack’s left, leaned slightly toward him and smirked. “You look like you’re about to interrogate that bottle.”
“I’m considering it,” Jack muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the glass like it might blink first.
The chatter around the circle swelled, Jason daring Tim to spin first, Damian reminding everyone that “embarrassing” stories don’t apply to him because he’s “never made a mistake,” Dick already making a list of who to target.
Jack sighed, rolling his shoulders back. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well make a mental note of everything, who lied, who blushed, who broke under pressure. It was the scientist in him. Or maybe just the husband of Batman.
Either way, he was here now.
And judging by the gleam in Dick’s eye when he met Jack’s gaze across the circle, his so-called first child had plans.
“Let me start first.”
Dick leaned forward and seized the bottle, his fingers curling around it like a man about to pull the trigger on some glorious chaos. That smile on his face, wide, smug, and just a little too theatrical—made Jason groan immediately.
“Don’t give me that look,” Dick said, straightening his posture. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, the way someone might before sinking a three-pointer.
Then he began calculating. Angle… spin force… friction from the carpet… probability of maximum embarrassment…
He had one target in mind. And it had to be perfect.
Jason tapped his fingers against his knee, his patience already burning out. “Can you just spin the damn thing already?”
“Jason! Language!” Jack snapped instantly, clapping both hands over Damian’s ears. Damian immediately shoved them off, scowling.
Bruce smirked beside Jack, clearly entertained.
Dick poked his tongue out at Jason in juvenile defiance and then, finally, gave the bottle a dramatic spin.
It went whirling in tight, rapid circles, the glass catching the warm lamplight in flashes. The speed was almost comical, as though Dick had channeled his entire pent-up older brother energy into that flick.
Around the circle, shoulders tensed. Some leaned forward. Others leaned back. Tim adjusted his hoodie like it might shield him from fate. Even Jason’s eyes flicked toward the bottle despite his “I’m not invested” facade.
Alfred, of course, was the only one entirely unbothered. Sitting in his armchair with his tea, he observed with the faint smile of a man who already owned a mental archive of every family embarrassment. He didn’t need the game to know their secrets, he’d been there.
The bottle’s spin began to slow. The tension ramped up. You could feel the shift in the air, everyone was silently chanting in their heads, each name like a prayer or a curse.
Dick gulped once, eyes tracking the neck of the bottle like a hawk sighting prey.
It clicked to a stop.
The tip pointed directly at Damian.
A collective noise went through the circle, half laugh, half gasp. Every head swiveled toward Damian.
Damian… didn’t move. He just blinked once, his face as unreadable as ever, then slowly turned his gaze to Dick.
Dick’s grin widened.
Then, like dominos falling, everyone else turned to look at Dick.
Jack leaned toward Bruce and whispered, “Maybe it’s the wrong person?”
But before Bruce could answer-
The room was split by a sudden, sharp burst of laughter.
It wasn’t a polite chuckle. Or a lighthearted giggle.
It was a laugh steeped in evil, rich with mockery, tinged with the darkness of someone who knew exactly how to burn another person’s dignity to the ground and would enjoy every second of it.
The sound alone made Damian’s shoulders stiffen.
Dick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locking onto his youngest brother like a predator about to pounce.
Damian swallowed.
“One night…” Dick began slowly, drawing out the words like he was telling a ghost story, “…September twenty-seventh.”
Damian’s eyes went wide.
How does he know?!
“You decided,” Dick continued, voice growing in drama, “that the living room sofa was the perfect training ground for your parkour skills.”
Tim’s lips twitched. Jason straightened, already smirking.
Dick’s hand came up, gesturing animatedly as he painted the scene. “Everyone was asleep. The whole manor was quiet. Just you… and your grand plan… to flip from one cushion to the other.”
Jason snorted.
“But,” Dick said, his tone suddenly dropping into mock tragedy, “oh… how sad… to witness your bitter, furious little fists pounding into the sofa when you couldn’t, quite do a single-” he punctuated each word with a pause, “stupid flip.”
By now, Jason was choking on his laughter. Tim had actually covered his mouth with his sleeve.
And Damian… Damian was staring daggers.
Dick, unbothered, lifted an imaginary microphone with both hands and let it fall in a slow-motion mic drop.
Silence fell.
Every eye in the circle was on Damian, waiting for the counterattack.
Even Alfred had set his teacup down.
Then, everything stopped.
The teasing atmosphere evaporated in an instant.
A small, trembling sound broke through the silence.
Hic.
Damian’s shoulders shook once. His lashes blinked rapidly, but not quickly enough to hide the way his eyes glossed over. He bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to hold himself together, but the first tear slipped free.
Then another.
And another.
In seconds, they were running in quick, hot trails down his cheeks.
The Bat-family, so used to Damian’s stubborn pride and cutting remarks, sat frozen.
Even Dick’s grin faltered. His stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. Oh, no.
For the first time in his life, he thought, Maybe I went too far.
The room’s temperature seemed to drop as everyone’s eyes turned toward him.
It wasn’t just looks. These were death glares.
Bruce’s stare was the full force of the Batman glare, the one that made hardened criminals babble confessions.
Jason’s was flat and unimpressed, but with the kind of quiet promise that said I’m going to mess with you later for this.
Tim’s was almost worse, he didn’t even say anything, just kept one eyebrow raised like he was logging this in some secret mental file titled Reasons to Roast Dick Grayson.
Jack, though… Jack looked at him with a mix of disappointment and How did I let my baby into this game in the first place?
Without hesitation, Jack reached for Damian, gently pulling the boy into his lap. His arms went around him in that protective, no-one’s-getting-you-now kind of hug, one hand patting the back of his head in slow, soothing motions.
Dick opened his mouth, hands shooting up in rapid defense. “I-I miscalculated! Okay? I didn’t think he’d—”
“Language,” Bruce warned under his breath, even as his eyes stayed narrowed.
“I’m sorry, Damian,” Dick blurted, leaning forward. His voice had lost all its usual cocky rhythm.
Damian sniffled, finally speaking in a quiet, cracking voice. “I just… I just wanted to be like every Robin. Fast… like you.”
Dick’s breath caught.
“Strong… like Jason,” Damian continued, his gaze flicking toward his older brother for a fraction of a second.
Jason’s eyes softened, though he quickly hid it under a scowl.
“And smart… like Tim.”
The room went still again, but for a very different reason this time.
Dick, Jason, and Tim all stared at Damian, something unspoken shifting in their expressions.
Without another word, they moved, Jason and Tim crossing the carpet while Dick half-scrambled, half-crawled closer. The three older brothers surrounded him, dropping to their knees beside Jack’s chair.
Then they leaned in and pulled him into a tight, awkward, slightly-too-strong hug.
“I’m the worst brother ever,” Dick choked out, his voice already wobbling toward tears.
Jason immediately shoved him away, face twisting. “Take your snot and tears somewhere else! This is my jacket, Grayson!”
“Wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t wear leather indoors,” Dick shot back, trying to wipe his face without letting go of Damian entirely.
Tim just chuckled, looping an arm around Damian’s shoulders from the other side and holding on.
Jack looked down at the messy pile of limbs and half-sibling bickering in his lap, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
When he glanced up, Bruce was already watching him, the faintest smile on his own face.
No words passed between them.
They didn’t need to.
“Should we stop the game?” Bruce finally broke the silence after what felt like five whole minutes of Robins tangled together in a messy knot of limbs, half crying, half growling at each other. His voice was gentle, though it carried that familiar edge of command that usually ended arguments in the field.
“No,” Damian said quickly, his voice small but firm. He sniffled once, still curled up on Jack’s lap, Trouble pressing his furry head against Damian’s chest. “I want to see how it goes.”
Jack tilted his head down, brushing Damian’s hair back from his damp cheeks. “Are you sure, baby?” His tone was tender, almost pleading, his thumb stroking soothing circles against Damian’s temple.
Damian nodded once, resolute despite his watery eyes. “But… I will not participate. Just… just want to laugh together.”
Then, as if on cue, Trouble leapt onto Damian’s lap, making the boy grunt as he hugged the small hyena tight like a lifeline.
That was enough. Everyone silently agreed, no more teasing the baby bird.
“Fair enough,” Dick said, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Yeah, kid gets a pass,” Tim added with a small smile.
Jason, however, wasn’t finished.
He reached forward, snatching the bottle with a dramatic glare in Dick’s direction. “Because of stupid Grayson not knowing boundaries,” he drawled, “I’m making this spin.”
He didn’t even wait for anyone to argue. With a rough flick, he sent the bottle spinning across the smooth carpet. It whirled so quickly the reflections blurred in the glass, until finally, it slowed… wobbled… and came to a stop.
Pointing straight at Bruce.
The circle let out a collective “oooh.”
“Well,” Jason drawled, tapping his chin like he was sifting through a Rolodex of crimes. His eyes lit up a second later, and a wicked grin stretched across his face. “Oh, I got one.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes immediately, already sensing danger.
“Remember when you took me to the manor for the first time?” Jason began. “After I ‘accidentally’ stole the wheels off your Batmobile?”
“You mean tried and didn’t succeed,” Dick interjected automatically, smirking, only to get a shove in the shoulder from Jason.
“Shut it, Goldie,” Jason said before turning back to Bruce. His grin widened. “So, you were giving me this big, dramatic speech. You know the type, ‘responsibility this, legacy that, you have to channel your anger, blah blah blah.’”
Tim snorted. “Classic.”
“And then Jack shows up,” Jason continued, gesturing toward Jack with both hands like he was presenting a witness. “Probably to scold you again for being out too late. But what do you do, B? You light up like a lovesick puppy. You’re all happy to see him, can’t even keep that scary Batman act up for five seconds. So you drop everything and try to run to him…”
Jason paused, grinning wider. “…And then you slipped. And fell. Right on your face.”
The room exploded.
Dick’s jaw dropped. His entire face lit up with shock. “Wait-WHAT?! That happened?!” He was already half laughing, half shouting in disbelief.
Tim actually wheezed, doubling forward.
Jason threw his head back and cackled. “Yep. The big, bad Batman, defeated by polished manor floors.”
Bruce’s face turned scarlet almost instantly. He brought a hand up to rub his jaw, as if hiding behind his fingers could erase the image.
Jack, meanwhile, leaned back against the sofa and chuckled warmly. “Oh, that day…” His eyes crinkled with nostalgia. “I remember it perfectly. I thought he’d broken something.”
Bruce groaned. “No comment.”
That only made the laughter louder.
Dick rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach. Jason was nearly crying. Tim had pulled out his phone, muttering something about writing this down for future blackmail. Even Damian, still holding Trouble, was grinning despite himself.
Bruce turned his face to the side, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, the tips of his ears burning red. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve chloroformed Jason instead.”
Jack just reached over and squeezed his husband’s hand. “Don’t worry, Brucie. You’re still Gotham’s terrifying dark knight… just also a man who can lose a fight with a hardwood floor.”
The game spiraled into chaos with the precision of a well-timed ambush.
One spin after another unleashed horrors of memory, half-forgotten blunders, ridiculous accidents, and cringe-worthy moments that had everyone groaning or howling with laughter. Some tried to deny, some buried their faces in their hands, and others simply endured while Dick kept slapping shoulders and backs until he was yelled at to keep his circus hands to himself.
The laughter was infectious, bouncing off the high ceilings of Wayne Manor, filling the room with something warm and chaotic. This was the Batfamily off-duty: not crimefighters, not soldiers, but people. Loud, messy, and strangely criminal in their own way, because the real crimes here were the memories being dug up.
And Alfred? Alfred was merciless. The butler, quiet and composed, calmly obliterated one family member after another whenever he spin the bottle. Each of his contributions was like pulling a grenade pin, dropping stories so sharp and precise that everyone recoiled, groaning and laughing in disbelief. He was the undisputed MVP, and the only one Damian was spared from, as if even Alfred knew the youngest had already been scarred enough.
Then, at last, the bottle reached Jack.
“Okay, okay, my turn,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He was still chuckling, though, from the last round, Dick gleefully recounting the morning he’d walked into the kitchen and found Jack sitting at the counter, pouring coffee into his cereal like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“It was efficiency!” Jack had defended, laughing at himself as much as the others.
“Efficiency, my ass,” Jason had shot back. “That’s just a crime against food.”
Now, Jack placed his hand on the bottle, exhaling. “Alright. Let’s see who gets the pleasure.”
He gave it a quick spin.
The room went silent again, a ritual hush. Everyone leaned forward slightly, as if sheer willpower could bend the laws of physics. There were mutters, mock prayers, whispered curses, all aimed at keeping the bottle from pointing their way.
It spun, slowed, wobbled.
And then it stopped.
Pointing directly at Tim.
Jack blinked, surprised. Across from him, Tim raised his brows, waiting patiently.
The others instantly leaned in, hungry.
“Well, go on, Dad,” Jason smirked. “Don’t hold back.”
Jack’s smile faltered. He let out a nervous little chuckle and scratched the back of his neck. His mind raced. Something funny. Something embarrassing. Something… anything.
But the more he searched, the more he realized… he had nothing.
His gaze flicked to Tim, who still looked at him expectantly, calm as ever.
And that was the problem.
Tim was newer. He’d joined the family while Jack had been gone, while he had been lost, Joker-ized, gone from their lives. Tim had been living here for two years now, fitting into the fold, building bonds. And Jack… Jack had only just come back.
Memories of late-night talks, private moments, inside jokes, he had those with Dick, Jason, Damian. But with Tim? Nothing. They hadn’t had alone time. Not a single personal thread to pull on.
Jack swallowed hard.
“I—I…” He tried, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to make a joke, to laugh it off, but all he felt was the weight of that gap pressing down on him.
The silence stretched.
It wasn’t funny anymore.
Everyone shifted, glancing between him and Tim. The laughter drained from the room like water slipping through cracks.
Jack’s chest tightened. He hated that Tim had been here all this time and he hadn’t built anything real with him yet. He hated that the game had turned into a spotlight on that fact.
Tim’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak. He just waited, quiet and patient, like he always was.
Finally, Bruce’s voice cut through the tension.
“That’s enough.”
It was quiet, firm. Not angry, but final.
The bottle still sat in the center of the circle, but nobody looked at it anymore.
Jack lowered his eyes, guilt swirling in his chest.
Bruce reached over and covered his hand with his own, squeezing gently. Jack squeezed back, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The game was over.
And for once, no one argued.
It was late. The manor had settled into its familiar silence, broken only by the faint creaks of old wood and the distant hum of Gotham far beyond the walls. Bruce slipped in through the study doors after patrol, his cowl already tucked under one arm, exhaustion pulling heavy at his shoulders.
But tonight, his mind wasn’t on bruises or criminals. It was on Jack. On the way the game had ended earlier.
He couldn’t blame him, how could he? Jack hadn’t even been back for a year. Barely enough time to re-adjust, to reclaim himself. And yet Bruce had seen it in his eyes, the guilt, the shame, the way he couldn’t look Tim in the eye.
Bruce sighed as he moved down the hall. He had him back. After years of loss and nightmares, Jack was home again. He couldn’t let something like this wedge itself between them.
“Goodnight, Tim,” he said gently as he passed the boy in the corridor.
Tim only nodded once, quiet as always, and slipped into his room. The door clicked shut.
Bruce stood there for a second longer, staring at the wood. Then he shook his head, turning away. He made for his own room, opening the door as quietly as possible, almost tiptoeing, out of habit.
And froze.
Jack was there, hunched over the desk. The light of a small lamp spilled across him in warm gold, highlighting the sharp focus on his face as he turned a delicate leaf between his fingers. The Amazonian specimen Diana had given him sat carefully pinned beneath glass slides, his notebook open to pages of sketches and scattered notes. He was working, lost in it, his safe place.
Bruce’s chest ached.
He stepped forward without a sound. When he reached him, he bent down, arms sliding slowly around Jack’s shoulders from behind.
Jack stiffened in surprise, his breath catching. But after a beat, his body softened, leaning back into Bruce’s chest, letting the warmth seep in.
“How’s your feeling, J?” Bruce asked softly, resting his chin against Jack’s temple.
Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the leaf, his hands steady, but his silence was heavy. Too heavy.
Bruce smiled faintly against his hair, though it was tinged with worry. “It’s not your fault, Jack.”
That made him stop. His hands stilled completely. Bruce felt it immediately, the subtle tremor running through him.
Then came it: the wet drop against his hand where it rested over Jack’s heart.
“J…”
“I-It is,” Jack broke, his voice low and raw. His grip on the leaf trembled, then he set it down as if afraid he’d crush it. He covered his face with one hand, the other clawing at the desk. “I didn’t even try to talk to him alone. To really know him. I don’t have a single memory with him, Bruce! Not one! I’ve been back for months and it’s like I’ve done nothing, like I’m not even his dad…”
His words cracked, collapsing into anger, at himself more than anything. His shoulders shook as he fought against the tears spilling free. “I’m a coward. I’m too afraid to… to sit with him. Just him. I don’t have the courage, Bruce. I don’t-”
“Jack,” Bruce cut in, tightening his arms, pulling him back firmly into his chest.
Jack gasped, the sound breaking in his throat as Bruce pressed him close, swallowing his shaking body against his own.
