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Chapter 1 – The Housewarming Problem
Moving in together, they quickly discovered, was harder than stopping an alien invasion.
Clark arrived first at the Fortress of Solitude, humming as he carried in a crate labeled “Homey Touches.” Inside: potted plants, photo frames, and one aggressively cheerful welcome mat that read “Please Wipe Your Feet — Even Kryptonians.”
By the time Bruce showed up, the plants were already frozen solid. They stood in formation like a memorial to bad ideas.
Bruce stared at them. “You brought vegetation. To Antarctica.”
“They make the place look friendlier,” Clark said, smiling.
Bruce picked up a leaf, which immediately cracked in half. “They make the place look like a crime scene.”
Clark sighed. “Fine. What did you bring, then?”
Bruce set down his own crate, which hissed quietly. Inside were sleek gadgets, cables, and something that looked suspiciously like a small satellite dish.
Clark blinked. “You brought surveillance equipment. For home decor.”
“It’s called security,” Bruce replied. “You’re welcome.”
Within an hour, half the gadgets had short-circuited from the cold condensation, and one small drone attempted to arrest a snowflake for trespassing.
Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we should start smaller.”
Bruce was already taking notes. “We need a new dehumidifier system. And better insulation. And a plant-resistant perimeter.”
Clark gave him a look. “You’re making a list.”
“I always make lists.”
Later that night, Clark proudly unveiled his favorite addition to the kitchen — a toaster he had personally modified with heat-vision calibration.
“It can melt steel!” he announced.
Bruce stared at it. “Why would a toaster need to melt steel?”
“In case the bread’s frozen,” Clark said innocently.
The next morning, the toaster was gone. In its place sat a note, written in Alfred’s unmistakably polite handwriting:
Master Kent — Your appliance was a clear and present danger to breakfast. It has been retired for the good of humanity. Tea will be served at seven.
Clark sighed, smiling faintly. “You know, for someone who’s never even been here, Alfred’s still in charge.”
Bruce didn’t look up from adjusting a wall panel. “He always will be.”
They worked in silence for a while — Superman patching a crack in the ice with his heat vision, Batman recalibrating sensors that didn’t need recalibrating — until Clark finally broke it.
“We’re good at saving cities,” he said softly. “But not so great at building one.”
Bruce’s hands paused. For a moment, all that could be heard was the faint hum of alien crystal and the distant whisper of wind outside.
“Maybe,” Bruce said at last. “But it’s a start.”
And for the first time that day, the Fortress felt a little less cold.
Chapter 2 – The Fortress That Hates Noise
The Fortress of Solitude was, by definition, not designed for guests.
Especially not guests who wore body armor and glared at architecture.
“Relax,” Clark said, setting two mugs of cocoa on a crystalline table that was definitely not meant for beverages.
“I am relaxed,” Bruce said, in the same tone people used right before declaring martial law.
“You’re glaring at the walls.”
“They’re looking at me first.”
Clark sighed. The walls, of course, were not walls at all but sentient crystalline conduits humming with Kryptonian energy. The moment Bruce had stepped inside, they’d lit up nervously like house pets sensing a territorial cat.
The real trouble began when Bruce started muttering “analyze” under his breath.
Kandorian holograms flickered into existence one by one, eager to help. Then two. Then ten.
“Welcome, visitor!” said one, its tone cheerful. “Would you like a guided tour of the Fortress—”
“No,” Bruce said.
“Analyzing hostility patterns,” replied the hologram helpfully.
“Bruce,” Clark warned.
“I just said no.”
“Yes,” Clark said, rubbing his temples, “to the AI that measures tone in emotional wavelengths. You just told it to brace for war.”
Bruce folded his arms. “It started it.”
By the time Clark reprogrammed the system, the holograms had barricaded a hallway with laser walls “for self-defense.”
Clark decided they needed a morale boost. “Let’s play some music. Something calming.”
