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Everyone in the League knew Batman had children. They weren’t sure how many children, but they were aware they existed.
The first official one they met was Red Robin—who, at the time, still went by Robin and was already leading the Teen Titans. He was sharp, polite, extremely capable… and alarmingly comfortable talking back to Batman. It was strange. They didn’t quite know what to make of him.
Then a new Robin showed up—about a foot shorter, wielding twin katanas, and with a glare somehow more vicious than Batman’s. That was when the League learned this one was his actual biological son. Suddenly, the glare made a lot more sense.
They discovered Nightwing was the eldest when he was formally invited to join the League. It hadn’t exactly been a secret—most of the younger legacy heroes (see: Kid Flash, Speedy, Aqualad, Wonder Girl—now going by a slightly more age-appropriate name) had all grown up together as Teen Titans. Eventually, they dropped the “Teen,” became just the Titans, and now most of them were aging into full-fledged League status.
So the kids knew. But apparently, not their mentors.
Batman had initially been against it. Naturally. But Superman—because of course it was Superman—talked him into letting the kid join. And what an addition he was. Nearly as good a strategist as the Bat himself, absurdly talented in close combat, and his flips were the stuff of legend. To top it off, he was the absolute sweetest. The League was besotted, to say the least.
It all came crashing down during a mission where Nightwing came a little too close to mortal peril, and Batman completely lost it. The team had never seen him snap like that—not even Superman could talk him down.
“Stop treating me like a kid! I’m an adult,” Nightwing was yelling, right in Batman’s face, “I’ve been inducted into the League. I’ve passed my probation. I know what I’m doing, and there’s nothing you can do to kick me out now!”
Batman stood stone-still for a moment, jaw tight, before taking a long breath through his nose.
“I don’t want to kick you out of the League. I think you’re an amazing addition, alright? That’s not the point. You just—you have to understand that no matter how old you get I’m always going to worry. You’re my kid. And I can’t just sit back and watch you take risks like that, not when one wrong move means losing you. Because if something happens to you… I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”
Most League members were still struggling to process how such a walking beam of sunshine could possibly be related to Batman, but eventually… they got over it.
What came as an even bigger surprise? Batman had daughters.
Well—a daughter, according to him. Orphan. Silent, deadly, terrifying in the field. Batman claimed her officially.
Then there was Spoiler, whom Batman described not as a daughter but as “a persistent nuisance who showed up at my house with one of my kids once and never left.” The League still isn’t sure if that’s meant to be affectionate or not. Jury’s out.
Neither of the girls were part of the League, but they popped into the Watchtower from time to time—usually to wait for Batman or loiter near other younger heroes. They weren’t subtle. The League got used to it.
They were truly flabbergasted, however, when they apprehended infamous crime lord/antihero Red Hood during a particularly messy op. He wasn’t hostile, but he was loud—and insistent.
“I have rights!” he snapped, already halfway through a tirade. “I want my one call!”
Green Arrow and Green Lantern tried to explain, patiently, that he wasn’t under arrest. They were trying to help.
He didn’t care. He wanted his phone call.
So, just to shut him up, they gave him one. He used it to call Batman. On a personal, encrypted, need-to-know line. Then told him—on speaker—“your colleagues are idiots” and asked if he could come get him.
In the background, Superman just ran a hand down his face and sighed.
Apparently, Red Hood was also one of Batman’s kids. Just… the not-so-squeaky-clean one. (It turned out he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Bit of a misunderstanding. Still an ordeal.)
There was one more the League hadn’t met, but by then, they’d learned their lesson. Any new young vigilante operating in Gotham was assumed to be another one of Batman’s children. (They were almost always right.)
This one was different, though. He had meta powers. Patrolled during the day. Wore yellow. Called himself Signal. When someone finally asked Batman about him, he confirmed it: not a biological child, not adopted either, but still part of the family. “Officially unofficial,” as Flash described it.
So yeah. The League knew Batman had children. Lots of them.
Most senior members still struggled to wrap their heads around the idea that Batman, of all people, was not just a father—but the father of a horde. And especially this horde. Loud, unpredictable, overachieving, sometimes polite, sometimes stabby, always impossible to ignore.
But eventually, the League accepted it. It even became something of a rite of passage for new members: watching them go through the mental gymnastics of figuring it out.