“You’re not a coward,” Bruce murmured into his ear. “You’re a man who’s been through hell and back. And you’re still here. That is courage.”
Jack clutched his forearm, holding onto him like he was afraid to let go.
Bruce kissed the side of his head gently, his lips brushing against his green hair. “You don’t have to figure it out in one night. Tim doesn’t need perfect. He just needs you. And you’re enough, Jack. Always.”
For the first time all evening, Jack’s sobs began to quiet, turning into uneven breaths against Bruce’s chest. His eyes stayed red, his face damp, but the crushing weight pressing down on him seemed to ease as he melted deeper into his husband’s embrace.
Bruce just held him, patient and steady, as if he had all the time in the world.
Chapter 5: Through Tim’s Eyes
Summary:
A lively Saturday breakfast at Wayne Manor, where the family’s usual chaos unfolds. Jack, however, feels a heavy guilt as he realizes he has no real memories with Tim, only facts from files. Bruce notices this distance and, recalling Alfred’s advice, discreetly arranges a way for Jack and Tim to bond by sending them together on an errand to Gotham Mall.
Chapter Text
It was Saturday morning, and the Wayne dining table was alive with the usual chaos. The long oak surface was crowded with plates, coffee mugs, glasses of juice, and Alfred’s perfectly arranged trays of eggs, bacon, and pancakes stacked like golden towers.
Dick was in the middle of telling a joke, complete with wild hand gestures that made Damian roll his eyes so hard Jack thought the boy might actually sprain something. Tim sat calmly beside Jason, holding up his phone to show him the morning news. Jason, half-distracted and already chewing through his second helping of bacon, grunted at the headlines, giving a sarcastic comment here and there that made Tim smirk faintly.
At the other end of the table, Damian leaned down to sneak Trouble scraps from his plate. The hyena happily snapped up the food, tail wagging against the leg of the chair.
“Damian,” Bruce’s voice cut through the chatter, low and warning.
Damian froze, his fork halfway to Trouble’s mouth. He scowled at his father, muttering something about “unfair rules,” before returning to his own plate. Trouble whined, flopping to the floor in dramatic defeat.
The rest of the family laughed lightly, the sound mingling with the clink of forks and the shuffle of plates. To anyone else, it was a perfectly normal breakfast in the Wayne household.
But not for Jack.
He sat quietly, his fork tracing aimless patterns through the food he had barely touched. His eyes kept flicking across the table, to Tim.
Tim looked fine. Perfectly fine. Not a single shadow of annoyance or pain crossed his face. He ate steadily, spoke when he needed to, responded to Jason’s sarcasm with his own brand of calm wit. To anyone else, Tim was unreadable, a wall of composure.
But Jack couldn’t stop wondering if it was real.
He sighed softly, the sound lost under Dick’s booming laugh. He felt that same heavy guilt pressing against his ribs, the memory of the game still sharp in his chest. He had nothing to say about Tim. No stories, no memories, nothing that belonged only to them. Just the dry details from files he had read, like some stranger looking in from the outside.
Should he apologize? Would that even mean anything? Could words fix the silence between them? Or would it just make things worse, dragging the awkwardness back into the light?
Jack stabbed at his food, his appetite gone.
Across the table, Bruce watched. He saw the way Jack’s shoulders slumped, the way his eyes dimmed whenever they drifted to Tim. Bruce took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth settle in his chest as he turned the thought over carefully.
He wanted to step in, to fix this, to smooth everything over like he always tried to do. But Alfred’s words from the night before echoed in his mind. They had to do it themselves. Jack and Tim needed their own bridge, not one built for them.
That didn’t mean Bruce couldn’t help.
He sipped again, his expression unreadable. Plans began to take shape quietly in his mind, subtle ways to draw them together without forcing it, gentle opportunities that would feel natural instead of staged.
For now, though, he simply set his cup down, hiding his small, knowing smile behind it.
The meal carried on, noisy as ever. Dick was already launching into another exaggerated story about Titans Tower, Jason grumbling beside him, Damian sneaking Trouble a crumb when Bruce’s head was turned.
Jack forced himself to smile when someone laughed, but his mind stayed stuck. Every glance at Tim felt like a reminder of the distance between them, of the silence that stretched where memories should have been.
Bruce finished the last of his coffee and set the cup down with deliberate care. He leaned back slightly, surveying the table, eyes flicking between his husband and his son. The plan had already formed in his mind, simple and effective.
“Tim,” Bruce said suddenly, his voice calm but cutting through the noise like a blade.
Tim looked up instantly, phone lowering. “Yeah?”
“I need you to pick up some things for me today. New hard drives, a few components for the Batcomputer. Nothing complicated, but specific enough that Alfred doesn’t need to waste his time chasing them down.”
Tim nodded, already slipping into problem-solving mode. “Alright. I’ll make a list. Shouldn’t take long.”
“And you won’t be going alone,” Bruce added, his gaze sliding toward Jack. “Jack, why don’t you go with him? The two of you can make a day of it. There’s a new exhibit at the mall’s gallery wing too, rarest herbs and medicinal plants. You’ll want to see it.”
The fork slipped in Jack’s hand, clattering against the plate. He blinked, caught off guard. “Me? To the mall? With Tim?”
Tim gave a small, polite nod. “I don’t mind. It’ll be faster with two people.”
Jack’s heart twisted. He glanced at Bruce, who gave nothing away, only sipping his water like he hadn’t just orchestrated the entire thing.
Jack swallowed, forcing a smile. “Sure. Yeah. I’d… like that.”
Damian wrinkled his nose. “The mall is loud and full of people who don’t understand the art of stealth.”
Jason smirked. “You’re four. The only thing you need to understand at the mall is how to ask for a pretzel.”
Dick laughed so hard he nearly choked on his orange juice.
Amid the chaos, Bruce caught Jack’s eyes again. For just a second. A quiet look, steady and reassuring, that said more than words ever could. You can do this.
Jack inhaled slowly, pressing his napkin against his mouth to steady himself. His chest felt tight, but there was a flicker of something beneath the nerves. Hope.
Maybe this was the chance he needed.
Gotham Mall. One of the grandest buildings in the city, its glass towers glittering even in the dim, cloud-choked light. The kind of place only the wealthiest dared to shop, its parking lot dotted with imported cars and valets in crisp uniforms. Jack always thought it was absurd. In his mind, a mall should feel open, buzzing with life like the ones in Metropolis or Jump City where families strolled freely, laughter echoing off tiled floors. This mall, though, was Gotham’s: polished, cold, dripping in pretension. He hoped one day it would change.
The car purred quietly as Jack guided it down the main road toward the entrance. Tim sat in the passenger seat, upright and calm, his phone resting in his hands. He wasn’t scrolling, though. He wasn’t doing anything. Just holding it.
The silence pressed heavy between them.
Ten minutes had already passed since they left the manor, and not a single real word had been spoken. Only the noise of Gotham traffic filled the air, the distant hum of engines, the sharp chorus of horns from impatient drivers weaving aggressively around them.
Jack gripped the wheel tighter, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His knuckles whitened, and a bead of sweat slid down his temple. Every second stretched longer, the quiet growing louder in his ears.
He thought of a dozen scenarios, a hundred possible starts to a conversation. All of them sounded wrong in his head. If he brought up the weather, it would be stupid. If he asked about patrol, it would feel like prying. If he apologized outright, it would sound like pity. And if he said nothing… well, he was already failing at that.
His chest tightened. What if Tim resented him? What if every attempt only made it worse? What if silence was safer?
Jack’s lips parted slightly, a word forming on the edge of his tongue, but fear locked his throat. He pressed them shut again, swallowing hard, and wiped his damp palms against his pants.
The car turned down the road that led toward the mall’s glittering facade. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
In the corner of his vision, Tim adjusted in his seat, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, and that made Jack’s nerves crawl even higher.
Inside his head, Jack screamed at himself to just say something.
“Why the hell is his face up there?” Jack muttered under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the looming glass of Gotham Mall came into view. The first thing greeting them was not the shining architecture, not the wide stretch of polished parking space, but a massive digital billboard flashing Lex Luthor’s face in all its smug glory.
The man’s bald head gleamed under the studio lighting, his perfect smile stretched like he owned the world. Next to him, a holographic model of his newest invention rotated slowly, glowing blue, like some divine gift bestowed upon humanity. The tagline below read in bold: The Future is LexCorp.
Jack’s lip curled. He did not hate the man, but he certainly despised the way Lex presented himself. As if no one else in the world could rival his brilliance. As if he were the pinnacle of human achievement. “That arrogant bastard thinks he is the smartest person in the universe,” Jack grumbled, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Absurd. Absolutely absurd.”
He shook his head as he pulled the car into the lot. He could already hear Clark’s voice in his head, calm and patient, trying to explain how Lex “isn’t entirely wrong” about his intelligence. Jack scoffed to himself. “If Clark had any sense, he would just throw this guy back into prison where he belongs.”
Then another thought hit him, more irritating than the first. His eyes narrowed as the ad shifted to showcase a polished line of sleek tech. “Wait. Why are his inventions still on the market? Who in their right mind keeps buying from him? Who gave this man permission to advertise in Gotham?” Jack groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God help me.”
Beside him, Tim leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the massive billboard. His voice came quiet but sharp, blunt as always. “Do you think he’s the most genius human ever born?”
Jack almost slammed on the brakes from shock. He turned his head so fast his neck cracked. “What?”
Tim did not flinch, still watching the screen. “He always claims it. People believe it. Do you think it’s true?”
Jack’s mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, he considered giving a diplomatic answer, the kind Bruce might have given. But something in Tim’s steady eyes made him pause. This was not just idle curiosity. It was a test. Tim was waiting for his answer, measuring him.
Jack leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly. “Oh please,” he said finally, voice lighter now, though his irritation was still there. “If he really was the most genius human ever born, he wouldn’t be wasting his time with holographic billboards and overpriced gadgets. A real genius would already own Metropolis outright with nothing but politics and influence. Engineering alone won’t get him anywhere. Not when he wastes it on vanity projects.”
A faint silence followed. Then, just barely, Jack caught the corner of Tim’s mouth twitch upward. Almost a smile.
For the first time since the drive started, Jack’s chest loosened a little.
The inside of Gotham Mall was alive with movement, but Jack hated it. This was not the warmth of families crowding food courts or kids running around arcades like in Metropolis or Jump City. This was wealth on parade. Every corner glittered with expensive accessories, boutiques dressed up like miniature palaces, and restaurants that charged three digits for a salad. Even the pet shop gleamed with glass tanks and polished cages, displaying exotic animals with price tags that made Jack’s stomach twist. A French bulldog had a collar worth more than most people’s rent.
Jack muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Thank god for Harleen. If she hadn’t given Damien that hyena, Bruce would’ve dropped a fortune on a breeder with gold-plated cages.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to think about how Bruce would just shrug and call it “reasonable.”
They passed a jewelry shop where a single necklace glittered beneath a spotlight like it was a crown jewel. Jack scoffed. “Not like Bruce,” he added softly, almost smirking. “Guy probably thinks that’s a bargain.”
He pushed a sleek black stroller along, though they did not need it, Bruce insisted, because Gotham Mall staff stared suspiciously at anyone who did not look like they were “supposed” to be there. The stroller gave them cover, and Jack grumbled at the absurdity of it all.
Their first destination was the electronics store, its walls lit up with row after row of glowing screens and futuristic displays. The place looked less like a shop and more like the inside of a spaceship.
Jack blinked at the displays, leaning down slightly toward Tim. “Alright, so explain this to me. What exactly does Bruce need here? The Batcomputer is already… what? A Frankenstein of self-built circuits and alien technology he bullied from the League? What could possibly be missing?”
Tim did not answer immediately. He was typing with both thumbs at impossible speed, his eyes narrowed at his phone as if hacking into a bank account rather than sending a text. The soft glow of the screen lit his focused face.
Jack waited, shifting his weight awkwardly, his question hanging in the air. He thought for a second about dropping it, afraid of pushing too much, when Tim finally looked up. His tone was calm, flat, but there was a spark of interest in his eyes.
“It’s a new limited edition enhanced screen,” Tim said. “16K resolution. Only a handful exist. Bruce wants it installed for crime scene photos and surveillance feed clarity. It’ll sharpen everything down to the smallest detail.”
Jack blinked, his eyebrows rising. “16K?” He whistled low, impressed despite himself. “That could show every grain of dirt on a crime scene photo. Hell, you could probably count the eyelashes on a suspect with that.”
Tim’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as if amused by Jack’s reaction.
Jack grinned faintly, rubbing his chin. “You know, back in my day, I thought VHS tapes were peak technology. Now I’m apparently one bad day away from being rendered in ultra-high definition.”
The smallest sound slipped out of Tim’s throat, half snort, half laugh. It was gone in an instant, but Jack caught it.
“Mr. Wayne, welcome. Are you here for the new sixteen K resolution screen?” The worker’s voice carried that well-practiced blend of politeness and awe, as though greeting royalty.
Jack blinked at the man, then glanced at Tim, who was already standing straighter with an almost imperceptible spark of excitement in his eyes. With a slow nod, Jack gave in. “Yes,” he said, voice calm but unsure. “Could you please show us?”
The worker’s smile widened as if he had just secured a personal victory. “Of course, sir. Right this way.” He motioned them toward the back of the store, walking with the kind of pride reserved for someone about to unveil a sacred treasure.
Jack followed, pushing the stroller with one hand, though the absurdity of it still gnawed at him. His other hand wiped at his brow. He could feel Tim’s silent energy next to him, a coiled anticipation as the boy gripped his phone like a camera crew waiting for their big break.
The employee stopped in front of a display shrouded in heavy velvet curtains. With a theatrical flourish, he pulled them back, revealing a massive monitor rotating slowly on a pedestal. Studio lights burst to life, illuminating the screen as though it were a crown jewel.
The display shimmered with impossible clarity. Every color seemed deeper, sharper, as though the glass itself was trying to capture the essence of reality. For a split second, Jack swore he could see his own reflection with more detail than the bathroom mirror back home.
A low whistle escaped him. “Is this… spinning?” His eyes widened as the pedestal slowly rotated, sending golden light gleaming across the polished floor. The presentation looked more like a legendary weapon reveal than a piece of technology. The whole thing reminded Jack of those ridiculous gacha games Damian played on his tablet, the way a rare five-star character dropped with radiant beams of gold and triumphant music.
“This is too much,” Jack muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “It is literally glowing.”
Tim, however, was already raising his phone, snapping photos with quiet precision. The faintest hint of excitement colored his usually calm expression. Without hesitation, he uploaded a shot to his feed, thumbs flying. “Hashtag 16K,” he said flatly, though the corners of his lips curved ever so slightly.
Jack glanced at him, stunned at first, then broke into a chuckle. “Unbelievable. You are treating it like a celebrity sighting.”
Tim shrugged, his eyes never leaving the screen. “It kind of is. Gotham’s tech community is going to lose their minds. This is history.”
Jack let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the shimmering screen. “History, sure. But at this price, Gotham’s rich will blindly buy it just because it is limited. Not because they even need it.” He leaned closer, squinting at the impossible sharpness of the image. “What even looks good in 16K? I do not need to see Alfred’s pores in ultra-high definition.”
Tim let out a soft laugh, short, genuine, and almost surprised at himself.
After thirty long minutes of watching the store worker slowly, painfully wrap the sixteen K screen with a care that suggested it was a newborn child, Jack and Tim finally escaped the electronics shop. Their next stop was much quieter.
The botanist shop sat at the far end of the mall, tucked away from the noisy glitter of the luxury stores. Its front windows glowed green from the soft lights above rows of plants, condensation gently fogging the glass. The moment Jack stepped inside, the smell hit him, damp earth, fresh leaves, a faint sweetness of blooming orchids mingling with sharper herbal scents. His shoulders dropped at once, the tension from earlier peeling away. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Finally. A place that felt like home.
“Now,” Jack exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips, “let’s see if they have what I want.” He pushed the cart toward the entrance, locking the wheels with a quick click before stepping inside properly, his steps quick with excitement.
Tim trailed beside him, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the green walls. The boy was not indifferent—there was a quiet curiosity in his gaze, even if his posture stayed guarded. “So… do you need to buy new plants for your greenhouse?” Tim asked at last, his tone cool but softened by a rare touch of humor. “Sorry. Greenmansion.”
Jack chuckled, the sound warm and easy. “It’s not that big,” he said, waving a hand as though brushing away the exaggeration. His grin widened as he crouched low to examine a tray of rare seedlings near the entrance, their small leaves trembling gently in the air-conditioning. “And no, I am not just collecting more toys for my little garden. What I need is something specific. Plants that do not come from around here. The kind of rare species you only find in the Amazon.”
He stood again, scanning the shop, eyes darting from shelf to shelf like a child on a treasure hunt. “At least here, I do not have to bother Diana every time I need seeds or leaves. I hate the idea of her thinking I only call her for samples.” His voice softened, carrying something vulnerable beneath the playful words. “She is my friend, not just my Amazonian supplier.”