He pressed a control crystal. The air shimmered. A soft melody began to—
“Distress beacon detected,” the Fortress AI interrupted.
“What?” Clark said.
The melody accelerated into frantic alien percussion. A light flashed.
Bruce stared at the ceiling. “What did you just do?”
“I tried to play jazz.”
“On Krypton, that’s a distress call?”
Apparently, yes. Because within moments, the sky outside filled with red streaks — miniature rescue drones swooping toward the Fortress.
Clark sighed. “Bruce, I think we just told the entire planet I stubbed my toe.”
Bruce’s reply was a flat, “You’re not allowed near the sound system again.”
When the drones finally left, the Fortress returned to its glacial peace. Clark sat beside him on the smooth ice floor, leaning back against the wall.
“You could try smiling once in a while,” Clark teased.
“I smiled last week.”
“No, that was when you inhaled dust in the Batcave.”
Bruce shot him a look. “It still counts.”
Clark laughed, loud and bright, echoing through the crystalline halls until the Fortress itself seemed to soften around them.
And maybe — just maybe — Bruce’s expression shifted by one millimeter toward something that wasn’t quite annoyance.
For a place that hated noise, the Fortress handled laughter surprisingly well.
Chapter 3 – The Batcave Hates Sunlight
After one week in the Fortress, Bruce declared, “We’re going back to Gotham.”
Clark had agreed immediately. In hindsight, that was his first mistake.
The Batcave, he quickly learned, was less a home and more an ecosystem — one maintained by humidity, shadows, and fear. It had its own temperature, its own weather patterns, and, apparently, a vengeful spirit that despised cleanliness.
On their first morning back, Clark floated up to the ceiling and opened the skylight.
Sunlight spilled in like divine intervention. The effect was immediate.
Every bat in the cave shrieked and scattered in a black tornado of outrage.
The Bat-computer emitted a high-pitched hiss and shut itself down in protest.
Bruce’s voice, calm but deeply offended, echoed from below.
“…What did you just do?”
“Air circulation,” Clark said, hovering cheerfully with a feather duster. “Vitamin D is important.”
Bruce stared up at him like he was negotiating with a hostage-taker. “You just blinded the tactical monitors and disrupted the sonar grid.”
Clark blinked. “By letting in light?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce,” Clark said slowly, “you live in a cave.”
“That’s the point.”
At that moment, the elevator doors opened and Dick, Barbara, and Damian stepped out — a trio of horrified witnesses to the crime scene.
Clark, midair, holding the feather duster.
Bruce, glaring at the sun like it had betrayed him personally.
And the Batcave, glowing faintly as though it, too, were offended.
Barbara folded her arms. “Wow. Daylight in Gotham. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Dick grinned. “I’d clap, but I’m afraid the walls might cry.”
Damian, however, was far less amused. He crossed his arms, cape swishing dramatically. “You’re disrespecting the Cave’s ecosystem.”
Clark blinked. “The… ecosystem?”
“Yes,” Damian said solemnly. “The balance of darkness and brooding.”
Bruce muttered, “Finally, someone understands.”
Clark turned to him, incredulous. “You’ve raised an actual cult.”
The bats, still circling overhead, seemed to agree. One landed on Bruce’s shoulder as if pledging allegiance.
By afternoon, the skylight was closed, the light banished, and the Batcave restored to its gloomy equilibrium.
Clark sighed but said nothing. He’d learned his lesson — never argue with a man whose furniture included gargoyles.
That night, while Bruce worked silently at the computer, Clark noticed a small tear in one of the capes hanging nearby. Without a word, he picked it up and mended it with a flicker of heat vision, smoothing the edge until it looked new.
Bruce didn’t look up, but his typing slowed.
After a moment, he said quietly, “You didn’t have to.”
Clark smiled faintly. “I wanted to.”
Bruce’s response was a quiet grunt — but the kind that meant thank you.
The Batcave settled back into its familiar, dark rhythm. The bats returned to their perches.