If Batman was the dad of all those unruly children, then Superman was clearly their favorite uncle. And it wasn’t just because they called him “Uncle Supes” whenever they stopped by the Watchtower or ran into him during missions. It was the way they gravitated to him—naturally, easily, like they’d known him their whole lives.
Nightwing, for one, proudly told anyone who would listen that it was Superman who helped him come up with his superhero name—back when he decided to move on from being Robin, Batman’s sidekick, and strike out on his own. The name came from an old Kryptonian legend, and Nightwing always said how proud he was to carry something that honored both his mentors. He wore the name like it meant everything to him.
Besides, with their matching sunny personalities, shared heroic flair, and comfort with each other, most people were quicker to assume he was Superman’s kid rather than Batman’s.
During the whole ordeal with Red Hood—when Green Arrow and Green Lantern had barely recovered from the blue screen of realizing he was Batman’s kid—he’d turned to Superman, who had watched the chaos unfold with a mix of exasperation and amusement, and asked:
“We’re still on this weekend, right?”
“Of course, Hood. Are you meeting me in Metropolis or do you want me to come get you?”
“I’ll probably just meet you there, but I’ll let you know the day before.”
A couple days later, Green Arrow approached Superman—out of sheer curiosity—and asked what on earth he and Red Hood could possibly have in common to be making plans outside of League work. Superman had calmly explained that he’d known the kid since he was Robin (another shocker—most people still hadn’t realized there had been that many Robins already), and that Red Hood loved English Literature. Especially Jane Austen. There was a panel by a visiting Cambridge professor, and Superman—who also loved the classics—had invited him along.
If it was a shock for Batman to have daughters (or one daughter and a “Spoiler,” as he insisted when people tried to count two), most people assumed the opposite for Superman. It felt like a given that he’d be a girl dad, with the way he treated the younger female heroes—with unwavering respect and patience—and how close he was to his cousin. Spoiler and Orphan were no exception.
They’d once seen Superman braid Spoiler’s hair into an intricate updo in the break room, because she had plopped down in front of him and asked. She then launched into a full-speed rant about a TV show she was watching, and Superman kept pace with the conversation flawlessly and didn’t mess up her hair—as if this was something he did every day.
Orphan, on the other hand, didn’t talk much. If it weren’t for Spoiler and the other Batkids, no one would’ve known she visited the Watchtower at all. She kept to herself, barely spoke, and only seemed at ease near Batman, one of her siblings—and apparently, Superman. With him, she communicated in sign, sometimes even letting him touch her arm or shoulder. That alone stunned more than a few veterans.
They didn’t see Superman interact with the younger Batkids as often—but when he did, it was a sight.
Everyone knew Red Robin and Superboy were best friends. That also meant they got themselves into trouble more often than they should, only to have one of their respective mentors show up to fix the mess. It gave the League the rare chance to see that while Superman had a reputation for being sweet, he could absolutely be a no-nonsense mentor when the situation called for it.
He did, however, ruin the effect of a stern scolding by telling the boys afterward that, despite the chaos, they’d done good and that he was proud of them.
And then there was the youngest Robin.
An absolute menace.
They only saw him when Batman needed extra hands in Gotham—and even that was rare. But when they did, it was unforgettable.
The little demon treated every League member with varying degrees of disdain—sometimes outright calling them incompetent to their faces. (Booster Gold still hadn’t recovered emotionally.) But Superman?
Superman got respect.
Not a lot. Just a modicum. Robin still called him “Alien” sometimes, but it was weirdly… polite.
When someone asked Superman about it, he’d just smile and say, “I don’t take it to heart. He’s improved a lot since I met him. Besides—he’s taken me off his kill list. That’s a win in my book.”
So, yeah. Batman had a horde of children. And Superman was their favorite uncle—the one who’d known most of them since before the League was even formed.
That was the universal truth accepted by everyone in the League.
Once again, a universal truth shattered—this time, on a random Thursday.
The mission had been low-risk on paper—something even the League agreed was safe enough for the younger teams. The Teen Titans and the Titans were supposed to handle it together, sweep up a minor rogue operation that had been skirting the edges of Metropolis’ shipping district. No heavy hitters, no red flags. Just another joint exercise to keep teamwork sharp.
But the intel had been a lie.
The moment they breached, the trap snapped shut. Every exit sealed. Cloaked tech shed its disguise, revealing not petty smugglers but a strike team—handpicked by the Legion of Doom. The goal was clear: wipe out the next generation of heroes and send the League a message in blood.