Tim tilted his head, watching Jack more closely now. He did not say anything right away, just observed the way Jack’s hands hovered over the displays, fingers itching to touch every new leaf, the way his green eyes lit up in the quiet glow of the shop. For a moment, Jack looked less like the man burdened with years of scars and more like a boy discovering a secret world.
“You really love this, don’t you?” Tim said finally. His voice was quieter, almost thoughtful.
Jack paused, his fingers brushing a pale-green vine that curled delicately around its support stick. His smile softened, gentler now. “I do,” he admitted. “These plants… they are life, resilience, healing. Even the smallest leaf can hold an answer to something that hurts people. Gotham has enough pain in it already. If I can give something back, something that helps…” He trailed off, his throat tightening slightly before he cleared it with a forced little laugh. “Well. You get it.”
Jack stepped out of the botanist shop with a small paper bag in his hand. The treasure inside was not what he had originally hoped for, but it was something, a tiny seed of Middlemist’s Red, one of the rarest flowers in the world. He held the bag carefully, almost reverently, as though it were fragile glass.
“Well, not exactly what I wanted,” he murmured to himself, “but at least the ‘greenmansion’ will have a new addition.” His lips curved into a small smile. He could already picture it blooming among the other rarities, a burst of vibrant red against the sea of green.
A sound tugged him from his thoughts. A low, muffled grumble.
Jack blinked, looked around, and then down. There was Tim, walking beside him with his usual calm face, but his ears betrayed him—they were turning pink. His lips pressed tightly together, as though he was trying to will the noise away.
Jack smirked knowingly, one eyebrow arching. “Hungry, boy?”
Tim’s eyes flicked to him, then quickly away, as if admitting such a thing were beneath him. His face heated more, and he only gave a stiff nod.
Jack chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Thought so.” He shifted the paper bag to his other hand and tapped the cart handle. “I guess that means the food court. If this gilded palace even has one…”
He steered them toward the glowing screen map mounted on the wall, squinting at the bright display. His eyes scanned the list until he found it. “There we go,” he muttered, jabbing the option with his finger. “Food court, third floor.” His victory was short-lived. The screen zoomed in to reveal an open hall surrounded by neon-lit stalls and glass counters, every single one advertising food with names so fancy they might as well be written in Latin. Prices lined the edges in small gold numbers that made Jack’s wallet ache just looking at them.
He groaned audibly. “Of course. This is Gotham Mall. Why did I even expect a normal food court? No greasy pizza slices or five-dollar burgers. Just caviar crepes and golden truffle fries.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply.
Turning to Tim, he gestured half-heartedly toward the map. “Why don’t we just head home? Alfred makes better food than this overpriced circus anyway.”
For the first time that day, Tim’s composure cracked. His eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head so fast it startled Jack. “No,” Tim said, firmer than usual, the word leaving no room for negotiation.
Jack blinked at him. “Oh. Well then.” He lifted his hands in surrender, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Food court it is.”
Unlocking the cart wheels with a quiet click, Jack guided them toward the escalators. The two of them stood side by side as the moving stairs carried them upward, the glow of the mall’s chandeliers reflecting in their eyes. Jack stole a glance at Tim, whose posture had shifted just a little, less guarded, more like a kid finally getting what he wanted. The faintest flicker of eagerness glowed on his face, though he tried to hide it behind a neutral mask.
“How expensive this is…” Jack muttered under his breath, staring up at the glowing gold letters of the restaurant in front of him. PotatoKing. A whole establishment dedicated to potatoes, every dish centered around them, every option somehow more extravagant than the last.
Normally, Jack adored potatoes like wedges, fries, mashed, baked. Comfort food, cheap food, the kind that warmed you up after a long day. But here? Here it was thirty dollars for a plate of wedges. Thirty. For potatoes.
His eye twitched. He glanced at the sleek, white marble counter, the menu lit up like a theater marquee. Customers in their expensive coats and dripping jewelry didn’t even blink as they ordered gilded fries with truffle dust or mashed potatoes infused with saffron. Jack’s stomach turned. Having a husband with too much money for his own good was one thing, but dragging that life into potato land felt like personal mockery.
Jack sighed so hard it felt like his soul left his body. With a resigned groan, he ordered a single plate of wedges, handed over the ridiculous sum, and clutched the receipt like it was evidence of a crime.
By the time he returned to the table, the smell of grease hit him before anything else. He looked down, and blinked.
Tim was already seated, completely calm, with a burger on his tray. Except calling it a burger felt like underselling it. The thing was a tower of meat: layers of patties stacked with bacon wedged in between, no lettuce, no tomato, no sign of anything remotely green. Just sizzling, dripping meat and cheese, the bun barely holding the monstrosity together.
Jack stopped mid-step, staring. “What… in the name of Gotham… is that?”
Tim looked up, utterly nonchalant. “Lunch.”
Jack placed his thirty-dollar wedges on the table and sat across from him, shaking his head in disbelief. “Lunch? That’s not lunch. That’s an autopsy report waiting to happen.” He leaned forward, squinting at the burger like it was a wild animal. “At least it’s not as bad as Jason’s.”
A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, his mind flashing back to the memory. He remembered that day vividly: the first time Bruce brought Jason into the manor. Alfred had graciously asked what he wanted for lunch, and Jason, with that spark of defiance already in him, had said “Burger. But only meat. All the meat you got.” The result was… an abomination. Ground beef patties stacked between slabs of steak, slices of ham, sausages, and God only knew what else Alfred had pulled together. It was less a burger and more a meat mountain.
Jason had eaten half of it, too, grinning like he had conquered the world while everyone else stared in a mix of horror and awe.
Jack chuckled again, shaking his head at the memory. “Still, seeing that,” he pointed at Tim’s burger, “makes me think gluttony might actually run in this family.”
Tim finally cracked the faintest smirk before biting into the monstrosity, grease dripping down the side.
Jack leaned back in his chair, grabbed one of his overpriced wedges, and popped it into his mouth. Crispy, hot, perfectly seasoned. He closed his eyes for a second. Damn it. Thirty dollars or not, it was good. Still, he couldn’t help muttering, “For this price, it should have been served on a throne.”
The mall was alive with its constant hum, voices overlapping, laughter echoing, music spilling from nearby shops, and the occasional clatter of trays at the food court. Yet, at their little table tucked against the polished glass railing, there was only the sound of quiet chewing and the rustle of paper napkins.
Jack studied Tim out of the corner of his eye. The boy ate his grease-dripping monstrosity of a burger with perfect precision, not a single smear of oil staining his hands or shirt. Not even a crumb. Every bite was calculated, almost surgical. It impressed Jack, but it also unsettled him. No kid should be that practiced at control. The silence pressed down between them with every passing second, and Jack’s mind began its usual spiral. Ideas, questions, and imagined scenarios tumbled around inside his skull like restless animals. He hated it. Sometimes he wished he could just switch his brain off and sit in peace.
Then Tim’s voice cut through the noise. Quiet, steady, but unexpected. “I’ve got this project with one of my classmates. It’s about the weather climates outside of Gotham.”
Jack blinked, his head snapping toward Tim. The boy wasn’t looking at him. He was still watching his tray, picking at a fry now, as though talking was a risk. Jack leaned forward slightly, intent on every word.
“I wanted to ask Papa Bruce for help,” Tim continued, a small chuckle slipping out. “But I know exactly what he’d do. He’d probably rent out or buy some massive park in Metropolis, just so I could finish a one-time school project.” His lips curved faintly, the sound of his laughter more self-aware than amused.
Jack sighed, sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the paper cup of his overpriced wedges. “You should be worried,” he said. “Because you’re right. That’s exactly what he’d do. Bruce’s mind always jumps to the biggest, fastest solution. Works fine when he’s Batman saving the city, but Bruce Wayne?” He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “To him, throwing money at something is always the best answer.”
Tim finally looked at him then. His eyes weren’t guarded or sharp like usual. They were hopeful. Vulnerable. “Can you… Take me there instead?”
The question lingered in the air. Jack froze, his heart skipping. For once, Tim wasn’t asking Bruce, wasn’t asking one of his brothers. He was asking him. Jack. It felt like a fragile bridge being offered, and he was terrified of stepping wrong and letting it collapse.
His throat tightened, but he forced a smile and leaned forward on his elbows. “Saturday next week. Just tell me the time, and I’ll take you and your classmate myself. No money, no theatrics, no buying out half a city park. Just us.”
Tim’s face brightened in a way Jack rarely saw. The boy straightened in his chair, shoulders easing, and his lips curved into a genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said softly.
Jack’s chest warmed at the words, his heart swelling with quiet pride. It was just a simple promise, but it meant more than he could put into words.
After a long afternoon of wandering the glittering maze of Gotham Mall, their arms filled with school supplies for Tim and Damian, Jack felt more exhausted than he expected. The heavy bags were tucked into the back seat now, and both of them settled into the car. Jack slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror out of habit, ready to start the engine.
Then Tim’s voice broke the stillness. Quiet, almost cautious. “How can you just ignore them?”
Jack paused, his hand hovering over the keys. He turned his head, brow furrowing. “Ignore who?”
“Them. The people saying horrendous things to you.” Tim’s tone was sharper now, his eyes flicking toward the tinted window as though he could still see the sneering faces beyond it.
Jack blinked, his mind lagging behind. “What things?”
“The whispers at the food court,” Tim pressed. His fingers tapped anxiously against his knee. “That woman who leaned toward her friend and hissed that you were a fraud, just some leech living off Bruce’s money. I saw it. You didn’t even flinch.” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “And online too. I saw one on TikTok just last week saying the same. People trashing you like it’s a sport. But you… you just ignore it. How?”
Jack’s chest tightened. He opened his mouth to answer but the words wouldn’t come. The engine remained silent. For a moment, all he could hear was the hum of traffic outside and the dull thud of his own heartbeat.
“Why would he ask me that?” Jack thought bitterly, his mind beginning to spin in dangerous directions. Maybe Tim pitied him. Maybe Tim was disgusted by him. Maybe this was just another reminder that he did not belong in this family, that he was still the outsider, the mistake who married into perfection.
He forced a breath and asked the only question his heart could settle on. “Did you get bullied too, Tim?”
The shift was instant. Tim stiffened, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for impact. He turned his face away, but it was too late, Jack already saw the flicker of pain in his eyes.
“Oh, shit,” Jack thought. Panic bubbled inside him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened. “Did I just make it worse? Did I just push him away?” His chest felt hollow. The silence stretched, every second making him more certain that Tim would resent him for asking.
“S-Sorry, Tim,” Jack stammered, his voice cracking. He turned slightly in his seat, desperate to fix whatever he had broken. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes,” Tim cut in. His voice was low, raw. “But it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
Jack froze, his apology dying on his lips.
Tim drew a long breath, his hands curling into fists on his knees. “My parents refused to come back from their work. I stayed alone for almost two years before I finally snapped and told Batman I knew he was Bruce Wayne.” He gave a hollow laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only the edge of old bitterness. “During that time… the kids at my school called me a mistake. Told me I was just a filler child, even to the Drake family.”
Jack’s stomach churned. His eyes softened, but he stayed quiet, afraid that any interruption might break this fragile truth Tim was offering.
“It stopped when Bruce switched me to another school,” Tim continued, his voice steady but his fingers trembling slightly. “But when the truth came out that Joker was you… that you were his husband…” His voice faltered, just for a moment. “They came back. They called me a criminal too. Said I was insane like you. And one day… I snapped.”
Jack’s breath caught.
“I punched one of them until his face broke.” Tim’s tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed him. Beneath the calm surface there was shame, regret, fear of judgment. He glanced at Jack quickly, almost flinching, as though expecting him to recoil.
But Jack did not move. He could not. His chest was a storm, his thoughts a thousand crashing waves.
Tim looked away again, pressing on, his voice quieter now. “You’ve always been my idol, Jack. Even before I became part of Bruce’s family.”
Jack blinked, stunned. His heart lurched.
“When I was seven, my parents dragged me to one of Bruce’s parties,” Tim explained, his tone softening with the memory. “They left me behind to talk business with him, but you were there. You stayed with me. You looked after me until they finally remembered I existed. It… it mattered.”
Jack’s lips parted, but no sound came. He struggled, clawing through his fragmented memories, trying desperately to find that night, that moment. But all he found was a fog.
Tim gave a small, sad smile. “I’m not angry at you, Jack. I’m just… afraid to talk to you.”
The words cut deeper than any knife. Jack sat frozen, his pulse hammering in his ears, his chest aching. His throat burned with unshed tears. He wanted to reach across the console, to hold Tim, to promise him he was wrong, that he would never need to be afraid of him. But his body refused to move.
Instead, Jack forced a shaky smile, though his throat felt tight and his heart was still hammering from everything Tim had just confessed. He leaned a little closer, trying to soften the weight in the air with a tremble in his voice. “Oh Tim… you don’t need to be afraid of me. The only thing you should be afraid of is me catching you awake past bedtime, or if you start doing something stupid like your brothers do on a daily basis.”
His words ended with a light chuckle, fragile but genuine.
Tim stared at him, eyes wide for a heartbeat, then slowly exhaled. The tension that had been clinging to his shoulders seemed to melt, his posture loosening as though a heavy weight had finally been set down. He gave a small laugh of his own, faint and tired. “Sorry… my brain just… it runs too fast sometimes. I keep spiraling into all these scenarios of you being angry at me. Or worse… disappointed in me.”
The confession was quieter than the sound of the car’s engine humming, but it carried an honesty that dug into Jack’s chest.
Jack’s smile softened, warmer now, more certain. He reached across the console with a tenderness he reserved only for his children and let his hand rest in Tim’s hair, ruffling it gently before smoothing it down again. His touch was careful, like he was afraid Tim might pull away, but Tim leaned into it instead, closing his eyes briefly at the gesture.
“We are not that different, you and I,” Jack murmured. His voice was calm, but his eyes carried something deeper—relief, guilt, and above all else, affection. “Always thinking too much, always imagining the worst before it even happens. But you know what?” He tilted his head, studying the boy beside him as though seeing him for the first time in full light. “It means we both care too much to ever stop worrying.”
Tim’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. He did not say anything right away, but the way his hand clenched slightly at his jeans betrayed the battle inside him, the push and pull of wanting to believe and not daring to.
Jack’s thumb brushed lightly across his temple before he pulled his hand back, letting the moment settle. He leaned into his seat, exhaling as if releasing years of fear. “So,” he said softly, his eyes still glimmering with unshed tears, “if you ever feel like your brain is running too fast, if you feel like you’ll drown in it… come to me, Tim. Let me carry some of it. Because I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re alone in that again.”
Tim opened his eyes, staring at him. For a second, Jack thought he might turn away, shut down, or retreat behind that calm mask of his. But instead, Tim gave a small nod. His voice was steady, quiet, almost a whisper. “Okay.”
The silence that followed was not heavy anymore. It was light, comfortable, like a fragile thread finally tied between them. For the first time since this trip began, Jack felt like he could breathe.
He started the car, and as they pulled away from the mall, both of them carried the weight of something new, not quite trust yet, but the first step toward it.
The mall trip became a turning point, small at first, but steady. After that day, a quiet closeness began to grow between Jack and Tim, not forced, not rushed, just natural, like sunlight slowly finding its way through a cracked window.
When Tim had free time, he started showing up in Jack’s greenhouse, or he jokingly called it, the “GreenMansion.” At first he would only linger at the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, asking little questions about the plants. But soon he was inside, sleeves rolled up, carefully repotting seedlings with dirt smudging his knuckles while Jack teased him about ruining another sweater. The boy who once seemed guarded and unreachable now knelt beside Jack on the soil-streaked tiles, gently brushing dust from the leaves of delicate orchids or helping adjust the water system for Amazon herbs.
Other times, when Tim’s mind grew too loud, when the thoughts and theories piled up until they tangled like wires sparking inside his head, he would quietly slip into Jack’s study. Jack would be there, bent over his notes or scribbling formulas across a pad, and Tim would sit down without asking. Then, as though a dam had broken, he would spill everything, questions about chemical compounds, wild theories about climate patterns, ideas for upgrades to the Batcomputer. Jack never once told him to stop. He listened with his sharp green eyes, patient and steady, answering each question, debating every theory, pushing Tim to think sharper, deeper.
The study became their little refuge. For Tim, it was a place where his brain wasn’t “too much.” For Jack, it was a reminder that he could still connect, still be the father figure he feared he had lost after his years as the Joker.
And soon, they had memories, real memories together. Quiet mornings in the greenhouse, late nights with coffee cups scattered across Jack’s desk, laughter over failed experiments that left their hands dyed green for two days. Tim even started leaving his notebooks in Jack’s study, a small sign of trust that didn’t go unnoticed.
The rest of the family saw it too, and it softened the manor in unexpected ways. Dick caught them once, Jack carefully explaining the root system of a rare flower while Tim leaned against the table, utterly absorbed. Dick grinned so wide Alfred had to swat him on the back of the head to stop him from interrupting. Jason joked that the “GreenMansion” was really just Tim’s new hideout, but the smirk on his face gave away his relief. And Damian, though he pretended not to care, started bragging to Trouble the hyena that his dads were finally fixing things with Tim.