And for just a moment, even Gotham’s shadows seemed a little warmer.
Chapter 4 – Power Outage of the Century
It started, as most of their problems did, with Clark saying, “I was just trying to help.”
They were halfway through breakfast in the Batcave — Bruce hunched over case files, Clark happily pretending to read the Daily Planet while very much reading Bruce’s heartbeat instead — when Clark glanced up at the monitors and said, “You know, Gotham’s power grid is really outdated.”
Bruce didn’t even look up. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying,” Clark continued, undeterred, “half the outages in the East End are because the infrastructure hasn’t been upgraded since—”
“Clark.” Bruce’s tone dropped half an octave. “Leave. It. Alone.”
Five minutes later, Clark had left it very much not alone.
It began with the lights flickering in the Cave. Then in the manor. Then, according to Alfred, in half the city.
Bruce looked up from his monitor. “What did you do?”
Clark, smiling nervously: “Technically, I re-routed some of the old lines through Wayne Tower for better efficiency. It’s more sustainable!”
“You re-wired Gotham.”
“Well, only a little.”
Bruce pressed his comm. “Lucius.”
Lucius Fox’s voice came through, dry as dust. “Sir, not to alarm you, but I believe your boyfriend just… optimized the city.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Define ‘optimized.’”
Lucius sighed. “Every light in Gotham is flickering in a pattern that appears to be Morse code. I ran a translation.”
Bruce groaned. “What does it say?”
Lucius hesitated. “…‘SORRY.’”
By the time Bruce reached the main console, Clark was already hovering guiltily near the ceiling, hands raised in surrender.
“It was an accident!” he said. “I was adjusting voltage flow—”
“You reprogrammed an entire grid,” Bruce cut in. “For fun.”
“Well, it was underperforming.”
Bruce gave him that silent, world-ending look that could make supervillains confess entire crimes. “You’re grounded.”
Clark blinked. “From flying?”
“From touching things.”
They spent the next two hours manually resetting systems while Alfred calmly brewed tea in the background like this was just another Thursday.
At one point, the lights dimmed again, and Clark winced. “That’s not me this time.”
“I know,” Bruce said, typing furiously. “That was the city forgiving you.”
Clark grinned. “Really?”
“No. That was the backup failing.”
When the power finally stabilized, Gotham glowed peacefully against the night — quiet, steady, alive again.
Clark stood beside Bruce on the balcony, cape brushing the wind, city lights twinkling far below like apology candles.
Bruce said softly, “You’re impossible.”
Clark turned toward him, eyes warm. “You’re welcome.”
For a second, the silence between them hummed like steady current — equal parts affection and exasperation.
Bruce shook his head and muttered, “Next time, I’m calling the Flash.”
Clark smiled. “He’d just make it worse.”
Bruce didn’t argue. Which, for him, meant you’re probably right.
Chapter 5 – Alfred and Lois Are Texting
Somewhere in the world, hidden from public knowledge and divine intervention, two of Earth’s most patient people created a secret alliance.
Its name: “Partners of Overachievers.”
Membership: two.
Purpose: survival.
It began when Alfred received a text from an unknown number.
Lois Lane: Hello. You don’t know me, but I think we share… similar challenges.
Alfred: Does yours wear capes, never sleep, and believe rules are for other people?
Lois: Yes. And he irons in midair.
Alfred: Ah. Then we are kindred spirits.
Within minutes, the chat evolved into a digital support group.
Lois sent a photo of Clark using heat vision to make coffee while reading three newspapers at once.
Alfred replied with a candid of Bruce, still in full armor, staring into a cup of tea like it had personally wronged him.
Lois: He needs sunlight.
Alfred: He needs therapy.
Lois: You first.
Alfred: Touché.
By day’s end, they were trading survival strategies.
Lois: I once told him to rest and he built a satellite instead.
Alfred: I once told mine to rest and he built a contingency plan against resting.