By the time the League arrived, the fight had already turned into a warzone. Ash spiraled up from shattered shipping containers. The air was thick with the acrid bite of burning metal, undercut by the whine of cooling plasma fire. Young heroes were scattered across the ground—some upright, some injured.
Robin wasn’t moving at all.
He lay crumpled against a collapsed crate, blood streaking his suit and soaking through his gloves. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
Batman was the first to reach him, dropping to his knees. His hands moved with practiced precision, checking for fractures, bleeding, consciousness. His voice was low and urgent—pure triage.
A shadow fell over them.
Superman knelt on Robin’s other side, one hand bracing the boy’s shoulder while the other carefully pushed damp hair away from his forehead. “I’ve got you, kid,” he said softly, scanning him head-to-toe in a flash of x-ray vision. His jaw tightened. “Concussion. Two cracked ribs. Internal bruising.” His voice dropped to a dangerous register. “And too damn much blood loss.”
Robin tried to mumble something, but Superman’s hand was already on his sternum, steadying him. “Don’t talk. You’re safe now.”
Superman stood, turned—and then everyone heard it. His voice, suddenly amplified, shook the air.
“You ever dare touch one of my kids again,” Superman thundered, “and you won’t live to see tomorrow’s sunrise!”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze. Cyborg’s arm stalled mid-blast. Donna Troy’s head whipped toward the sound. Green Lantern muttered something sharp under his breath.
Then Superman moved.
He tore through the Legion’s operatives like a storm—every strike brutal, final, and precise. Heat vision lit the smoke in searing red arcs. Armor split under his fists. He didn’t wait for backup. He didn’t slow down.
On the sidelines, Wonder Woman took a half step forward, ready to intervene. Flash caught her wrist. “Not now,” he said tightly.
The founders had only seen him this furious once before—on Apokolips, when Darkseid pushed him past the edge. They’d believed then that Superman might kill.
This time, they didn’t believe it. They knew.
When it was over, the battlefield was silent. Smoke curled over cratered asphalt. The groans of the defeated carried faintly in the air. The last energy barriers fell away. The League stood in stunned silence.
Superman was in the center—back straight, chest heaving, rage still burning in his eyes.
Behind him, Batman still knelt beside Robin. The kid wasn’t conscious anymore, but Batman had staunched the bleeding. Breathing, yes—but barely.
“Superman.” Batman’s voice was quiet, but Superman turned instantly.
Their eyes met.
No words.
And in the next second, Superman was at their side. He scanned the boy again, then lifted him gently into his arms. The cape that had been flaring like a battle banner now wrapped protectively around the small, battered form.
“I’ll get him to the Watchtower,” Superman said, low.
Batman gave a sharp nod. “I’m going to get Dr. Thompkins. J’onn—I need a zeta beam.”
“I’ll have it ready in a few seconds,” J’onn replied through the comm.
A sonic boom cracked the air as Superman shot skyward. Batman vanished seconds later in the zeta beam.
For a long beat after… nobody moved.
“…Okay,” Flash said finally, voice high with disbelief, “so. That happened.”
“Did Superman just call Robin his kid?” Green Lantern asked, still staring at the empty space where Superman had stood.
“I—” Black Canary looked from Lantern to Diana to the still-smoking battlefield. “Is that new?”
“It can’t be new. Robin didn’t even blink.”
“He was pretty out of it, though…”
“None of them blinked,” someone else muttered. “Come to think of it…”
All eyes shifted to Nightwing, who was crouched beside a downed Titan, finishing a field dressing. Red Robin and Superboy were already gone.
He looked up, groaned. “Oh, great. You guys just figured it out, didn’t you?”
“You knew?” Canary asked, eyebrows raised.
Nightwing gave her a flat look. “Of course I knew. I’m their original kid.”
“But how long—” someone began.
“I don’t know, man, forever?” Nightwing shrugged. “Since I was ten? Eleven? Look—Batman’s strict about privacy, but Superman’s been there since the start. Literally the start. I was the first Robin.”
“But he said—”
“He said ‘my kid.’ Yeah. He meant it. You’re acting like this is shocking, but the only shocking thing is it took you this long to notice.”
“And Batman just… lets that happen?” Green Arrow asked skeptically.
Nightwing grinned. “Yeah. We’re legally his, so why wouldn’t he?”
“Legally?” Diana asked. “As in…” She trailed off.