Even Bruce noticed the change. Coming home after a long patrol to find Jack asleep in his chair, notes scattered across his lap, while Tim dozed on the couch with an open textbook beside him, was a sight that made his chest ache in the best way. His family was healing, piece by piece.
And for Jack, every laugh, every shared secret, every quiet moment with Tim was proof that the guilt he carried did not have to be the end. He was building new memories, real ones, with the son he once thought he would never reach.
Chapter 6: Dinosaur Knight
Summary:
Jack is in the Batcave, experimenting with a strange alien metal Clark brought from one of his off-world missions. The metal fascinates Jack with its kinetic energy-storing properties, and he is already thinking of how it could make Bruce’s suit stronger. But Clark’s attention is not on the science; it is fixed on the enormous dinosaur fossil looming in the cave.
Chapter Text
The low hum of machines filled the Batcave, the steady rhythm of servers and scanners echoing against the cavern walls. Jack sat hunched over a long steel table littered with tools, magnifiers, and containment fields. His green eyes gleamed under the pale blue light of the monitor as he carefully tapped the alien rock that Clark had brought him.
Each strike made the material pulse faintly, like it was alive, storing the vibration deep within itself. Jack leaned closer, grinning with the kind of childlike fascination only science could spark in him. “This is incredible,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. “It absorbs kinetic energy, then releases it back as a counterforce. If I can refine this… Bruce’s suit could hit like a tank without weighing him down. Imagine the possibilities.”
He was lost in the possibilities, already sketching half-formed designs in his mind, until he noticed Clark sitting beside him. The Man of Steel was not watching the experiment. His gaze was fixed elsewhere, his head tilted slightly like he was caught between disbelief and amusement.
Jack blinked, then slowly followed Clark’s line of sight. His eyes landed on the massive dinosaur fossil looming in the shadows of the cave, its jagged teeth caught in the floodlight.
Jack’s brows rose. Oh. That.
“Jack…” Clark finally spoke, his voice carrying that polite hesitation he always had whenever the conversation brushed too close to Bruce’s eccentricities. He folded his hands together, as if bracing himself. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask about Bruce. I’ve held back because, well… he’s my best friend, and I didn’t want to press him.”
Jack tilted his head, already smirking. “Go on, Clark. Out with it. He won’t bite. Probably.”
Clark cleared his throat, still staring at the fossil like he half expected it to move. “Why, exactly, is there a giant dinosaur skeleton inside the Batcave?”
Jack let out a sharp laugh before he could stop himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he turned away from the fossil. “Oh God, you actually asked it. I thought you’d never.” He put his tools down, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin spreading across his face. “You know what’s funny? I asked the same thing when I first found out he is Batman. Thought Bruce had lost his mind.”
Clark arched an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly, the faintest edge of suspicion in his voice. “And?”
Jack did not even glance up from his work. He flicked the alien rock with the tip of a tool, watching the ripple of energy hum through it, and said casually, “He just likes dinosaurs.”
Clark blinked. “He… just likes dinosaurs?”
“Yep.” Jack popped the ‘p’ with deliberate smugness, eyes glinting as he bent over the experiment again.
For a moment there was silence, then Clark’s chair scraped back as he sat upright, clearly unsettled. “You cannot just leave it at that,” he said, his voice rising in disbelief. “You can at least give me more than ‘he likes dinosaurs,’ Jack! Is it an attachment from childhood? Maybe a connection to his parents before he lost them? Is it some deep unresolved trauma he has not even shared with you?”
Jack froze, then slowly turned his head to stare at him. Clark’s expression was dead serious, almost panicked, his brow furrowed as if he was unraveling the mystery of the century.
Jack’s lips twitched. Oh, this was too good.
“I think it might be a problem, actually,” Jack said, lowering his voice into something mock-serious.
Clark straightened instantly, concern flashing across his face. “A problem?”
Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his expression deadly serious for exactly three seconds before he ruined it. “Yeah. I think he’s been sneaking out at night, not for patrol, but to collect more fossils. You should see the eBay charges. He’s going to start his own Jurassic Park at this rate. Maybe even direct the movie himself.”
Clark stared at him.
Jack smirked. “Imagine it. Bruce Wayne: The Dinosaur Knight. Coming to theaters near you.”
For a long moment, there was only the quiet hum of the Batcomputer and the faint drip of water from the cave ceiling. Clark finally exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jack.”
“Yes, Clark?”
“You’re impossible.”
Jack grinned widely, picking up the rock again like nothing had happened. “And yet, you still sit here with me.”
Clark’s lips twitched, a laugh threatening to escape despite himself. He shook his head, glancing back up at the massive fossil towering in the shadows. “God help me… I almost believed you.”
Jack chuckled, eyes glowing with mischief. “Good. That means I’m getting better at it.”
Jack sighed, rolling his shoulders and setting the glowing alien rock aside for the moment. “But seriously, Clark, he just likes dinosaurs. Okay? That’s all. Though…” He stretched his arms over his head and let out a soft groan before settling back into his chair with a sly grin. “Let me tell you a story.”
Clark shifted, immediately intrigued. He leaned forward slightly, his cape rustling faintly against the cave floor.
“It was our first official date,” Jack began, eyes narrowing fondly as though replaying the memory across the cave ceiling. “And what does the great Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden boy, do? He takes me to a bidding event.”
Clark tilted his head, baffled. “A bidding event? Not dinner under the stars? Not a walk by the waterfront?”
Jack’s laugh was short and sharp. “Nope. None of that cheesy stuff. Bruce knows I hate it. And besides, Clark, we already lived together. You think I hadn’t had dinner with him before? You think I hadn’t stared at the night sky with him on the balcony at three in the morning while he brooded with coffee?” He waved a hand dismissively. “By the time we called it dating, we’d already done all that without calling it romance.”
Clark put a hand to his chest, eyes wide in mock horror. “But Jack, that’s the sweetest thing! That’s the first step to every real date.”
Jack arched an eyebrow, smirking. “Not for us. For us, apparently, it was sitting in a room full of wealthy strangers arguing over who could throw the most money at old junk.”
Clark chuckled softly. “Only Bruce.”
“Exactly.” Jack leaned forward on his elbows, lowering his voice as if sharing a scandal. “So, picture this: the man is stiff as a board, probably wishing he’d just taken me to fight muggers instead. And then, he suddenly bids on this bracelet.”
Jack lifted his wrist, letting the cave light shimmer across a metallic silver band inlaid with smooth, green jade pieces that circled around like a perfect chain of ivy leaves. The way he cradled it showed it was more than just an ornament.
Clark smiled softly. “That’s beautiful.”
“It is,” Jack admitted, running his fingers across the stones with a tenderness he rarely allowed anyone to see. “And I’ll admit, he got it right. He bid on it like his life depended on it. I thought that was the end of the night.”
Clark tilted his head. “But?”
Jack’s grin widened. “But then the auctioneer rolled out this fossil. A Spinosaurus skull. And Clark, I swear to you, Bruce went from broody billionaire to twelve-year-old in seconds. The second they announced it, he practically jumped out of his seat and shouted, ‘One million dollars!’”
Clark blinked. “One… million?”
Jack nodded, his voice dripping with mock horror. “One million. For something that was worth maybe ten thousand on a good day. He did not even let the auctioneer start the opening bid. Just shouted it into the room like he was at a carnival.”
Clark groaned, pressing a hand over his face, his laugh muffled behind it. “Please tell me you were furious.”
“I was not furious,” Jack said, leaning back with a theatrical sigh. “I was disappointed. I mean, really? All that brilliance and self-control, and he just throws a million dollars like confetti.” His expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving warmly. “But then he started rambling.”
“Rambling?”
“Rambling,” Jack confirmed, his eyes shining with the memory. “About Spinosaurus being one of the largest carnivorous dinosaurs, about how rare the fossil was, about how the shape of the jaw indicated its diet. He went on and on. Clark, he was smiling. Bruce Wayne, Batman, Mr. Broody McDarkness himself, was grinning like a child holding a new toy.” Jack’s voice softened further, his smile turning into something gentle. “And I was just… happy. Happy to see that side of him.”
Clark’s expression softened too, his shoulders relaxing. “So that’s why you were okay with it.”
Jack chuckled lightly, tapping the bracelet once more before letting his wrist fall. “I’ll never be okay with him throwing money around like that. But seeing him light up, seeing him ramble about something that wasn’t Gotham’s crime rate or Justice League statistics? That was worth far more than the million he wasted.”
Clark studied him for a moment, then smiled knowingly. “You really are the only one who gets to see him that way.”
Jack leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And that, Clark, is why I put up with a giant dinosaur staring at me every time I come into this cave.”
Clark exhaled, a long, weary sound that carried more than just relief. He shifted in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at Jack, his normally steady gaze softening with something rawer, almost fragile. “I’m happy that you are back,” he said quietly. “You don’t know how much pressure there was, how much strain the League was under while we tried to find you. We searched every city, every contact, every possibility. And then…” His voice faltered, his jaw tightening as the memory rose. “And then you came back not as you, but as Joker. Throwing bombs at a bank, laughing like a stranger.”
His hands flexed open and closed as if he still felt the phantom weight of those days, of chasing an ally turned enemy. “Bruce… he went back to his old ways after that. Closed himself off. Spoke even less than usual. He carried that guilt like a chain, every day. He was grumpier than ever, and not the funny kind. Just… a man trying to hold a world together while breaking inside.”
Jack listened in silence, his hands resting flat on the worktable, the silver bracelet still glinting faintly under the cave’s pale lights. His green eyes lingered on Clark, thoughtful, softened by something heavier than a simple smile.
Then, slowly, his lips curved upward, not mockingly, not sharply, but with warmth that reached his eyes. “Yes,” Jack said softly, “I am happy that I am back.”
The words were simple, but behind them was the weight of everything, nights lost to madness, faces blurred by chemicals and chaos, the fear of never finding himself again. He tapped the bracelet absently with his thumb, as though grounding himself in something real.
Clark tilted his head, studying him, almost searching for cracks in that smile. “You sound certain.”
Jack let out a breath, leaning back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table’s edge. “Because I am. For a long time, I wasn’t myself. I was fragments, laughter twisted into something cruel. But now… I get to sit here. I get to see my family every morning, even the ones who glare at me half the time. I get to argue with Bruce about bedtime like we’re two old married men instead of vigilantes. And I get to hear you, Superman of all people, say you missed me.”
Clark chuckled softly, shaking his head. “We all missed you. But no one more than him.”
Jack’s smile faltered just slightly, replaced by something gentler. He reached for the alien rock again, but his hands lingered in hesitation, resting on it without picking it up. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “I know. I see it every day. In his eyes. In the way he watches me like I’ll disappear again if he blinks.”
Clark leaned back, his cape falling into soft folds behind him, his gaze steady. “So don’t disappear.”
Jack met his eyes, holding the weight of that unspoken plea. For a heartbeat, the Batcave was utterly silent, save for the low hum of the Batcomputer and the distant drip of water echoing through the cavern. Then Jack smiled again, this time smaller, but more real. “I don’t plan to.”
Chapter 7: Summer's End
Summary:
Life in Wayne Manor begins in typical chaotic fashion. Bruce is buried under paperwork for another gala, Alfred is commanding the kitchen like a general, Tim is doing homework while Damian and his hyena Trouble train under Jason’s questionable supervision, and Jack is caught between helping with math and sighing at Damian’s gladiator antics.
The rhythm of the day is shattered when Dick bursts into the manor looking crushed, only to storm into Bruce’s office and grab him by the shoulders.
Chapter Text
The Wayne Manor was humming with its own peculiar kind of order, a house filled with chaos yet threaded together by routine. Each member of the family was scattered to their duties. Bruce was in his study, hunched over an intimidating stack of files that Alfred had insisted he finish before the next charity gala. The faint scratching of his pen and the occasional deep sigh were the only evidence of his presence. Alfred himself was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled neatly, orchestrating lunch with the precision of a general preparing a banquet.
Out by the training grounds, the energy was very different. Tim had spread his homework across one end of the mats, his brow furrowed as he worked through equations. He occasionally adjusted his glasses with one hand while the other scribbled notes, the boy completely absorbed in the page despite the racket just a few feet away. Jack sat cross-legged beside him, leaning in when Tim asked a question, offering quiet explanations in his warm, measured voice. Even when he was helping, his sharp green eyes kept darting toward the other side of the room, where Damian was in the middle of what could only be described as a spectacle.
Damian was crouched low, Trouble the hyena at his side, both of them vibrating with unspent energy. Their little chests rose and fell in tandem, ready to pounce. Across from them stood Jason, grinning like a mischievous referee, his hands raised theatrically.
“Get ready!” Jason called, drawing out the moment with the kind of dramatics only he could muster. His grin widened when Damian narrowed his eyes, practically vibrating with impatience. Trouble’s ears twitched, his tail smacking the floor like a drum.
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. Was his son really only four? Between Bruce’s stubbornness and his own unpredictable streak, perhaps it was inevitable that Damian was growing up fast, too fast. This was not the kind of training Jack had in mind for his little boy.
Jason’s voice rang out again, sharp and gleeful. “GO!”
He whistled, and in a blur, Damian and Trouble launched forward. Damian ran like lightning, little arms pumping, his cape fluttering behind him. Trouble bounded beside him with long, powerful strides, tongue lolling out as he kept pace. For a moment, Jack thought his son might actually outrun his furry companion.
Then it happened. Trouble lunged sideways, tackling Damian off balance in a heap of laughter and fur. The boy let out a sharp cry, but it quickly dissolved into shrieking laughter as Trouble buried him under slobbery licks, his tail wagging wildly. Damian squirmed furiously, flailing tiny fists, but the hyena was relentless, his rough tongue smearing drool across Damian’s cheek.
Jason threw his head back and laughed, his voice echoing through the training hall. He clutched his stomach, doubling over at the sight of Gotham’s fiercest four-year-old warrior reduced to a giggling mess by his pet.
Jack couldn’t help it; a smile tugged at his lips even as he shook his head. He leaned toward Tim, murmuring, “Remind me again, is he supposed to be a kindergartener or a gladiator in training?”
Tim smirked faintly without looking up from his homework. “With our family? Both.”
Jack huffed a laugh, though his eyes stayed on Damian. His son’s laughter rang clear, bright, and unburdened, and for all his sighing, Jack couldn’t deny the warmth it sparked in his chest.
Alfred had once again outdone himself. The long dining table was already covered with platters of roasted chicken glazed in herbs, creamy mashed potatoes, fresh-baked rolls that still steamed, and a spread of desserts ranging from a perfectly frosted cake to his signature custards. The air smelled warm and inviting, carrying that unique comfort that only Alfred’s cooking could bring.
He smoothed his vest and brushed a speck of flour from his cuff when the manor’s front door burst open with startling force. The heavy wood slammed back against the frame, the echo carrying through the grand hall. Alfred’s brows knit instantly. He stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking on the floor, and found the source of the disruption.
It was Dick.
“Afternoon, Master Dick,” Alfred greeted with his usual composure, though his sharp eyes took in the young man’s hunched shoulders and downward gaze. Something was not right. “Did something happen?”
“I need to talk to Bruce,” Dick muttered, not even meeting Alfred’s eyes. He brushed past him with sluggish steps, heading deeper into the manor toward Bruce’s office.
Alfred tilted his head slightly, watching him go. Whatever it was, it was weighing heavily on him. “Very well,” he called after him softly. “Lunch is ready if you wish to join us today, Master Dick.”
But the boy did not respond, vanishing down the hall. Alfred allowed himself the smallest sigh, adjusting his cuffs once more before making his way to the training room to summon the rest of the household for their meal.
Meanwhile, in his office, Bruce was adjusting his bowtie in the mirror. The starched fabric felt stiff around his neck, and his expression was no less stiff as he practiced not glaring at his own reflection. Alfred had insisted he attend tonight’s charity gala, and Bruce had learned long ago that fighting Alfred on such matters was pointless.
But the thought of going alone gnawed at him. He hated the endless small talk, the shallow flattery, the way every hand extended toward him wanted something. Usually Jack would act as his shield, trading sharp remarks and sly smiles that made the events almost tolerable. But tonight, Jack had refused, muttering something about an “experiment” with Clark’s ridiculous alien metal. Tim and Jason had eagerly volunteered to help him, of course, leaving Bruce alone in the firing line.
He tugged at the bowtie again, muttering under his breath, “Maybe I can drag Dick with me. That might—”
The door suddenly slammed open with a force that made the picture frames rattle on the wall.
Bruce turned, half-expecting Damian storming in about some slight, but froze when he saw Dick instead. His eldest stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on the floor, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Ah, good timing,” Bruce said carefully, trying to ease the tension he immediately sensed. “Can you come with me to this party Alfred insists I attend? I could use the company.”
But Dick didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. He just stood there, trembling faintly, his gaze shadowed.
Confusion crept into Bruce’s chest. He stepped forward cautiously, his voice lowering. “Dick? Did something happen?”
That was when Dick’s hand shot up, gripping Bruce’s shoulder. His whole body shook like a taut wire ready to snap.
“Dick?” Bruce pressed, his tone sharpening, alarm sparking at the edge of his thoughts. His mind leapt to every possibility, an attack, a death, a betrayal. Had one of the Titans fallen? Was someone hurt? He couldn’t hear what Dick was trying to say. His voice was muffled, strangled by tension.