Lois: Oh my god. They’re the same man.
Alfred: Heaven help us all.
The conspiracy began as a joke — “We should send them both somewhere they can’t build or fight anything.”
But the idea stuck.
Three days later, Bruce and Clark walked into the Batcave to find two neatly packed suitcases waiting beside the Batmobile.
Clark blinked. “Why do they say ‘FORCE RECON — TROPICAL EDITION’?”
Alfred, perfectly straight-faced: “Master Wayne, Miss Lane and I have reached a consensus. You are both to take a mandatory… strategic retreat.”
Bruce frowned. “You mean a vacation.”
“Precisely, sir. Though if it helps your pride, you may refer to it as Covert Operation: Relaxation.”
Clark grinned. “Oh, I like that one.”
Lois’s voice echoed through Clark’s earpiece: “And before you argue, Bruce, I told Alfred to lock down the Cave. He’s very efficient.”
Alfred added, “Your gadgets will be waiting for you upon return — provided you do not attempt to pack them.”
Bruce opened his mouth to protest.
The overhead lights dimmed.
Clark whispered, “I think he just turned off your toys.”
Bruce glared upward. “Alfred.”
“Yes, sir?”
“…You’re grounded.”
“I shall take that under advisement.”
By that evening, the mission was unavoidable.
Two duffel bags, one Bat-shaped and one with a Daily Planet sticker, were loaded into the jet. Alfred stood beside Lois at the runway, both looking far too pleased with themselves.
Lois waved. “Don’t come back until you’ve learned how to nap!”
Alfred nodded approvingly. “Or until Master Wayne stops glowering at the weather.”
Clark looked at Bruce, who was already calculating escape routes.
“Don’t even think about it,” Clark said softly.
Bruce grunted. “You realize we’re being handled by our staff.”
Clark smiled. “And you realize they’re right.”
For once, Bruce didn’t answer.
He just sat down beside him on the jet and muttered, “If this island has Wi-Fi, I’m rerouting it through the Batcomputer.”
Clark laughed. “Baby steps.”
And as the jet lifted off, Alfred and Lois clinked their teacups in silent triumph.
Chapter 6 – The Vacation Attempt
Alfred had called it a strategic retreat.
Lois had called it a vacation, stop arguing.
Bruce had called it a trap.
The plane landed on a quiet, unnamed island that Clark swore had the “perfect balance of privacy and sunlight.” The air was warm, the waves sparkled, and somewhere in the distance, seagulls laughed at them.
Bruce stepped onto the sand like it might detonate. “You brought me to a beach.”
“You say that like it’s a war crime,” Clark replied, setting down their bags. “We’re here to relax.”
Bruce opened his duffel bag. Inside: mission files, encrypted drives, and a portable scanner.
Clark peered inside. “You packed homework.”
Bruce deadpanned, “You packed sunscreen.”
“For both of us,” Clark said, holding up a bottle proudly. “You burn easily.”
Bruce gave him a look so flat it could level skyscrapers. “I wear armor.”
“Not today.”
By midday, Clark had rescued three dolphins tangled in fishing lines, refloated a capsized boat he “just happened to hear,” and built a makeshift shade structure entirely out of palm fronds.
Bruce, meanwhile, had found a shell and was currently categorizing it.
Clark hovered nearby, amused. “You realize you’re making a mission report about seashells, right?”
Bruce didn’t look up. “It’s called observation.”
“Observation,” Clark repeated, “of mollusks.”
“They’re organized.”
Clark grinned. “You’re adorable when you pretend data analysis is relaxing.”
“Stop talking.”
A pause. The ocean shimmered.
“Come swim with me,” Clark said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Bruce adjusted his sunglasses like they were body armor. “Because it’s water.”
“You’ve fought gods,” Clark pointed out. “You can handle saltwater.”
Bruce glared at the waves as if they’d insulted him personally.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Five minutes.”