There was a beat of silence.
“…Wait,” someone said slowly, “are you saying he’s not just your cool uncle?”
Nightwing closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face. “You actually didn’t know?”
He scanned the group—nothing but dumbfounded expressions. Realization was dawning, slow and painful.
“You’re telling me—” Lantern started.
“—he’s not just co-parenting—?” Flash cut in.
“They’re married, aren’t they,” Canary said quietly.
Well, in for a penny… Nightwing pointed finger guns. “Ding ding.”
A ripple of shock went through the League.
“You all missed it,” Nightwing said, half impressed. “Years of missions. Debriefs. The way Superman always knows how to handle us. How B gets quieter when he’s around. How they disappear together after long-haul missions.”
“But we’ve never seen them—”
“Yeah, because they’re good at it. You think the most paranoid man alive would broadcast a relationship with the guy in primary colors and a target on his chest?”
Silence.
“They’re married?” someone whispered, clearly still shocked.
“For over a decade,” Nightwing said cheerfully. “Surprise.” He stood, dusted off his gloves. “Anyway—my baby brother just lost half his blood, and I am not missing the moment he wakes up and starts calling people idiots.”
And with that, he zeta’d out.
Leaving the rest of the League reeling.
The medbay was quieter now, but not silent. Somewhere down the hall, someone’s monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. Soft footsteps echoed against the sterile floor, accompanied by the low murmur of medics conferring over charts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone—residual from the teleporters bringing the injured in.
Clark sat hunched forward in one of the rigid waiting chairs, elbows braced on his knees, fingers locked together so tightly they ached.
Bruce sank into the seat beside him without a word, the leather of his suit whispering with the movement. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs.
“He’s going to be okay. Leslie says he’s stable and he’ll make a full recovery.”
Clark’s chest loosened in the smallest of exhales—more a stutter than a breath—but his eyes didn’t lift from the floor.
“I’m glad,” he said, voice rough around the edges.
Bruce studied him for a beat, head tilting slightly. “Then why do you still look like your world is crumbling down?”
Clark’s jaw tightened. He swallowed, fingers digging harder into his clasped hands. “Because I ruined it… I saw Damian on the floor and lost it and pretty much announced to everyone in the vicinity that we were married and that if they hurt any of my kids ever again I’d kill them.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth—not quite a smile, but close enough that Clark caught it.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’ve never loved you as much as in that moment?”
Before Clark could answer, Bruce’s gloved hands moved—no, not gloved. Clark froze. Bare skin touched his jaw, warm and steady, coaxing his face up.
A gloveless hand.
And when his gaze finally met Bruce’s, the cowl was gone.
“Bruce!” Clark’s voice pitched in alarm, his head swivelling toward the nearest corners. “Anyone can see you here, and—and the cameras!” He scanned the ceiling and walls, picking out each security feed angle, already calculating how much footage would need to be scrubbed. His heart was still beating too fast from the fight, but now for a different reason entirely.
Bruce tugged gently at his jaw again, drawing his gaze back like a tether. “I don’t care, Clark,” he said slowly, deliberate, as if making sure the words sank in. After more than a decade of shadows, half-glances, and hidden touches and kisses, the weight of that declaration felt heavier than the quiet around them. “It’s been over a decade. Maybe it’s high time we let some of our friends in on the secret.”
Clark stared at him, something between disbelief and reluctant hope softening his features. “I’m glad we’re finally telling the Founders.” He hesitated, a flicker of humour creeping in despite himself. “If we also tell the senior members our identities, Ollie is gonna freak out.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Bruce’s smile was sharp and knowing. He leaned in without ceremony, one hand still cradling Clark’s jaw, and kissed him—uncaring of who might walk in.
Everyone in the League knew Batman had children. Everyone in the League also knew said children were absolute menaces.
Now everyone in the League knew Superman had children too—who, as it turned out, just happened to also be Batman’s children.
Yes, they were married. No, it wasn’t a joke. (Green Arrow needed a full week to recover after learning their real identities.)
Eventually, the League accepted it. In fact, it became a rite of passage for new members: the moment they accidentally discovered Batman and Superman were married with a whole horde of children—usually by catching them making out in some random Watchtower closet or meeting room.
By then, it was simply one of those universally accepted truths of the universe: The sky is blue. Water makes you wet. Gravity exists. And Batman and Superman are married with a small army of kids.