“Say it again,” Bruce urged, leaning closer, searching his son’s face.
Dick’s lips parted, and at last, the words came. Quiet. Almost fragile. “Summer is ending…”
Bruce blinked. “What?”
Before he could process it, Dick’s grip tightened. His eyes blazed as if lit by fire, and suddenly he was shaking Bruce with both hands, his voice erupting with all the force of a thunderclap.
“SUMMER IS ENDING AND WE NEED TO FUCKING GO ON VACATION!”
The words reverberated against the walls of the office. Papers rustled on Bruce’s desk, and his bowtie nearly came undone from the force of the shaking.
Bruce’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His mind had gone completely blank. He, the Batman, who could face down gods and monsters without flinching, could only stand there, his body jolting back and forth as Dick shook him like an angry storm demanding an answer.
Lunch at the Wayne Manor was rarely quiet, but this evening it was even louder than usual. The clinking of silverware and Alfred’s perfectly prepared meal competed with the rising voices around the table. Alfred pretended not to notice, standing just out of the way with his usual grace, though the slight tightening of his jaw suggested he was bracing for chaos.
Jason cut into his steak with a satisfied hum, chewing deliberately before finally speaking with that sharp grin of his. “So let me get this straight. Golden Boy comes home, looking all mopey and broken, like someone ran over his puppy, just to slam open Bruce’s office door and scream about needing a vacation because summer is ending? Huh. Dramatic much?”
Across the table, Dick’s eyes widened, his fork clattering against his plate. He pointed at Jason with an accusing finger. “Well, if we’re going on vacation, I vote we leave Jason at home!”
Jack groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the chandelier above like it might somehow spare him from this circus. In his mind he muttered, This… this is the man who was once the fast and agile Nightwing. Jump’s graceful protector. And now he’s crying to his family about missing summer like a sulking teenager.
“Are you kidding me?” Jason barked back, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth with exaggerated force. “I am the life of this family. Without me, you’ll all be stuck doing yoga on the beach or, God forbid, watching Bruce read charity reports in the sun.”
Bruce, sitting at the head of the table, lowered his glass of water very slowly, his expression blank in the way that said he was choosing silence to maintain what little peace he could.
Tim, however, was not so restrained. He set his fork down neatly, folding his hands in front of him with calm precision. “We are vigilantes. We cannot simply take a vacation, Dick. Gotham does not take breaks. Neither do we.”
Dick let out an exaggerated sigh, dropping his head dramatically onto his folded arms. His hair flopped across his face, muffling his voice, but not enough to hide the melancholy in it. “You don’t understand. After me and the Titans took our first vacation last summer, I realized how much we missed out. How much I missed out. Ice cream on the pier, sleeping in until noon, watching fireworks without worrying about bombs being hidden in them. It felt… normal. And for once, I felt like a person, not just a mask.”
The table grew quiet for a moment. Even Jason’s chewing slowed.
Jack tilted his head, studying his eldest son carefully. He could see the truth in Dick’s eyes, the longing, the ache of a boy who had been pushed into adulthood too soon. Jack’s voice was calm, but firm when he finally spoke. “You’re the one who insisted Bruce train you, Dick. You’re the one who begged him to make you Robin and let go of that childhood. You can’t sit here now and cry about what you lost when you chose to give it up.”
Dick’s shoulders stiffened, and he sat up, his expression pinched between guilt and defiance. “I know. I know I chose it. But just because I chose it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it now. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to take back even a piece of what I missed.”
Jack leaned back, folding his arms, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. His voice softened, almost sympathetic despite his words. “And that’s what scares you most, isn’t it? Not that summer is ending, but that you’re realizing how much of your childhood ended before it even began.”
The words landed heavy at the table. For a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of Alfred’s serving spoon against a dish as he quietly refilled a bowl of mashed potatoes.
Jason finally broke the silence, snorting. “Wow. Way to turn family dinner into a therapy session. Thanks, Dad.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast toward Jack.
Jack shot him a flat look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a twitch of amusement.
Dick, however, looked down at his plate, his jaw tight but his eyes softening, almost thankful someone had said what he couldn’t.
“That’s all,” Bruce said, his gravel-deep voice carrying finality as he closed the Justice League meeting.
“Finally!” Barry groaned, slumping back in his chair with a dramatic flair, arms flopping across the table like a man fainting from exhaustion. He let out a loud sigh of relief that echoed through the Watchtower’s pristine chamber.
Without hesitation, Shayera reached over with her glass and tipped its contents directly into Barry’s face. The splash of cold water cut his theatrics short as he sputtered, blinking rapidly.
“You still have reports to file, and six cities calling for your help,” Shayera said flatly, shaking her head. Her wings flexed behind her as she set the empty glass back on the table.
Barry wiped water from his chin and pouted like a scolded child. “You’re cruel.”
“Efficient,” Shayera corrected.
A few chuckles rippled around the room, but Bruce did not linger. Without a word, he rose, cape brushing against the polished floor as he strode toward the hangar. Clark and Diana fell into step beside him, their presence softer, lighter, but no less powerful.
“Summer is nearly over,” Diana said, her tone casual but laced with curiosity. Her sapphire eyes shifted between them. “Do either of you have plans before it ends?”
Clark shook his head, adjusting his glasses though he hardly needed them in space. “Not much. I spent last week with Lois and Jon. Barbecues, fireworks, the whole small-town family package. I’m free now.” His voice carried the calm warmth that seemed to follow him everywhere.
“And you, Bruce?” Diana pressed gently.
Bruce exhaled through his nose, the sound closer to a sigh than he intended. “Yesterday, Dick came into my office crying his eyes out about wanting a vacation.” His jaw tightened, remembering the intensity of his son’s grip on his shoulders, the desperation in his voice. “But how can I give him one when Gotham is crawling with criminals? Every time we turn away, someone plots another disaster. A nuclear threat. A chemical attack. It never ends.”
Clark and Diana exchanged a glance. Clark’s brow furrowed, but his lips curved into the faintest smile as though the solution was already forming. Diana tilted her head, her golden tiara catching the overhead light as she gave the slightest nod.
“Maybe we can help,” Clark offered gently.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing behind them. “Help?”
“You and your family deserve this, Bruce,” Clark said firmly. “Me, Diana, and the rest of the League, we’re clear for the week. We can cover Gotham. Let us stand guard while you finally take that vacation. It’s long overdue.”
Bruce’s steps slowed, confusion tugging at him. His instincts screamed to reject it, to say it was too dangerous, too reckless. His voice came out low, almost cautious. “That is not a good idea. Gotham is not Metropolis. It eats people alive. I will not risk it. And I will not take your free time.”
But Diana’s smile was serene, unshaken. She rested her hand lightly against his arm, a gesture that was firm but compassionate. “Bruce. We can call you the moment we need your help. But you never ask us. Not once. Always carrying the weight alone.” Her voice softened, but it carried the strength of truth. “Let this be our way to repay your generosity.”
Her words struck him deeper than he wanted to admit. Bruce’s eyes shifted toward Clark, who stood there steady, arms folded but gaze unwavering. There was no pity in their looks, only loyalty, respect, and something Bruce struggled to accept: friendship.
He turned his gaze ahead again, jaw clenched, but the fight had already drained out of him. “If you do this,” he said slowly, “ask J’onn to coordinate strategy. Gotham’s rogues are not like others. They don’t just fight with muscle. They are cunning. Calculated.”
Clark’s smile widened, relief flickering across his features. “Of course. We’ll take care of it.”
Bruce paused, just a beat, before letting the word slip out, rough but sincere. “Thanks.”
Diana’s hand lingered on his arm for just a moment before falling away, her eyes warm. “Go make memories with your family, Bruce. They need you whole. And you need them.”
For once, Bruce did not argue.
“Yes!” Dick shouted, his voice echoing through the grand dining hall. He leapt up from his chair with the grace of an acrobat and the energy of a child on Christmas morning. Arms pumping in the air, he began doing a ridiculous victory dance, his socks sliding across the polished floor as if he were celebrating a gold medal. “BatFam is going on vacation!”
Jack raised an eyebrow, tapping his fork against his plate in sharp rhythm. His voice cut through Dick’s celebration like a whip. “Richard. Sit down. Finish your food before you start acting like a monkey.”
Dick froze mid-dance, guilt flashing across his face as the words sank in. He shuffled back to his seat, cheeks pink, and lowered himself like a scolded schoolboy. “Sorry, dad,” he muttered quickly before grabbing his fork again. His bow of apology was exaggerated, but he stuffed his mouth with mashed potatoes to seal the truce.
Jack exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile tugging at his lips. He turned to Bruce, who had been silently cutting into his steak the entire time, as though chaos at the dinner table was just background noise. “Are you really sure they can handle it?” Jack asked, his tone softer now, edged with concern. His hand hovered near his glass, gripping it tightly.
Bruce didn’t even look up. He only shrugged with his usual stoicism, shoulders steady beneath the sharp cut of his suit. “They insisted,” he replied simply.
Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t want to sound paranoid, but the truth is they are not ready. At least J’onn will call us if something goes wrong. But how can we be there if we are thousands of miles away?” His voice rose slightly, the weight of old memories creeping into his words. He leaned forward, brows furrowed, as if willing Bruce to see the logic. “Do you remember how Barry lost to Calendar Man? Calendar Man, Bruce!” Jack said, pointing his fork like a weapon, his frustration barely contained.
The table went quiet for a heartbeat before Dick, ever eager to defuse tension with wild ideas, shot up again with a bright grin. “Don’t worry! I already figured out the answer.” His finger jabbed toward the ceiling dramatically. “We invite the Titans! Raven can teleport us back instantly if something happens.”
Jason, chewing on a chicken drumstick with all the grace of a wolf tearing into prey, nearly choked on his food from laughter. He scowled, pointing the bone toward Dick like it was proof of injustice. “That’s not fair. If your little team of tights is coming, then the Outlaws are coming too.” He tore into his chicken again with renewed ferocity, grease shining on his lips.
Bruce finally looked up, meeting Jason’s glare with calm neutrality. “Why not?” he said, the words spoken so casually it was as if he had just approved extra toppings on a pizza instead of agreeing to expand the family trip by two entire superhero squads.
Jason blinked, stunned at the lack of pushback, then smirked smugly.
Jack let out a long groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect. Just perfect. At this rate, we’ll need to rent an entire island just to hold everyone.” He looked around at the excited faces of his children, at Bruce’s steady calm, and felt his resistance slowly unravel. With a resigned breath, he muttered, “Fine. I will also ask Harley and Ivy to help.”
Chapter 8: Summer Chaos
Summary:
The Wayne family, joined by the Teen Titans and Outlaw, finally take a beach vacation after Dick’s dramatic pleas for summer fun. Raven opens a portal that transports everyone to a tropical island where the chaos begins immediately. Jack, reluctantly in a summer outfit, watches with both affection and disbelief as his kids and their extended family dive headfirst into the madness of beach games.
Meanwhile, in Gotham, the Justice League and Harley Quinn prepare to protect the cities in their absence. Harley struggles with being assigned as Gotham’s team leader, haunted by her past
Notes:
It's night in Gotham, It's day in some island Bruce has
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A shimmer of black energy twisted in the air above the sand, folding in on itself until it split open like a tear in the world. The portal expanded with a low hum, revealing the lush green of palm trees swaying in the distance, waves crashing in a rhythm that carried the smell of salt into the air. Out stepped Jack Napier, blinking against the sudden brightness of the sun.
His so-called “summer outfit” was nothing extravagant, just a pale button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves and a pair of shorts that brushed just below his knees. He tugged at the collar as if the sunlight itself was an enemy. The ocean breeze tousled his green-tipped hair, and for a moment he almost looked like he belonged in a postcard… if that postcard had been captioned Scientist begrudgingly tolerates beach weather.
“Thank you, Raven,” Jack said, adjusting his shirt as his sandals sank slightly into the sand. The words carried genuine gratitude, his sharp green eyes softening as he glanced at her. “I hope this wasn’t too much trouble for you.”
Raven stepped through after him, the dark shimmer of her portal behind her like smoke dissolving in the air. She wore a sleek black swimsuit, minimal in design, though her hood was still drawn over her head, casting her face in shadows even under the tropical sun. Her tone was calm, detached, but with a small trace of sincerity. “Don’t worry. It’s good to have a holiday sometimes.” Without waiting for further thanks, she drifted across the sand with the same quiet grace she carried everywhere, as if even the waves made room for her.
Before Jack could respond, a blur of motion exploded from the portal.
“BEACH DAY!”
Dick Grayson barreled out, already half sprinting across the sand, his arms spread wide like he was about to take flight. His sunglasses slid down his nose, his tank top clung to his chest, and his grin was as bright as the sunlight bouncing off the waves. He kicked up sand behind him as he ran straight toward the water, shouting with uncontainable joy.
Almost immediately, smaller footsteps followed. Tim emerged next, more composed, though he had a beach bag slung over one shoulder like it was his shield against chaos. Damien darted past him, Trouble bounding alongside, the hyena barking and snapping happily at the gulls circling above. The sound of Damien’s laughter, rare, wild, and untamed, mingled with the animal’s yips as both tore after Dick.
Jack watched them go, lips twitching into a smile despite himself. The weight on his shoulders, heavy even in paradise, lightened at the sight of his children running free. The beach stretched out endlessly, dotted with shells and glowing under the golden sun, and for once, Gotham felt far away.
Then a warm voice floated through the portal, musical and filled with sincerity. “Thank you for taking us on this vacation under the hot day, Jack.”
Starfire glided gracefully out, her skin glowing almost brighter than the sunlight itself. She wore a flowing wrap over her swimsuit, and when she landed softly on the sand, she bowed with both hands pressed together in gratitude. Her fiery hair rippled behind her like a living flame, catching the wind.
Jack, still staring at the trail of his kids already tackling each other in the sand, let out a chuckle and waved her upright. “Trust me, Starfire, if anyone deserves thanks it’s Dick for crying until Bruce caved.”
From the distance, Dick’s triumphant whoop confirmed it.
“Well, I hope the Justice League can handle our job,” Beast Boy muttered from his perch on Cyborg’s shoulder, his fur bristling as he spoke through the small mouth of his green cat form. His tail flicked lazily, but the words carried more weight than his playful tone suggested.
Jack glanced over, lips pursing as he folded his arms. The thought had gnawed at him ever since Bruce announced this trip. Gotham, Jump City, and Blüdhaven, three cities practically begging for chaos, and all of them now in the hands of their allies. I trust them… mostly. But three cities at once? He dragged a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Jump City is hardly the apocalypse, Beast Boy, but you know as well as I do, you can never overlook the small fires. They spread faster than the big ones.”
Beast Boy’s ears flicked back, but Cyborg clapped a reassuring metal hand against his back, nearly flattening the cat’s fur. “Relax, B. This is vacation time. We got our bases covered, and if the League screws up, Batman’ll glare them into shape the moment we’re back.”
Jack’s chuckle was low, but it carried that edge of truth. “You’re not wrong.”
The conversation was interrupted by a heavy voice from behind. “Where can Bizarro throw this?”
All heads turned. Bizarro lumbered through the sand, broad shoulders bent as he carefully carried a barbecue stove that looked far too small for his massive hands. Charcoal was stacked under one arm like a toy box. His pale, awkward expression was earnest as ever, eyes darting to each person as if he might be scolded for mishandling the equipment.
“Over here, big guy,” Cyborg said, standing and taking the stove before Bizarro could crush it accidentally. He set it down near the cluster of beach chairs Dick and Tim had been wrestling with earlier. The chairs were already crooked, half-buried in sand, but they gave the setup an almost homely, lived-in feel.
Jack gave Bizarro a warm nod. “Thanks for hauling that out here. Why don’t you go join the others setting up the canopy? I’m sure Jason could use your muscle.”
Bizarro’s lips twitched into a clumsy smile before he shuffled off to help, his hulking form nearly blocking the sun as he went.
Jack brushed sand from his hands and took a step toward the chairs, ready to pitch in himself, when something in his peripheral vision froze him. The sound of wheels grinding against the sand followed, then a shadow stretching long across the beach.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
Dragging not one, but three pieces of luggage behind him, his posture impeccable as if he were stepping into a gala rather than onto a beach. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable beneath the ever-present calm, but Jack’s eyes zeroed in on the crime in progress.
The outfit.
Jack’s green eyes narrowed to slits. Bruce was wearing a full dark shirt with crisp, buttoned cuffs, pressed slacks, and polished shoes that were already sinking into the sand. A wide-brimmed hat sat squarely on his head, and for some unfathomable reason, a silk scarf was knotted neatly at his throat like he was about to board a yacht in the French Riviera.
Jack blinked once. Twice. His lips curved slowly upward into a dangerous smile. Of course. Of course, this is what he thinks qualifies as beachwear.
Bruce stopped a few steps away, the wheels of the suitcases struggling against the sand before he gave up and let them fall with a muted thud. For a moment, he stood there like a shadow dropped into paradise. His gaze swept the scene in silence, cataloging everything the way only he could.
