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The manor was silent—dangerously silent. The kind of quiet that only came after chaos.
In the aftermath of the shrieking, yelling, and one very sharp dagger flying across the dining room table, everyone knew it was over for Damian.
Bruce stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight, his cape still half-on from patrol. He didn’t even have his cowl off yet, and somehow that made it worse. His glare was enough to freeze the air.
Damian, standing stiffly across from him, still had his arms crossed too—because of course he did. The boy had his father’s stubbornness, his pride, and a deeply concerning disregard for common sense.
Tim sat off to the side, unharmed but looking done. He was sipping coffee, because apparently caffeine helped him cope with attempted fratricide.
“Would you like to explain why you thought it was appropriate,” Bruce said slowly, “to throw a knife at your brother over a comment about your height?”
Damian’s frown deepened. “It was not merely a comment. It was mockery.”
“Damian.” Bruce’s voice carried that dangerous calm—the one every Batkid knew meant you’re in trouble. “He made a joke.”
“He insulted me.”
“He said you were ‘fun-sized.’”
Damian bristled. “Exactly.”
Tim snorted into his mug. Bruce turned the Batglare™ on him next. “Not helping.”
Tim raised a hand defensively. “Hey, I’m just saying, if he wants to duel me over that, I—”
“Tim.”
Silence.
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s it. Damian Wayne, you’re grounded.”
The words hung in the air.
Damian’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“You can’t ground me.”
“I just did.”
Damian’s jaw dropped. He looked scandalized, as if Bruce had just declared war on Themyscira. “Father, I am the son of the Batman. I’ve fought assassins. I’ve led the League of Shadows. I’ve—”
“You’ve lost screen time for a week.”
That shut him up. “What?”
“No patrol, no Batmobile, no cave access, and all your swords are being confiscated . You’re grounded. You’ll stay in the manor, and you’ll apologize to Tim.”
Tim blinked. “Wait, that last part sounds dangerous—”
“—and you,” Bruce cut in sharply, “will stop antagonizing him.”
Tim nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Damian, meanwhile, looked like his world was ending. “This is unacceptable.”
“Welcome to consequences.”
“I’m too old to be grounded.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“I’m trained by the League of Assassins!”
“And you still threw a tantrum with a knife at your brother,” Bruce said evenly. “So now you’re grounded like every other teenager in this house.”
Clark, who had been leaning against the doorway the whole time, watching in quiet amusement, finally spoke up. “You know, Bruce, you sound a lot like Alfred right now.”
Bruce shot him a look. “Not helping.”
Clark raised his hands, grinning. “Just saying. It’s cute.”
Damian’s face twisted in horror. “Did you just call Father cute in front of me?”
Clark shrugged. “Well, he is.”
Bruce sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clark.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
Damian groaned dramatically, storming off toward his room. “This family is absurd.”
“Apology first,” Bruce called after him.
“Fine! I’m sorry I missed, Drake!”
“Damian.”
“Fine! I’m sorry I almost stabbed Drake!”
Tim snorted again. Bruce glared at him.
And as Damian slammed his door upstairs, Bruce finally sat down, rubbing his temples. Clark moved behind him, resting his hands on his shoulders.
“Parenting’s hard,” Clark murmured, suppressing a laugh.
Bruce’s reply was muffled, half into his hands. “He’s lucky I love him.”
Tim took a long sip of his coffee and muttered, “We all are.”