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Tim Drake-Wayne knew his kids.
It was a point of pride for him, a quiet internal metric of success that mattered more than any high-profile case he had ever closed or any complex encryption he had ever cracked. In his former life, he had been a man of shadows and secrets, but in this life—the one he shared with Conner—the most important data he collected was the kind that lived within the four walls of their home.
He knew that Caitlyn’s favorite color was purple—not just any purple, but the deep, comforting shade of a twilight sky that now covered every inch of her bedroom walls. He knew her favorite food was pasta, specifically penne with a light pesto, but he also knew she would push her plate away with a look of visceral disgust if there was so much as a hint of shrimp involved. The texture had been her sworn enemy since a bad experience at a seafood buffet years ago, and Tim had long since memorized the list of restaurants that were "shrimp-safe”. He knew she hated the scratchy, suffocating sensation of wool against her skin—it made her shoulders hunch and her eyes tighten—but she found tencel and high-quality cotton to be perfectly acceptable.
He knew her sports stats better than the team’s coach did. He knew she played outside hitter on her varsity volleyball team, a position she dominated with a mix of tactical precision and raw power. He also knew, however, that she had originally tried out for middle. After the initial tryouts, Tim had spent a solid weekend researching the technical differences between the positions, learning about blocking schemes and vertical leaps, just so he could cheer for her with the appropriate level of expertise. He understood the quiet sigh she gave when she saw a particularly tall middle blocker across the net, and he knew exactly how to remind her that her agility was her greatest weapon.
He knew Thomas just as intimately. He knew his son’s top three favorite toys in the world were his stuffed platypus (a ragged but beloved companion), his superhero figurines (which were often arranged in complex dioramas on the coffee table), and his LEGOs—in that exact, unchangeable order. He knew that if Thomas didn’t brush his teeth every single night, the boy would complain they felt "weird" and "fuzzy," a sensation so distressing to the six-year-old that Conner once had to make a frantic, mid-winter trip to the store at ten at night because they had run out of his specific strawberry-flavored toothpaste. Thomas hadn't been able to close his eyes until he heard the jingle of Conner’s keys returning.
Tim knew that Thomas loved dinosaurs with the staggering intensity of a Ph.D. candidate. This meant that Tim often had to sit through long, earnest, and surprisingly academic explanations of the historical and biological inaccuracies in the Jurassic Park franchise. To Thomas, a velociraptor without feathers was a personal affront to science, and Tim loved him all the more for his commitment to the truth.
Tim knew his kids, and he loved them for exactly who they were as people. It was a concept Tim sometimes struggled to reconcile with the rest of the world—the idea that some parents didn't see their children as individual human beings deserving of respect and autonomy. Having grown up with biological parents who gave him far too much freedom, essentially leaving him to raise himself in a cavernous mansion, and then transitioning to Bruce’s brand of high-intensity, tactical helicopter parenting, Tim worked hard every day to find a middle ground. He occasionally leaned too far into the "protective" side—his brain was still wired to look for threats in every shadow—but he always forced himself to back off when Caitlyn or Thomas asked for space. He wanted them to grow, not just survive.
So, when Caitlyn asked to have a serious conversation in the living room while Thomas and his friend Jackson played in the other room, Tim felt a familiar, sharp knot of worry tighten in his chest.
He currently sat on the charcoal-gray couch, his knee bouncing rhythmically against the carpet—a nervous habit he’d never quite managed to shake. Conner sat next to him, the picture of Kryptonian calm, scrolling through his phone and trying to share a video of a golden retriever failing to catch a frisbee. Tim only offered a distracted, low hum in response, his ears tuned to the sounds of the hallway.
“You are so tense, Timmy,” Conner mumbled, leaning over to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of Tim’s head. The warmth of Conner’s skin was a constant, grounding force.
Tim shifted his jaw, his eyes darting to the door. “I’m just worried, Kon. She sounded... formal. It could be something bad. School stuff, friend stuff, health stuff...”
“Cait is smart and capable,” Conner said, shifting his weight to rub small, soothing circles into the small of Tim’s back. “If it was something extremely serious or a crisis, she wouldn’t have gathered us here like a board meeting. She’d have come to us the second it happened. She likes a plan, just like you. Let her present it.”
Tim didn’t answer, instead chewing nervously on his lower lip. He jolted slightly when the house’s automated system spoke in its calm, neutral, feminine tone.