The Titans were half-organized, half-chaotic, with chairs crooked and umbrellas leaning like defeated soldiers. Damian sprinted down the shoreline, Trouble bounding after him, both boy and hyena snapping at the waves as if they were training partners. Dick was already waist-deep in the surf, cupping his hands to shout about volleyball teams, his voice carrying across the water with all the excitement of a kid at summer camp.
And then there was Jack. Arms folded, eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a look of pure disbelief that only a husband could manage.
Bruce’s voice came low, defensive, as if preparing for cross-examination. “…What?”
Jack tilted his head, one brow rising like a guillotine about to drop. “Really, Brucie?” His voice was rich with mockery, but there was a dangerous kind of amusement flickering under it.
Alfred stood loyally beside Bruce, his gloved hands folded behind his back, posture as steady as ever. He let out the faintest sigh, one Bruce knew well. The sigh of a man who had tried, failed, and resigned himself to watching the disaster unfold. “I have tried reasoning with him, Master Jack,” Alfred said smoothly, as though this were some solemn report of a failed mission.
Jack’s green eyes flicked back to Bruce, dragging up and down his form with deliberate slowness. Crisp, buttoned shirt. Slacks pressed within an inch of their life. Polished shoes already being swallowed by the sand. And that ridiculous silk scarf knotted around his throat like he was about to board a yacht in Monaco rather than join his family on a beach.
Jack made a show of rubbing his forehead, his shoulders shaking with a laugh he tried to swallow. “I thought you were bringing disguises for patrol or, I don’t know, a secret gala hidden on this island. But no. This—” he gestured broadly at Bruce’s entire body with one hand “—is apparently your idea of summer.”
From the water, Dick caught sight of the spectacle. He immediately doubled over laughing, smacking the surface of the waves. “Oh my god, is he wearing a scarf?!” he howled, pointing dramatically toward shore. “Bruce, you look like you’re going to scold the sun for misbehaving!”
Tim, carrying a folded umbrella under one arm, paused mid-step, his mouth twitching upward into a smirk. “Overdressed doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he muttered before pulling out his phone. The faint sound of a camera click followed.
“Delete that,” Bruce said instantly, his glare like a blade.
Tim shrugged, unapologetic. “For the family album.”
Jason, lounging in a chair he hadn’t helped set up, tipped his sunglasses down just enough to take in the sight. He grinned, wolfish and amused. “You look like you’re about to sell shady real estate on the Riviera. All you’re missing is a glass of overpriced wine and a tragic backstory.”
“That is his tragic backstory,” Dick shouted back from the waves, still laughing.
Even Damien slowed in his chase, Trouble skidding to a halt beside him. The boy crossed his arms in perfect imitation of Jack, his small voice sharp and merciless. “Father, you are embarrassing.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, the scarf tugging awkwardly against his throat as the wind blew. His jaw worked, the muscles tight. He turned his head slowly toward Jack, his eyes narrowing with a promise of retribution later.
Jack only grinned wider, stepping closer until he stood just in front of his overdressed husband. He leaned in, his voice a low whisper only Bruce could hear. “You can face gods and monsters without flinching, Brucie. But right now? You’re outnumbered. Lose the scarf, or I swear the kids will never let you live this down.”
Bruce closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose, his shoulders sagging in reluctant surrender. He began untying the scarf.
The cheer that went up from the beach was louder than the crashing waves.
The Batcave was alive with motion in a way it rarely was. Every corner hummed with preparation, the cavernous space filled with the quiet urgency of heroes suiting up. Screens on the Batcomputer flickered with feeds from across Gotham, Jump City, and Blüdhaven, glowing green and blue light across stone walls older than the manor itself. Heavy boots echoed as members of the Justice League gathered in tight clusters, checking gear, trading quick words.
Clark stood near the main platform, his cape settling around his shoulders as he spoke with the young Titans. “I want to thank you all,” he said warmly, his voice carrying across the chamber. “With you keeping watch over Jump City, that leaves only two cities for us to focus on.” His eyes crinkled with relief, and for a moment, even the cave felt lighter.
Then it came.
A manic, high-pitched laugh that echoed off the cave walls, rolling over the stalactites and machinery with the force of something wild. Instantly, every hero stiffened. Hands reached for weapons, power flared at fingertips, and the cavern pulsed with the collective readiness of gods and warriors bracing for battle.
But when the sound was followed by the screech of tires on stone and the roar of an engine, most of the tension drained. Harley Quinn skidded into view on her motorcycle, red and black tassels fluttering from the handlebars. Ivy sat casually behind her, arms crossed, her ruby hair glowing faintly under the cave lights like vines catching the sun.
“Harls!” Clark’s face lit up, his shoulders easing as he strode forward. He wrapped Harley into a hug before she could even dismount, spinning her half a step off the ground with the sheer enthusiasm only Clark Kent could muster. “I’m glad you could join us.”
“Hey, Big Blue!” Harley chirped, hugging him back with her bat clattering against the seat of the bike. “Always a pleasure ta see ya. Been a while since I crashed a superhero party.”
Clark turned with equal warmth to Ivy, inclining his head respectfully. “It’s good to see you too, Ivy.”
Ivy barely smiled. Her green eyes flicked toward the stairway that led deeper into the manor. “I’m only here for Jack. His greenhouse still owes me a visit.” Without waiting for pleasantries, she walked away with a regal stride, the faintest hint of moss and earth trailing in her wake.
Harley shrugged, unbothered, and swung a leg off her bike. “Don’t worry ‘bout her. She’ll guard the mansion if anything nasty tries to crawl in. Nobody wants to deal with an angry Ivy, trust me.” She planted her mallet against her shoulder and bounced on her heels, looking around at the gathered heroes with a grin. “So! What’s the game plan?”
The Martian stepped forward, his calm presence cutting through the buzzing tension in the cave. His voice was steady, deliberate. “Miss Quinn, you will lead the Gotham team. You know the city better than I do, and your instincts for its criminals will give us an advantage. You will coordinate with Flash, Wonder Woman, and Hawkgirl. I will oversee the second group, Superman, Green Lantern, and Aquaman, to Blüdhaven.”
For a moment, Harley just blinked. Her bat slipped a fraction lower in her hand. “Wait… me? Team leader?” Her smile faltered, confusion flickering in her wide eyes.
The cave grew quiet again, all eyes shifting to her. Harley’s throat bobbed with a swallow. She wasn’t afraid of a fight, not by a long shot, but this… this was different. Leader. The word rattled around in her head, heavier than she ever expected it to be.
“Harley,” Diana’s voice broke through the silence, warm and reassuring, her lasso glinting faintly at her hip. “Are you all right?”
Harley’s laugh came out sharp and too quick. “Ahaha, don’t worry about me. It’s nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” She waved a hand like she was batting away the nerves crawling up her arms. “I’ve wrangled hyenas, puddin’, and Poison Ivy’s mood swings. I can handle a couple’a supers.”
Still, her fingers gripped the bat tighter as she walked back to her motorcycle, the weight of leadership settling on her shoulders like an unexpected cloak. She swung the bat up, rested it across her shoulders, and gave the crowd her trademark smirk.
“Alrighty then. Let’s go save Gotham,” she said, and revved her engine, the growl of it bouncing through the cave.
The water lapped gently against Jack’s ankles, warm and crystal-clear, so soothing it almost felt like silk brushing over his skin. He wriggled his toes in the sand beneath, the grains slipping through like tiny streams of gold dust. For a brief, blissful moment, the world was quiet, just the steady hush of waves and the salt-heavy breeze combing through his hair.
Then came the noise.
A sudden burst of cheering and shouting carried down the beach. Jack lifted his head, blinking into the sunlight, and saw the entire family and their extended circle gathering in a row near the shallows. Excited voices overlapped, splashing water and stamping feet as if they were about to begin an Olympic event.
“What in the…” Jack muttered, shading his eyes with one hand.
Jason’s voice cut through the chaos like a ringmaster at a carnival. He had climbed onto a half-buried log, chest puffed out, arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, heroes and hyenas! Today’s event is simple. Whoever catches the most fish for dinner tonight will be crowned the champion! And the grand prize will be…” He paused dramatically, smirking toward Bruce. “A five-star hotel vacation, courtesy of our sponsor, Daddy Bruce!”
The crowd erupted in laughter, whoops, and cheers.
From beside Jack, a gravelly growl broke through. “I don’t consent to this,” Bruce muttered as he strode across the sand, looking every bit the brooding billionaire in exile. He held out a dripping ice cream cone, his lips twitching downward in disapproval.
Jack plucked it from his hand, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “Thank you,” he said sweetly before taking a generous lick. Bruce sank down beside him with all the weight of a man preparing to suffer through chaos, his broad shoulders relaxing only once he leaned back against the warmth of the sand.
Jack giggled under his breath, nudging him playfully. “You know you love it.”
Not far away, Raven sat beneath the shade of a tilted umbrella, legs folded gracefully as she held a thick book open in her lap. She barely glanced up at the commotion, her focus rooted in the page, though the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. Trouble, curled at her stomach, rose and fell with her breathing, fast asleep despite the din.
Damian, however, was less composed. He stood a few paces away with his arms crossed, scowling at Raven like she had committed treason. Earlier, when he had tried to leap into the water to claim an early advantage, she had casually wrapped him in a sphere of dark magic and plopped him back onto the sand. Trouble, the traitor, hadn’t even stirred. The betrayal still burned in his eyes as he sulked.
Meanwhile, the competitors were hyping themselves up with wild bravado.
“Bizarro will lose!” Bizarro boomed proudly, pounding his chest as if declaring his glory was the ultimate act of honor.
Artemis snorted, planting her fists on her hips. “In your dream, big guy.”
From the sidelines, Beast Boy shifted from a seagull into a dolphin with a flash of green light, splashing water high into the air. “Are you kidding? You think anyone here can beat me? I literally become an ocean predator! Fat chance, losers!” His laughter bubbled as he dove under, his fin slicing the waves.
Starfire clapped her hands together in delight, her golden hair catching fire in the sun. “Glorious! I cannot wait to greet the aquatic creatures of this planet and perhaps exchange knowledge with them about the wonders of the sea!” She beamed, already floating a few inches above the water with excitement.
The entire scene was pandemonium. Voices clashed, water sprayed, sand flew. Jason was shouting over the crowd, already drafting a set of “official rules” nobody cared about. Dick was stretching dramatically like he was about to run a marathon. Tim had abandoned his shirt on a chair and was double-checking his waterproof watch like this was a calculated science project.
Jack licked his ice cream slowly, watching it all unfold with the same patience one might have watching fireworks. He glanced at Bruce, who was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as if blocking out the sight would make it go away.
“This is your circus,” Jack murmured with a smile.
“These are your clowns,” Bruce muttered back, though there was a softness in his tone that betrayed his fondness.
The night in Gotham was heavy, the kind of darkness that clung like smoke and never quite left the skin. From her perch on the edge of a rooftop, Harley let her legs dangle, her boots tapping idly against the brick. Below, the streets pulsed with restless energy, but tonight they were calm enough. Flash zipped through intersections, a blur of red and lightning, checking alleyways and rooftops like an anxious watchdog.
Harley leaned forward on her knees, chin resting in her palm, her painted smile faintly smudged from the humidity. For once, she wasn’t grinning. Her stomach twisted in ways no punchline could fix.
“Did you have anything you want to say, Harl?”
The voice slipped in behind her, soft but steady. Harley jolted, nearly tumbling off the ledge before a strong hand caught her shoulder. She turned and found Diana there, her presence as solid and calming as the moonlight.
“You looked… afraid after J’onn told you to become a leader,” Diana said. Her tone carried no judgment, only gentle observation. She squeezed Harley’s shoulder with quiet reassurance. “You can tell me anything. Woman to woman.”
For a long moment, Harley said nothing. She fiddled with the end of her bat, rolling the grip between her fingers, then let out a long, shaky sigh.
“Please,” she muttered finally, her Brooklyn accent dropping low, almost small. “Don’t tell Jack. Or any of his family. He just got back with them, ya know? I don’t wanna dump my crap on his plate. He’s got enough nightmares to wrestle with.”
Diana tilted her head, her eyes warm as molten gold. “Jack is your friend, Harley. I am your friend too. It is in our nature to help those we care for. You should not bear this alone.”
Harley stared at her, lips twitching as though caught between crying and laughing. Then, unexpectedly, she barked out a giggle, wiping the corner of her eye with her wrist. “Heh… yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right, princess.” She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Gotham’s heavy air, and when she exhaled, the laugh died into something rawer.
“I been on a team for seven months now,” she began, her voice unsteady but determined to keep going. “Not this team. Not the spandex, sunshine, save-the-world crowd. Nah. I’m talkin’ about that bitch Amanda Waller’s pet project. The Suicide Squad.”
Diana’s eyes widened, her lips parting in horror.
“Yeah, ya heard me,” Harley continued, tapping the bat against her knee with each word. “She rounded up every crook, every screw-up she could find, and stuck a bomb in our heads. A real cute lil’ chip. If we didn’t jump when she whistled? Boom. Dead. No goodbye cards, no last meals. Just ash.”
“That is monstrous,” Diana whispered, her voice thick with disgust.
Harley only shrugged, her smile curling bitter. “That’s America for ya, doll. We did missions no one else would touch. Half the time we didn’t come back. At first? I thought bein’ the leader was somethin’ special. I mean, me? Harley freakin’ Quinn? In charge of a team? I was happy. Proud even. Like I finally had somethin’ of my own.”
Her voice wavered, and her grip on the bat tightened until her knuckles paled. “But then… Boomerang. That idiot, that loudmouth, that pain in my ass… He threw himself on the grenade. Took the blame for a mission gone to hell. And when I saw him die for us, just like that, I realized… I wasn’t a leader. I was a clown playin’ dress-up, leadin’ people straight to their graves.”
She swallowed hard, blinking fast. The night blurred for a moment before she forced herself to keep talking. “We rioted after that. Went after Waller herself. And we did it. We killed her. No more bombs. No more leash. Just… free. Free and lost.”
Her shoulders slumped, the weight of the memory dragging her down. For once, Harley Quinn looked small, not in size but in spirit.
Diana knelt beside her, one hand reaching to gently take Harley’s trembling fingers off the bat. “You are not lost, Harley. You survived. And surviving, after everything, is not weakness. It is strength. You carry scars, but that does not make you unworthy of leading. It makes you wise enough to care for those who follow you.”
Harley sniffled, then let out a wet laugh, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You always gotta say the mushy stuff, huh? You sound like Jack when he’s tellin’ Bruce not to work himself into a coffin.”
Diana smiled softly. “Then perhaps you are surrounded by the right people.”
For the first time that night, Harley let herself believe it.
The sun blazed overhead, scattering golden light across the sand and ocean. The waves rolled in steady rhythms, foaming at the edges like they were applauding the chaos happening onshore. Jack sat cross-legged in the shade of an umbrella, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, Damien perched squarely in his lap with arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was holding himself together with pure defiance.
Damien’s little mouth was set in a scowl, his dark brows furrowed, and his lower lip puffed in an angry pout that looked far too dramatic for a boy his age. Trouble, sensing his master’s mood, sat loyally at Damien’s feet, whining softly as if he too shared in the indignation.
“You will drown,” Jack said flatly, brushing his son’s messy black hair away from his eyes. His voice was calm, the voice of a father who had already lost this argument ten times today.
“It will make me stronger,” Damien shot back, his tone clipped and serious. He spoke like a soldier, not a child, each word sharpened with conviction.
Jack let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of both amusement and exhaustion. “Or it will make me bury you in the sand and tell Bruce you turned into seashells. Do you want that? Hm?”
Damien only huffed, looking away with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. His little fists balled up as though sheer stubbornness could somehow give him gills.
Before Jack could say another word, the peaceful lull of waves was shattered by a sound that didn’t belong.
A deep, bellowing wail tore through the air. It was so loud, so mournful, it rattled the seagulls from their perches and froze everyone mid-motion. Heads turned toward the water, confusion and dread rolling across the beach like a storm.
“BIZARRO DO NOT FOUND THIS!”
The triumphant voice boomed over the crashing waves. And then, like a nightmare pulled straight out of a cartoon, Bizarro emerged from the ocean, chest puffed with pride, his massive arms straining as he hoisted something impossibly large out of the water.
A whale.
A whole, living whale dangled awkwardly in his grasp, its tail flapping uselessly as the giant alien waded toward shore. The sight was so absurd, so sudden, that for a full three seconds, no one breathed. Jack’s jaw dropped open, Damian blinked, and even Bruce's shock nearly dropped his ice cream.
Then chaos erupted.
“PUT THAT BACK!” the entire beach screamed in unison. Titans, Robins, even Raven dropped her book and pointed furiously at the creature Bizarro was cradling like a trophy.
Starfire gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Friend! Whale is not a prize!” she shouted, horrified.
Beast Boy immediately transformed into a dolphin, leaping frantically in the shallows as though begging his alien teammate to listen. “Dude! That’s, like, a family member! Put her down!”
Raven pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering a string of words in a language no one dared ask her to translate. Cyborg, already halfway to the grill, groaned and set down the spatula like he was preparing for a fight instead of barbecue.