The result was catastrophic. The moment Bruce stepped in, the tide pulled him sideways, his footing lost in the sand. Clark caught him effortlessly, trying not to laugh.
Bruce muttered, “Don’t say a word.”
Clark smiled, guiding him deeper. “You’re doing great.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’d never,” Clark said—just as a dolphin splashed them both.
That night, they sat on the beach beneath a sky full of stars. The ocean whispered against the shore, rhythmic and endless.
Bruce had changed into something mercifully free of kevlar, and for the first time in weeks, his shoulders looked less like stone.
Clark handed him a cup of coffee—because of course Bruce had brought coffee grounds to a tropical island.
Bruce stared into the cup. “I don’t know what to do with… quiet.”
Clark smiled gently. “Then we’ll practice.”
Bruce glanced at him, eyes softening in the starlight. “You’re insufferable.”
Clark leaned back on his elbows, content. “I know.”
They watched the waves in silence. For once, there was no mission, no alert, no crisis waiting. Just two men learning how to exist without saving the world for five whole minutes at a time.
Somewhere far away, the Justice League probably wondered what had happened to them.
The truth was simple.
They were busy learning how to breathe.
Chapter 7 – Domestic Compromise Protocol
Peace, as it turned out, required structure.
Bruce called it “an operational necessity.”
Clark called it “house rules.”
Alfred called it “long overdue.”
The three of them sat at the crystalline dining table in the Fortress, which now doubled as their version of a family meeting room. Alfred had a pen. Bruce had a datapad. Clark had enthusiasm and a smoothie.
“First rule,” Bruce said, typing with military precision. “No rewiring alien technology without supervision.”
Clark made a face. “That was one time.”
“You rerouted the power grid of an entire city.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You wrote it in lights.”
Clark sighed. “Fine. No unsupervised rewiring. Next?”
“Rule two,” Bruce continued, “no brooding in rooms below ten degrees Celsius.”
Clark smirked. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Because you keep turning the heating crystals off in the observation deck,” Bruce replied, dead serious. “You sit there in the dark like a tragic ice sculpture.”
Alfred didn’t look up. “He does that, sir.”
Bruce gave a curt nod. “I know.”
Clark grinned. “You’re just jealous you can’t pull off tragic.”
“Correct,” Bruce said dryly. “I prefer efficient.”
Alfred cleared his throat. “Rule three: Alfred’s word is law.”
There was silence. Then Clark signed immediately, adding a little heart next to his name.
Bruce stared at him. “Did you just—draw—on a legal document?”
“It’s not legal,” Clark said cheerfully. “It’s domestic.”
Alfred gave him a faint, approving smile. “Quite right, Master Kent.”
Bruce sighed but signed anyway, the grimace of a man surrendering to inevitable affection.
By the following morning, several new rules had appeared mysteriously on the list.
Rule #4: No flying inside the kitchen.
Rule #5: The Batmobile does not belong in the Fortress hangar.
Rule #6: Kryptonian pets must be approved by Alfred.
And Rule #7, written in Alfred’s tidy script and pinned to the refrigerator:
“No heat vision near the coffee machine.”
Clark groaned. “That was an accident!”
Bruce folded his arms. “You vaporized the filter.”
“I was warming it.”
“It disintegrated.”
Clark mumbled something about “cultural misunderstandings” while Alfred refilled the kettle like a man who’d seen everything and feared nothing.
That evening, they cooked dinner together — or rather, Alfred supervised while Bruce and Clark made increasingly catastrophic attempts to chop vegetables without turning them into pulp or data points.
Clark tried to stir-fry. The wok glowed faintly.
Bruce tried to measure ingredients. Alfred gently took the scale away before it became a tactical experiment.
But somehow, despite the chaos, dinner turned out edible. The Fortress glowed softly around them, its crystals humming like contented background music.
As they sat down to eat, Alfred raised his glass. “To compromise,” he said.