“Caitlyn Drake-Kent has entered the common area.”
“Thanks, Phoenix,” Caitlyn said as she closed the front door, her thumb lifting off the fingerprint recognition sensor. She slipped off her sneakers at the door, lining them up neatly, and padded into the living room in her socks.
“I still can’t believe you named our home security system,” Conner said with a wide grin, finally tucking his phone away.
Caitlyn smiled back, her messenger bag sliding off her shoulder and hitting the carpet with a dull thud. She plopped down on the couch, tossing her car keys into the built-in cupholder. “If I didn’t, Dad would’ve, and he’s super bad with names. He probably would have called it 'Home Defensive Unit One' or something equally depressing.” She leaned back, glancing toward the hallway. “Is Tommy home?”
Conner nodded. “Yeah, Jackson came over for a playdate. Last time I checked, Spider-Man was being legally adopted by Batman and Superman, so I think they’re figuring out the logistics of a multi-versal custody agreement for a while before giving up and deciding logic is their worst enemy.”
“Sounds like Tommy,” she snorted, brushing a stray hair out of her face.
“What did you want to tell us about?” Tim asked, his body leaning forward with an intensity he couldn't quite mask. His detective brain was already running through possibilities.
Conner immediately reached out and tugged him back against the cushions. “She just got home, Babe, let her breathe. Give her a second to transition from 'student' to 'daughter.'”
Caitlyn waved it off, though she appreciated the backup. “No, it’s okay, I’m actually kind of buzzing to tell you guys. I’ve been thinking about how to say it all day.”
They both turned toward her, giving her their full, undivided attention. It was the kind of attention Tim had rarely received as a child, and he made sure his children never had to wonder if he was listening. Caitlyn tucked her legs into a criss-cross position on the couch. Looking at her now, Tim couldn't help but be reminded of the little nine-year-old girl he’d met years ago—the one who had sat in a hospital bed covered in soot and ash, clutching that stuffed platypus like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.
It wasn't hard for him to see how she had grown into this brilliant, resilient young woman. He never understood why people said it was hard to see a traumatized child become something good; he knew that all people were capable of healing if they were given the right tools and enough time. He and Conner had provided the tools, but Caitlyn had built her own life.
“So, I have my spring formal coming up in a month,” she said, fidgeting with her hands—a nervous habit she had picked up from Conner—though her voice remained as steady and calm as Tim’s. “And I wanted to ask someone. Specifically, I wanted to ask them before someone else does.”
Tim let out a massive, audible breath of relief that ruffled the hair on the back of Conner’s neck. He had been bracing for "I’m moving to another country" or "I am failing AP Chemistry."
“Oh, who’s the lucky guy?” Conner asked with a teasing, supportive smile.
“Don’t say Axel Deering,” Tim said quickly, his protective instincts flaring up.
Caitlyn jerked back, her eyes wide. “Wait, why not Axel? What’s wrong with Axel?”
Tim shook his head, his brow furrowed. “He’s too quiet. He says weird things about the 'vibe of the universe.' And he dresses like a 1970s hippie and says ‘rad’ in every other sentence. I saw him staring at a tree for ten minutes last week, Cait. Just... staring.”
“He’s a boy of few words, Tim,” Conner defended, clearly enjoying Tim’s distress.
“He’s a boy of few thoughts,” Tim countered. “I’m not sure there’s anything going on behind the patchouli and the headbands.”
Caitlyn gaped at him, half-offended and half-amused. “I am so telling him you said that! He thinks you're the coolest person he's ever met!”
“So it is Axel?” Conner asked, leaning in.
Caitlyn shook her head, waving her hands in a frantic 'no' gesture. “No! No! Never, ew. Don’t say that. He's like my brother.” She took a deep breath, her expression becoming more serious as she glanced off toward the Achievement Wall. “Axel’s just a friend. The person I want to ask isn’t.” She bit her lip for a moment, her gaze returning to her fathers. “I want to ask Inaya because I like-like her. And... I’m bisexual.”
Tim felt his entire body untense. The physical weight he’d been carrying since she asked for the "serious talk" simply evaporated into the air. He felt a wave of profound gratitude that she felt safe enough to tell them this. “Oh, thank God,” he said, letting his shoulders drop and his head lean back against the sofa.
Caitlyn blinked, looking slightly confused by the specific wording of his relief. “That’s all you wanted to tell us?” Conner asked, his voice thick with affection and warmth.