Jack slapped a palm to his forehead, groaning into his hand. “Why do I even think a vacation can be normal...”
Notes:
Hello guys! I am sorry for the late chapter. It is because your boy here is finding a job nearby... I just graduated, so it's really hard right now to find a job. I hope you guys can pray for me to get a job.
sincerely,
your not the best writerKisachi
Chapter 9: Rocket Robins
Summary:
Tim, just home from school, finds himself ambushed by Dick and Jason, who are desperate to borrow his new high-tech boots designed by Uncle Lucius Fox. The boots synchronize with the user’s neural activity, allowing for enhanced jumps and speed, but they require intelligence and precision to operate, something Tim smugly reminds his brothers they might lack. Jack steps in with his trademark mix of patience and authority, restoring order while quietly amused by the family’s antics.
The next day, Bruce and Jack visit Lucius at Wayne Enterprises. Between laughter, tea, and teasing about the family’s vacation, Lucius learns about the brothers’ jealous squabble over the boots. With Jack’s encouragement, he devises a mischievous plan to teach Dick and Jason a lesson, a plan that Bruce instinctively distrusts but wisely doesn’t question.
Notes:
I don't know what to call this au. So, can any of you help me name it?
Chapter Text
The clock on the manor wall ticked toward five in the evening, the golden light of sunset spilling through the tall windows of the foyer. The air smelled faintly of old wood, coffee, and Alfred’s freshly baked scones cooling somewhere in the kitchen. Tim stepped inside, exhausted from another long day of school, his backpack hanging low on one shoulder. He was ready to collapse into a chair and maybe, just maybe, get five minutes of peace.
Instead, chaos greeted him like an overly excited dog.
“Please! Let me borrow it just a little bit, please!” Dick’s pleading voice filled the room, the kind of tone he used when he knew he was about to get scolded.
Tim blinked, confused, still half in his uniform and barely through the door. “Borrow what?”
Before he could even process, Dick pointed dramatically at Tim’s feet. “Those! The boots!”
Tim looked down at his high-tech black boots, a gift from Uncle Lucius, carefully designed to enhance his jumps and speed with microservos and lightweight kinetic boosters. They were sleek, practical, and absolutely not meant for whatever nonsense Dick and Jason were planning.
“Absolutely not,” Tim said, adjusting his backpack.
“Oh come on, little bro!” Jason chimed in from the couch, his grin as sharp as ever. “You’re done with school for the day. Let us test ‘em out. For science.”
Tim dropped his bag onto the floor and crossed his arms. “You mean for chaos.”
Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Same thing.”
Before Tim could even respond, Dick lunged dramatically, reaching for his ankle. “Just five minutes!”
Tim sidestepped and tried to push Dick away, but Dick, being an acrobat, dodged and wrapped around him like a persistent cat. “I just came back from school! Can I have one normal day without being attacked by a man-child?” Tim exclaimed, shoving Dick’s shoulder to little effect.
Jason was watching closely, like a predator waiting for an opening, his eyes flicking between Tim’s boots and Dick’s failed attempts.
It was at that moment that a sharp sound cut through the chaos.
Whack!
Dick froze mid-lunge. Jason stopped grinning. Tim blinked.
Jack stood behind them, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon of divine judgment. His hair was slightly messy from the lab, his glasses sliding down his nose, and his expression one of the most patient kinds of anger imaginable.
“Richard John Grayson,” Jack said, his tone calm but sharp enough to slice through steel. “You are the eldest. Be one.”
Dick rubbed the back of his head, pouting like a kid caught stealing cookies. “Ow! I was just—”
“No,” Jack interrupted, raising the spoon slightly higher.
Dick straightened immediately, sheepish. “Yes, sir.”
Jason, trying and failing to hide his laugh, looked away, pretending to check his phone. Jack’s gaze slid toward him.
“And you,” Jack said, his voice lowering just a touch. “If I see you even glance at those boots again, you’ll be the one doing dish duty for a week.”
Jason immediately slouched into the couch and muttered, “Wasn’t even looking.”
Tim stood there for a moment longer, still frozen in the middle of the room. The tension from earlier had faded, replaced by something almost comical, a quiet disbelief at how easily his father had tamed the wild energy of his two older brothers. Half of him was grateful for the intervention. The other half was fighting back a smirk.
Finally, he adjusted the strap of his backpack and shook his head. “Brothers,” he said with that calm, matter-of-fact tone that always made him sound older than he was, “Uncle Lucius said that you actually need to use most of your brain to operate these boots. You have to calculate mass, velocity, distance, wind resistance, all of it, just to jump safely from one building to another.”
Dick blinked. Jason tilted his head slightly, brows furrowed as if Tim had just started speaking another language.
Tim continued, voice light but smug. “And the last time I checked…” He paused for effect, meeting both their eyes with a sly smile. “I’m the only Robin who actually uses his brain.”
The silence that followed was thick with mock offense. Dick’s mouth dropped open. Jason blinked twice, pointing at himself. “Excuse me?” he said, pretending to be deeply wounded.
Tim didn’t even glance back as he started walking toward the stairs, his boots clicking lightly against the marble floor. “You heard me,” he said over his shoulder, his tone sharp but playful. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had enough chaos for one day.”
Jack tried, really tried, to hold back a laugh, but the sight of both Dick and Jason standing there, mouths open in matching disbelief, broke him. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, soft at first, then fuller, warm and genuine.
He reached out and patted Dick’s head first, who flinched like a scolded cat. “You hear that, Nightwing? The brain of the Robins just schooled you.”
“Unbelievable,” Dick muttered, running a hand through his hair with exaggerated drama. “I was fighting crime before he could tie his shoes.”
Jack moved to Jason, ruffling his hair next. Jason swatted at his hand but didn’t move away, muttering something about “ungrateful nerds.”
Jack smiled, his voice gentle but teasing. “Come on, geniuses. Let’s go eat before Alfred thinks you’ve moved out.”
“Albert,” Jason corrected with a grin, glancing toward the kitchen.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
Jason laughed, already heading that way, the scent of roasted garlic and fresh bread pulling him in. Dick followed behind, still pouting dramatically but unable to hide the small grin tugging at his lips.
Jack lingered for a moment in the quiet that followed. He glanced toward the staircase where Tim had gone, the faint echo of his footsteps fading into the upper floor. A soft pride bloomed in his chest, this, he thought, was what peace felt like in the Wayne household. Chaotic, loud, ridiculous… but filled with love.
With a faint smile still on his lips, Jack followed his sons into the dining room, where laughter and the sound of Alfred setting the table awaited them.
Morning sunlight filtered through the tall glass walls of Wayne Tower, cutting through the polished marble floors and glinting off every chrome surface. The lobby buzzed with the soft hum of conversation and the rhythm of clicking heels, but Jack’s attention was fixed on the man walking beside him. Bruce moved with his usual quiet confidence, posture straight, steps measured. Jack, meanwhile, tried to keep pace, tugging at the collar of his slightly formal shirt, still feeling out of place in the world of corporate giants.
When the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, Jack exhaled. The moment they stepped out into the executive floor, a booming voice shattered the calm.
“Little Jack!”
Before he could even react, Lucius Fox charged forward like a freight train of fatherly affection, arms wide and grin wider. Jack barely had time to blink before he was wrapped in an ironclad embrace that lifted him half an inch off the ground.
“L-Lucius! Hi, great to see you too!” Jack wheezed, his voice muffled against the man’s shoulder. He tried to tap out, flailing his hand for help. “Bruce—air—help—”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Lucius, my friend,” he said, his tone even but amused, “please stop trying to kill my husband with kindness.”
Lucius finally released him, laughing deeply, his chest still shaking with good humor. “Sorry about that! It has been far too long. Paperwork keeps me chained to this tower more than I’d like.”
Jack stumbled back a step, bent slightly with his hands on his knees, sucking in much-needed oxygen. “Yeah, I can tell,” he said between breaths. “You’re still built like a linebacker.”
Lucius chuckled, clearly pleased. “You have not changed at all, Jack.” He turned to Bruce, shaking his hand warmly before ushering them into his office.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of cedar and expensive coffee. Models of WayneTech inventions lined the shelves, alongside family photos and framed blueprints of gadgets that probably cost more than most houses. Jack immediately gravitated toward a small display case of microchips shaped like stylized bat symbols, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
Lucius motioned toward the seating area, where a sleek black sofa and glass coffee table waited. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Jack sank into the sofa beside Bruce, sighing as he leaned back. “You know, I thought the vacation would help me relax, but I think I need another one after that.”
Lucius chuckled, settling into his chair across from them. “How was it, by the way? Bruce told me you went to one of his private islands. That sounds like paradise.”
Jack gave a small, rueful smile. “Paradise is one word for it,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “It was… something.”
Bruce turned his head slightly, hiding a smirk behind the rim of his coffee cup. “That’s an understatement.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Something tells me there’s a story there.”
Jack groaned, rubbing his forehead as the memories came flooding back, the endless chaos of the Titans, the hyena incident, the sunburned Bizzarro, and Dick’s near-death experience with a jellyfish. “Let’s just say ‘peaceful’ is not in the Batfamily vocabulary.”
Lucius laughed heartily. “I can imagine. Still, it is good to see you both taking time for yourselves. You deserve it.”
Jack smiled faintly, watching Bruce sip his coffee with that quiet, reserved air of his. For a moment, the chaos of Gotham, the danger, the constant noise of their lives, all of it felt distant.
“Yeah,” Jack murmured softly, resting his elbow on the armrest. “We really do.”
Lucius leaned forward, eyes glinting with warmth. “Now then, what brings you two troublemakers to my office today? If it’s about another one of Bruce’s expensive toys, I’m charging double.”
Bruce gave him a look that was both tired and amused. “It’s about the Batcomputer upgrade.”
Lucius groaned dramatically, turning his gaze toward Jack. “I swear, your husband is going to turn that cave into a NASA command center one day.”
Jack smirked. “Oh, trust me, we’re halfway there.”
Lucius laughed again, the sound deep and familiar, filling the room like sunlight. The world outside might still be dark and heavy, but in that office, between the laughter, teasing, and friendship, it felt lighter. For Jack, it felt a little like home.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall window, catching on the edges of his lenses. “Oh yes, that reminds me,” he said with a spark of pride in his voice. “Tell me, how is the new upgrade on Tim’s boots? I refined the synchronization between the neural sensors and his brain activity, so he doesn’t burn as much energy when he jumps. Theoretically, it should let him vault across a building without that sluggish recharge period he had before.”
Bruce smiled faintly, that quiet kind of approval that he reserved for work well done. “It’s an excellent improvement,” he said, setting his cup down carefully. “Tim said the connection feels much smoother. His control has improved too, though he still needs practice to fully adapt to it.”
Lucius nodded, his chest swelling with pride. “Good, good. I told him he’d notice the difference once the interface adjusted to his neural frequency.”
Across from them, Jack raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea with a knowing grin. “Speaking of those boots,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Your favorite boy genius seems to have stirred some jealousy at home.”
Lucius looked up, intrigued. “Oh?”
Jack chuckled softly, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “Apparently, Dick and Jason are sulking because ‘Uncle Lucius’ only gives his fancy toys to Tim. They’ve been trying to guilt-trip him into sharing the boots. You’d think they were fighting over candy.”
Lucius burst out laughing, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, those boys! Tell them if they want new toys, they need to visit me more often. I don’t build for ghosts.”
Bruce turned toward Jack, his brow lifting slightly as if to ask, What did I miss this time?
Jack grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Well, since you’re curious,” he began, “yesterday, I walked in on Dick practically begging Tim to let him borrow the boots. Jason was hovering nearby, waiting for his chance to chime in. It looked like a black market deal waiting to happen.”
Lucius wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Oh, I would pay good money to see that!”
Jack leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically as if telling a secret. “And then Tim—our sweet, polite Tim—crossed his arms, looked them both dead in the eye, and said, ‘You’d need to use your brain to operate them, so that automatically disqualifies you.’”
Lucius snorted so hard he had to clutch his stomach. Bruce tried to stifle his amusement, but a low laugh escaped him anyway, deep and warm.
“Tim and his mouth,” Bruce muttered with a shake of his head, though his smile betrayed how proud he was.
Jack joined in the laughter, his eyes gleaming. “I almost felt bad for Dick and Jason, but watching their faces drop like that? Worth it.”
Lucius chuckled, his voice softer now. “That boy’s got your wit, Jack.”
Jack blinked, then smiled warmly. “No, he’s got Bruce’s discipline and your brilliance. I’m just the one who reminds him to eat.”
Lucius’s laughter finally tapered off into a low chuckle, the sound fading into a sly hum of thought. He tapped a finger against his chin, his eyes glinting with the kind of mischief Jack had only seen a few times before, usually right before Lucius unveiled one of his more… creative ideas.
“You know,” Lucius began, his tone smooth, a conspiratorial edge curling around each word, “I might just have a way to handle those two sons of yours.”
Jack tilted his head, instantly intrigued. The warmth of humor still lingered in his chest, but curiosity quickly replaced it. “Oh?” he said, leaning forward slightly. “What are you thinking?”
Lucius didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gave Bruce a quick glance, his mouth twitching in amusement, before leaning closer to Jack. He lowered his voice, a whisper that held the weight of delightful scheming.
Jack’s expression shifted as Lucius spoke, first a blink of surprise, then an incredulous stare, and finally, a slow, unmistakable grin. The kind of grin that said this is going to be fun. His green eyes glimmered with the spark of mischief, the scientist in him momentarily replaced by something far more dangerous: the prankster who used to wear a purple suit.
When Lucius finally leaned back, satisfied with his explanation, Jack sat up straighter, a laugh slipping from his lips. It was quiet, then louder, until it filled the room with a mixture of amusement and promise. “Lucius,” he said, still chuckling, “that is… a brilliant idea. Absolutely devious.” He rubbed his chin, pretending to think it through, though the grin never left his face. “That will teach them both a valuable lesson.”
Lucius folded his arms, grinning proudly. “Sometimes, a little creative discipline goes further than any lecture ever could.”
Bruce, who had been watching the exchange from his seat, leaned back slightly, suspicion etched all over his face. His blue eyes darted from Lucius’s satisfied smirk to Jack’s barely contained delight. He had seen that look before, many times, in fact, and it never ended peacefully.
“Should I even ask?” Bruce said, finally, his tone wary but amused.
Jack looked at him with the innocence of a cat caught beside a broken vase. “No need to worry, love. It’s just a little… harmless plan.”
Lucius coughed into his hand, clearly failing to hide his amusement. “Yes, harmless. Completely educational.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered.
Jack reached across the small coffee table and patted his husband’s knee with mock reassurance. “Relax, Brucie. You’ve handled Gotham’s worst criminals. Surely, you can handle me and Lucius planning a small surprise for your sons.”
Bruce opened his eyes again, narrowing them slightly. “You two together might actually be more dangerous than the Joker ever was.”
Jack only grinned wider, his tone playful but laced with affection. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Lucius laughed quietly into his cup, and even Bruce’s lips twitched at the corners. Whatever plot had just been born in that office, it would undoubtedly bring chaos to the manor, and probably a lesson or two for Dick and Jason.
But for now, all Bruce could do was sigh, finish his coffee, and prepare for whatever “harmless” mischief his husband and best friend were brewing. The calm before the storm had never felt so deceptively peaceful.
The night had fallen over Gotham, painting the city in shades of deep indigo and gold. The manor was quiet, almost deceptively so, with the faint hum of crickets outside and the soft flicker of the Batcave’s monitors illuminating the cavern in a pale glow.
Bruce stood by the Batjet, the weight of the Justice League’s emergency call pressing on his shoulders. He was already suited up, the cape resting heavily against his frame. Jack leaned against the console nearby, arms crossed, the soft hum of machinery echoing behind him. The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that only came before Bruce had to leave for one of his “world-saving” missions.
“Are you sure it’s urgent enough for you to go?” Jack asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp, betraying a flicker of worry.
Bruce nodded once, his expression unreadable as always. “It’s a containment breach in one of the League’s off-world labs. I need to be there.” He turned slightly, looking back at Jack with that look he always gave before a long absence—a mix of trust and quiet concern. “Please… don’t do anything dangerous to them while I’m gone.”
Jack tilted his head and smirked, the corners of his mouth curling into that mischievous smile that Bruce knew all too well. “No promises.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with the faintest ghost of a smile. Jack stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He reached up, brushing a bit of dust off Bruce’s armor, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You really need to stop taking so much of the world’s responsibility, love,” he murmured softly. “You’ll run out of space for it in that big brooding heart of yours.”
Bruce’s stern expression softened, his hand finding Jack’s waist. “Someone has to keep the peace.”
Jack leaned in and kissed him, brief but lingering, his voice a quiet whisper against Bruce’s lips. “Then promise you’ll come back in one piece, or I’m sending Alfred after you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
With a flick of his wrist, Bruce set the Batjet’s autopilot sequence. The engines began to glow, their light casting moving shadows across the cave walls. Jack stepped back, waving lazily as the cockpit sealed shut.
“Bye bye~,” he called, voice teasing but warm. “Don’t get too serious out there, my dear hero.”
Bruce gave him one last look—half amusement, half warning, before the Batjet roared to life, lifting off and vanishing into the night sky.