Clark smiled. “And to rules we’ll immediately break.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
For once, even the Fortress seemed to approve—its lights pulsing gently, like laughter made of light.
It was as close to domestic harmony as the universe was ever likely to allow.
And for them, that was more than enough.
Chapter 8 – The Definition of Home
By now, the Fortress had plants that hadn’t frozen, the Batcave had skylights that were never opened, and both men had learned—very slowly—that “compromise” was another word for mutual exasperation performed lovingly.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Lois arrived first, wearing sunglasses and an expression that said she was not here to judge—but absolutely would.
“I brought pie,” she said, sweeping into the kitchen. “I heard you’re experimenting with baking.”
Clark smiled, already dusted in flour. “It’s going great!”
Behind him, smoke drifted lazily from the oven.
Lois blinked. “Define great.”
Bruce appeared from nowhere, as he often did, holding a fire extinguisher. “He’s redefining combustion.”
“I was testing the heat distribution,” Clark protested.
“In the oven?” Bruce said.
Clark beamed. “Progress requires courage.”
Lois sighed and handed Bruce the pie. “He needs supervision.”
Dick showed up an hour later, bringing energy, noise, and an unsolicited hug that nearly cracked Bruce’s ribs.
“Missed you too, kid,” Bruce wheezed.
Dick winked at Clark. “Still baking instead of saving the world?”
“Multitasking,” Clark said proudly. “We save the world and make cookies.”
From somewhere deep in the Cave, a loud thunk echoed. Then the sky outside flared faintly.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Was that—”
“The Bat-Signal,” Alfred confirmed calmly. “Master Damian appears to have activated it.”
“Again?” Bruce muttered.
Clark turned toward the oven, then toward the bright light streaming through the windows. “Okay, but technically, he’s just following your example.”
“What example?”
“You burned the first batch, I called it a signal fire,” Clark said innocently.
Bruce stared at him. “You’re insufferable.”
Clark grinned. “And you love me for it.”
Bruce deadpanned, “Regrettably.”
Lois, leaning against the counter, murmured, “That’s the Bat equivalent of a sonnet.”
Dick nodded. “Romantic by Gotham standards.”
By the time the chaos subsided, the cookies were slightly charred, the signal was turned off, and Damian was pretending it had been “an operational test.”
The night faded into quiet. The skyline of Gotham stretched before them—black, silver, alive.
Bruce stood beside Clark on the rooftop, arms crossed, cape fluttering in the early dawn breeze.
“You’re still ridiculous,” he muttered.
Clark’s hand brushed his lightly. “And you still love me.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, like he was giving up a battle he didn’t mind losing. “Regrettably.”
He hesitated, just long enough for the air to soften between them. “Eternally.”
Down below, Gotham was waking—sirens quiet, lights steady, city breathing.
Up above, two men who’d once thought peace was impossible finally understood what it meant.
Not silence. Not perfection.
Just this: a home built out of chaos, laughter, and the smallest acts of care.
Epilogue – Post-Mission Debrief: Domestic Edition
(Compiled by A. Pennyworth for internal archival purposes. Not to be shared with the press, the League, or Miss Lane—though she’ll undoubtedly see it anyway.)
Subject: Joint Domestic Operation: Rehabilitation of Workaholic Vigilante and Sun-Powered Boy Scout
Objective: Encourage relaxation, interpersonal cooperation, and reduction of collateral damage in shared domestic environments.
Phase One: Relocation & Adaptation
– Initial deployment to Fortress of Solitude successful.
– Collateral damage: six frozen ferns, one incinerated toaster, and mild psychological trauma to sentient architecture.
– Positive outcome: Master Bruce laughed once (unconfirmed).
Phase Two: Gotham Integration
– Attempt to introduce sunlight into Batcave resulted in panic among local bat population and temporary blindness of Bat-computer.
– Master Kent used feather duster as weapon of mass disruption.
– Damian filed a formal complaint citing “ecosystem desecration.”
– Tea supply critically low.