The moment it disappeared into the distance, the silence returned. Jack stood there for a while, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he said to himself, his tone brightening with playful menace, “I guess it’s up to me to supervise the kids tonight… unfortunately.”
He turned toward the Batcomputer, the massive screens flickering to life as he approached. The cold light from the monitors reflected off his face, highlighting the faint curve of a grin already forming. “Batcom,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “call Lucius.”
A few moments of static filled the air before the familiar voice of Lucius Fox crackled through. The screen came alive, revealing Lucius sitting in his office, bathed in the warm light of his desk lamp. His expression was the very picture of smug amusement.
“Jack,” Lucius greeted, leaning back in his chair. “I take it our dear Dark Knight is otherwise occupied?”
Jack’s grin widened. “You could say that. Justice League emergency. So…” He leaned closer to the screen, his green eyes glinting. “I thought this would be the perfect time for a little… project.”
Lucius chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “Ah, so fate has given us the night off from Bruce’s supervision. How wonderfully convenient.”
Jack rested his chin in his palm, his tone mock-sweet. “You’re not backing out on me now, are you, dear Lucius? I thought you were a man of innovation.”
Lucius gave a small shake of his head, pretending to sigh dramatically. “Innovation, yes. Survival, questionable, especially when it involves you and those boys.”
Jack chuckled, twirling a pen he’d picked up from the console. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”
Lucius smirked, raising an eyebrow. “My safety is in your hands then?”
Jack leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his smile stretching just a little too wide. “Exactly. And that, my friend, is what makes this so exciting.”
The two men exchanged matching grins through the screen, the kind of grins that promised nothing good for anyone else.
Somewhere upstairs, completely unaware of what was coming, Dick, Jason, and Tim were probably arguing about whose turn it was to wash the dishes.
And down in the cave, the quiet hum of the Batcomputer filled the air as Jack’s laughter echoed softly. Tonight, Gotham’s greatest detective was gone… and its greatest agent of chaos was in charge.
An hour passed quietly within the vast hollow of the Batcave. The rhythmic clatter of boots echoed faintly off stone walls as Dick, Jason, and Tim suited up for their nightly patrol. The air hummed with focused energy, the kind that always filled the room before Gotham’s protectors took to the rooftops. The soft glow of the Batcomputer screens painted their armor in shifting shades of blue and white.
Dick adjusted his gloves, humming under his breath. “Alright, team,” he said with a grin, tossing his escrima sticks from one hand to the other. “Another night, another round of stopping maniacs before bedtime.”
Jason leaned against the Batmobile, smirking. “Yeah, yeah, keep saying that, pretty boy. You’re the one who gets sentimental every time you see a kid with a balloon.”
Tim rolled his eyes from where he was checking his utility belt. “At least he has emotions, Jason.”
Before Jason could fire back, a sharp ding echoed through the cave, the sound of the elevator. The boys froze. No one ever came into the Batcave unannounced.
When the doors slid open, a familiar voice broke the silence. “Now, now, no need to look so shocked. You’d think you’ve never seen your dear Uncle Lucius before.”
“Uncle Lucius?” Dick blinked, his tone shifting instantly from suspicion to delight. “What are you doing here?”
Lucius stepped out of the elevator with a smooth confidence that only he could pull off. He was still in his suit, a faint trace of cologne lingering in the air, his smile both charming and… mischievous. He walked toward them with something large tucked under one arm.
“Oh, nothing too dramatic,” Lucius said casually, though his tone carried a hint of amusement. “Just bringing gifts for some very deserving young men.”
Jason straightened up. “Gifts?”
Lucius chuckled, the sound rich and knowing. He reached into the sleek black case and pulled out a gleaming pair of boots, sleek, dark, lined with faint blue circuitry that shimmered under the Batcave’s light.
Dick’s jaw dropped. “Wait… are those—?”
“The same model as Tim’s,” Lucius confirmed, his grin widening. He handed the boots to Dick with a theatrical flourish. “Here you are, my boy. Fresh from the lab, custom calibrated, and waiting for a proper test run.”
Dick blinked in disbelief, cradling the boots like they were made of gold. “Are you serious?! You’re giving these to me?!”
Lucius laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Of course I am. Your father, well, Jack told me about yesterday’s little… ‘incident’ with the boots, and I couldn’t stand by and let my nephews sulk over being left out.”
Dick’s excitement was instant and explosive. “You’re the best, Uncle Lucius! I promise I’ll visit you more often! Every week! No, every day!” He practically tackled Lucius in a hug, grinning from ear to ear.
Lucius patted his shoulder, chuckling fondly. “I’ll hold you to that, Richard.”
Then he turned to Jason, who had been watching the whole exchange with folded arms, trying to hide the gleam of interest in his eyes.
“Now, you didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you?” Lucius said, reaching back into the case and pulling out a second pair. These were darker, reinforced, with faint crimson patterns along the sides. “A little something for my other favorite nephew. Modified for… your style of fieldwork.”
Jason’s eyes widened slightly, the confident smirk faltering for a split second. “For me?”
Lucius nodded, offering the boots. “Jack mentioned that you’ve been trying to keep up with Dick during training. These should even the odds a little.”
Jason took them slowly, his voice quieter than usual. “Thanks, Uncle Lucius. Really.” Then, almost shyly, he added, “I promise I’ll visit you more often too.”
Lucius smiled warmly. “See that you do. You boys are always welcome.”
Behind them, Tim had been silently watching the scene unfold. He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing slightly—not out of jealousy, but out of curiosity. Something about the timing felt a little too perfect.
He turned toward the Batcomputer, where Jack stood watching, arms folded, an unreadable smile tugging at his lips.
“Dad,” Tim said slowly, walking closer. “What exactly is going on here?”
Jack met his gaze, eyes sparkling with amusement. He leaned slightly on the console, looking like a man holding in a very good secret.
“Oh, nothing much,” Jack said, his tone light and innocent. “Just Lucius being the generous uncle he’s always been.”
Tim’s brow arched. “Uh-huh. And this has nothing to do with you winking at Lucius, right?”
Jack grinned and winked again. “You’re too smart for your own good, Tim.”
Tim sighed, shaking his head. “I knew it.” But even as he spoke, he couldn’t help the small smile forming on his face.
The night in Gotham breathed differently that evening.
It was quieter than usual, the kind of rare silence that felt unnatural in a city built on chaos. The streets below glimmered with reflections of broken neon signs and the soft hum of streetlights fighting the darkness. High above, three silhouettes danced between rooftops, shadows gliding with precision, energy, and just a touch of mischief.
“Ooh, I cannot wait to try these new boots!” Dick shouted, his voice carrying a spark of giddy excitement. He landed effortlessly on a gargoyle’s shoulder before flipping off it with the grace of a circus performer, the boots humming faintly with kinetic power. Every leap sent him soaring higher, faster, like the night itself was bending to his rhythm.
Jason followed closely behind, his movement heavier but no less sharp. “I don’t know, man,” he muttered, adjusting the settings on his boots as he ran along the edge of a skyscraper. “Is it really safe for Uncle Lucius to tag along tonight? What if something blows up?”
From the Batmobile cruising beneath them, Jack’s voice crackled through their communicators, calm and teasing. “Relax, Jason. Lucius just wants to see how the upgrades perform in real time. No explosions… unless you make one.”
Lucius, sitting in the passenger seat beside Jack, chuckled softly as the city lights flashed across his glasses. “I assure you, young man, I’ve survived enough field tests with Bruce to handle a few jump-happy vigilantes. Besides,” he added with a proud smile, “this is history in the making. My boys, soaring through Gotham with science and style.”
Jack rolled his eyes fondly, his hands steady on the wheel. “You say that now. Wait until Dick forgets he’s not in a circus anymore.”
“Ha! Very funny!” Dick called out from above, clearly eavesdropping on the open comms. He executed a midair twist just to prove a point, his boots pulsing with a soft blue light as he landed perfectly on a narrow ledge.
Meanwhile, Tim had been unusually quiet, glancing down at the Batmobile on the streets below before turning to his brothers. His visor flickered as data streamed across it, his mind already processing calculations before anyone could ask.
“Tim,” Dick said, landing beside him, “can you go over how this thing works again? I think mine’s acting up.”
Tim gave him a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. “It’s not acting up, you’re just not syncing it properly. You need to calibrate it to your visor interface first.”
Dick blinked. “Uh… English?”
Tim sighed. “Use your brain, Dick. Literally. The boots link to your neural activity. You imagine the jump, its distance, its force, how high you want to go. The system interprets your thought and calculates the output instantly.”
To demonstrate, he crouched slightly, focused for a split second, and then—whoosh!—the boots roared to life, launching him across the skyline like a missile. He soared six buildings over in a single motion, landing flawlessly on a rooftop antenna.
The comm channel exploded with laughter and teasing.
“Huh. Show-off,” Jason muttered, clicking a switch on his own boots. “If he can do it, so can I.”
Lucius watched from the Batmobile’s live feed, a proud smile stretching across his face. “Magnificent. They’re adapting faster than expected. The synchronization levels are almost perfect.”
Jack nodded but kept his tone dry. “Almost perfect. Let’s just hope the landing part goes just as well.”
As if on cue, Jason attempted a similar jump, and almost overshot, crashing into a water tower before grabbing its edge at the last possible second.
“See?” Jack said, shaking his head. “Almost.”
Jason’s voice came over the line, slightly breathless. “I’m fine! Totally fine!”
Dick laughed, leaning over the edge of a building to look down. “Nice save, little brother! Real graceful.”
“Shut up.”
“Children,” Jack sighed through the communicator, though the faint hint of a smile could be heard in his voice.
Lucius chuckled under his breath. “They remind me of Bruce when he first tested the grapple prototypes.”
Jack smirked. “I remember. He slammed into a billboard for luxury watches.”
The sound of Lucius’s laughter filled the Batmobile. “And he still refuses to admit it happened.”
Before the brothers could start another round of banter, a soft alert tone chimed through their comms. The Batcomputer’s voice came through, calm but urgent.
“Alert. Possible weapons trade at the Iceberg Oddhouse. Coordinates locked.”
Immediately, the playfulness evaporated. The three Robins straightened, their training snapping into place.
Jack’s voice dropped, steady and focused. “You heard it, boys. Penguin’s at it again. Head to the Oddhouse and confirm the activity. No direct engagement unless necessary.”
“Copy that,” Tim said first.
“Understood,” Jason added.
“On it,” Dick finished.
The three of them moved as one, their boots glowing faintly as they sprinted and vaulted across rooftops, a synchronized trio of silent protectors under Gotham’s hazy moonlight.
From the Batmobile below, Jack watched their heat signatures glide across the tracker, a quiet sense of pride welling in his chest. Lucius glanced sideways at him, smiling knowingly.
“They’re getting better,” Lucius said softly. “You’ve taught them well.”
Jack hummed in agreement, eyes following their movements through the windshield reflection. “They’re Bruce’s sons,” he said quietly. “All I’m doing is helping them survive the night.”
Above the city, the Robins vanished into the fog, their laughter and chatter replaced by focus and resolve. The faint hum of Lucius’s invention echoed against the wind—three sets of boots cutting through the night like streaks of light, diving toward danger with the confidence of family at their back.
The glass shattered like a burst of thunder.
Three shadows dropped from the broken window, hitting the floor in unison with predatory grace. Dust swirled through the air, catching the dim light of the Iceberg Oddhouse’s chandelier as Dick, Jason, and Tim straightened from their crouched landings. The trio looked like living weapons, focused, silent, and ready to strike.
Oswald Cobblepot, better known as the Penguin, spun around with a squawk of outrage, his stubby hands trembling as he gripped the handle of his umbrella gun. “What the bloody hell is this? Nightwing? Red Hood? And the brat Robin too? Where’s the big bat, eh? Taking a nap?” His voice cracked halfway between arrogance and panic.
Tim’s eyes darted across the room, scanning the number of armed thugs and escape routes. “Dad, is Uncle Lucius safe?” he murmured into the communicator embedded in his visor.
Jack’s voice came through instantly, calm but laced with amusement. “Relax, kiddo. Lucius and I are perfectly fine. We’ve got the best seats in the house.”
On a nearby rooftop overlooking the chaos, Jack sat beside Lucius, both of them crouched behind a low ledge. Lucius adjusted his binoculars while Jack peered through his own, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Tell Penguin I said hi,” Jack added.
Tim relayed the message with a mischievous grin. “Penguin, Dad says hi.”
The gangster blinked in confusion. “Your what—”
Before he could finish, Dick twirled his escrima sticks in his hands, the sound of metal slicing the air sharp and satisfying. “You heard him, boys,” he said with a grin. “Let’s make this quick.”
Jason cocked his pistols, spinning them between his fingers before locking them in place. “Finally. Something fun.”
Tim stretched his grappling line and tested its tension, his movements precise and fluid. “Let’s move.”
“Charge!” Dick shouted, launching forward, except his boots flared with a sudden blinding blue light.
There was a blast of kinetic energy beneath his feet.
And suddenly, Dick Grayson, the acrobat, protector of JumpCity, pride of the circus… was spinning uncontrollably through the air like a caffeinated tornado.
“WHAT THE—” he screamed as he pinwheeled across the room, crashing through a table, knocking over two henchmen, rebounding off a crate, and landing with a heroic, but dizzy, pose. “I totally meant to do that.”
From the rooftop, Lucius was barely holding in his laughter. “Ah, just as I calculated. Dick’s brain activity is remarkably high, but he rarely channels it correctly during combat. So the neural sync interpreted every thought as a movement command.”
Jack sighed, shaking his head with a mix of affection and exasperation. “In short, he’s fighting like a blender on overdrive.”
Down below, Jason groaned. “Stupid Nightwing. Can’t you keep your circus act under control for once?”
“Shut up!” Dick shouted back, trying to untangle his staff from a broken light fixture.
Jason rolled his shoulders, readying himself. “Guess it’s up to me.” He broke into a sprint, boots gleaming faintly.
And then—boom!
The same flare of light exploded under Jason’s feet, propelling him forward like a human missile.
He crashed into four of Penguin’s goons at once, sending them flying in every direction. One landed in a pile of money, another went headfirst into a barrel of ice, and two others simply groaned in a heap near the wall.
Jason blinked, still in a daze, staring down at his boots. “What… the fuck just happened?”
Penguin stared too, jaw slack. “Did he just, tackle my men with rocket shoes?!”
Up on the rooftop, Lucius was grinning like a proud inventor at a science fair. “Jason’s mind is much simpler, direct, instinctual. The moment he thinks about attacking, the boots translate it as full forward momentum.”
Jack facepalmed. “So basically, he’s a living cannonball.”
Lucius chuckled, “Precisely.”
Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I knew giving you creative freedom was a mistake.”
Lucius smirked. “Admit it, Jack. This is entertaining.”
Back inside the oddhouse, chaos had broken loose. Thugs scrambled for cover, confused by the unpredictable ballet of flying vigilantes.
Tim stood perfectly still amid the storm, calmly analyzing the situation. His visor flickered as he calculated trajectories, energy outputs, and structural integrity. He exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on his grappling line.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s fix their mess.”
He darted forward, his movements sharp and efficient. With a flick of his wrist, he caught two thugs in his wire, disarming them effortlessly. The boots pulsed softly beneath him, perfectly synced with his thoughts. Each movement was deliberate, controlled.
Dick and Jason stopped mid-fight to stare at him.
“How the hell are you doing it right?!” Jason yelled.
Tim smirked. “Because I actually read the instructions.”
“Show-off,” Dick muttered.
The Penguin, shaking and furious, waved his umbrella gun wildly. “Enough of this circus! Boys, shoot them already!”
Before his men could even lift their weapons, Tim fired a grappling hook, yanking the gun out of Penguin’s hands. Jason charged again, boots flaring, knocking two more henchmen unconscious. Dick followed, less elegantly this time, but managed to disarm another with a spinning kick.
Within minutes, the oddhouse fell silent except for the groans of defeated criminals.
“Target secured,” Tim said into his communicator, brushing dust from his shoulder.
“Beautiful work,” Jack replied. Even through the comms, they could hear the pride in his tone. “And Lucius says he’ll… tone down the neural amplification a bit.”
Lucius coughed beside him. “Just a little.”
Jason collapsed against a crate, breathing heavily. “If by tone down, you mean delete the rocket mode, then yeah, please.”
Dick leaned against a wall, hair a mess, grinning despite himself. “I kinda liked it. Felt like flying again.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Until you almost broke your neck.”
Dick laughed. “Worth it.”
Jack sat back against the ledge, watching his boys through the binoculars, his expression softening. Lucius looked at him, smiling knowingly.
“You’re proud,” Lucius said quietly.
Jack nodded, his voice low and warm. “Always.”
Below, Gotham’s lights flickered, reflecting in the puddles and glass, three brothers moving in perfect disarray, fighting, laughing, learning. It was chaos. It was beautiful. It was family.
(Previous comment deleted.)
Kisachi681 on Chapter 1 Wed 08 Oct 2025 11:16PM UTC
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Rear_viewmirroR on Chapter 9 Sat 11 Oct 2025 03:38AM UTC
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