Phase Three: Power-Grid Incident
– Master Kent “optimized” Gotham’s electrical system.
– Every light in the city blinked “SORRY” in Morse code.
– Mr. Fox reportedly added new firewall titled “Kryptonian Containment Protocol.”
– Recommend weekly therapy for Lucius.
Phase Four: Inter-Partner Conspiracy (A. Pennyworth & L. Lane)
– Joint operation deemed a triumph.
– Both subjects forcibly relocated to tropical environment.
– Casualties: two laptops, one drone, and Master Wayne’s dignity (minor).
– Achieved objective: visible tan on both subjects, though Master Wayne insists it’s “battle weathering.”
Phase Five: Domestic Co-Habitation Protocol
– Established “House Rules.”
– Master Kent continues to sign official documents with hearts.
– Master Wayne continues to pretend he does not find this endearing.
– New rule added: “No heat vision near the coffee machine.” (non-negotiable)
Phase Six: Social Reintegration
– Miss Lane, Master Richard, and Master Damian all survived brief exposure to domestic environment.
– Minor fire in kitchen contained without fatalities.
– Gotham skyline undamaged (miracle).
– Emotional progress: Master Wayne exhibited public display of affection rated “Level 0.7 – Grudging.”
Conclusion:
Both subjects appear marginally less inclined toward world-saving mania.
The Fortress glows more warmly; the Cave is marginally less tragic.
Mission success probability: 96%.
Post-operation recommendation: Continue joint residency with periodic supervision, regular tea rations, and a standing order for additional coffee machines.
Final note:
If I may be permitted a personal observation—
For two men who could move planets, they’ve finally managed to stay still long enough to build a home.
— A. Pennyworth
Bonus Tag Scene – League-Wide Confidential (Not Really)
The Justice League group chat was usually reserved for emergencies — alien invasions, world-ending storms, or the occasional “Flash broke time again” situation.
So when a new notification appeared labeled [CONFIDENTIAL: DOMESTIC REPORT – From Alfred Pennyworth], every member immediately opened it.
It had been forwarded, of course, by Lois Lane.
Subject line: “For morale purposes :)”
Wonder Woman:
Is this real?
Flash:
THEY HAVE HOUSE RULES??? 😂😂😂
Green Lantern:
“No brooding below 10°C.” That’s an actual regulation?
Aquaman:
I’d like to note that “no heat vision near coffee machine” is a solid boundary.
Cyborg:
Wait, did Clark seriously rewire Gotham? The whole city??
Flash:
He made it blink “SORRY.” I’m crying.
Wonder Woman:
Alfred’s phrasing—“Master Wayne exhibited public display of affection rated Level 0.7 – Grudging”—is poetry.
Green Lantern:
Honestly, that’s high praise from Bruce.
Cyborg:
Does anyone else think we should start our own House Rules?
Aquaman:
Rule one: No inviting Batman and Superman over for dinner.
Flash:
Too late, I just did.
Wonder Woman:
Clark will bring cookies.
Aquaman:
So… signal fire, then.
Meanwhile, back in the Batcave, Bruce’s phone buzzed once. He picked it up, scrolled silently, and said, “They’ve seen it.”
Across the table, Clark looked up from a tray of slightly burned cookies. “The report?”
Bruce nodded. “It’s in the League chat.”
Clark winced. “Lois?”
“Lois.”
A pause.
Clark grinned. “So what’s the rule about public humiliation?”
Bruce gave him a flat look. “There will be one by morning.”
“Add it under ‘No heat vision near coffee machine,’” Clark said, grinning.
Bruce muttered, “You’re impossible.”
Clark leaned over, stole one of the cookies, and kissed his cheek. “And you’re predictable.”
Bruce sighed, but didn’t move away. “Regrettably.”
The Bat-computer chimed softly behind them, displaying a single new notification:
NEW HOUSE RULE ADDED:
#8. “No leaking domestic mission reports to the Justice League.”