Caitlyn nodded tentatively, her fingers still twisting in her lap. “Yeah... It’s okay, right? I mean, I know you guys are... you know, but I still wanted to say it.”
Tim stood up immediately, moved by a sudden surge of paternal love, and pulled her into a tight, grounding hug. “Caitlyn, anything that makes you, you, is perfect. It’s more than okay. I was just genuinely terrified you were going to tell me that you were pregnant or something— not that I wouldn’t support you but—”
Conner stood up too, joining the hug and wrapping his massive arms around both of them, kissing the top of Caitlyn’s head and effectively cutting Tim off. “Thank you for sharing this with us, Cait. We’re so proud of you for being honest about who you love.”
Before the emotional moment could settle into a long silence, Phoenix’s voice cut through the room again. “Diane Barnett is walking toward the door. Estimated arrival: fifteen seconds.”
Conner let out a long, weary sigh. “You actually programmed Phoenix to alert us before Diane even gets to the porch? That’s a new level of paranoia, even for you.”
Tim nodded, his face flattening into a tactical mask of social preparation. “I need a full minute to mentally prepare for that woman’s energy. You’re lucky I don’t have the sprinklers programmed to recognize her gait.”
There was a sharp, demanding, three-beat knock at the door. “Timothy! Conner! I am here for Jackson! We have a schedule to keep!”
Caitlyn waved her dads off, sensing the impending headache. “I got it. I don’t want to see Tommy’s sad face when he has to stop the 'adoption' play. It's too heartbreaking.”
Conner stepped away to let the little ones know while Tim quickly walked into the kitchen to gather himself and avoid Diane at all costs.
Caitlyn opened the door with a perfectly practiced, forced smile. “Hi, Ms. Barnett,” she greeted, her voice polite. “My pops is just helping them pick up the toys in the back now. It won't be a minute.”
Diane stepped into the entryway, not waiting for an invitation. She scanned the room with a critical eye, as if she were looking for dust or signs of a poorly managed household. “Hm. How has school been, Caitlyn? Doing well, I suppose? I haven't seen your name on the honors list in the local paper lately.” Her gaze fell on the Achievement Wall, where Tim had meticulously framed Caitlyn’s volleyball awards and Thomas’s science fair ribbons.
Caitlyn nodded, her posture straightening. “I’m on track to have a 5.0 GPA by the end of this semester. I took P.E. over the summer break so I could fit an extra AP class into my schedule this year.”
“I expected nothing less from someone like you,” Diane said, her tone carrying a strange, backhanded weight.
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, her patience already wearing thin. “Someone like me?”
Diane shrugged, smoothing the lapel of her expensive coat. “Well, you know how smart you Chinese people are. It’s that cultural discipline. It’s very impressive.”
Caitlyn blinked, her expression hardening into something cold and sharp—a look that was pure Drake. “I’m Taiwanese, actually. And that’s not why I’m smart. I’m smart because I work hard and my parents support me.”
Tim walked into the room at that moment, having heard the exchange. “What’s going on out here?”
Conner followed closely behind him, Thomas and Jackson trailing at his heels. Jackson looked absolutely miserable at the thought of leaving the superhero-adoption scenario.
“I was just complimenting your daughter, Timothy, and she—”
“She was being a racist dick, Dad,” Caitlyn said, glaring directly at Diane without blinking.
Diane gasped, clutching her pearls with a theatrical flourish. “I am not racist! I have several Taiwanese friends in the PTA and HOA,” Diane defended, looking toward Tim for validation. “Right, Timothy? We’re friends.”
Tim looked at her with a blank, unblinking stare that had made Gotham’s most hardened criminals sweat. “I’m Korean, Diane.”
The silence that followed was heavy, awkward, and utterly satisfying. Diane’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no sound came out. She looked at Conner, then back to Tim, realizing she had stepped into a minefield of her own making.
“You can leave now,” Conner said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that brooked absolutely no argument.
“It’s so hard telling the difference between all you people sometimes, honestly, you're so sensitive—”
“It’s not hard if you don’t assume things and mind your own business,” Caitlyn snapped, opening the door wider.
“Jackson, let’s go. Now,” Diane said, turning on her heel. Jackson gave Thomas a quick, sad hug before scurrying out after his mother. Conner made sure Jackson was safely buckled into the car before closing the door, engaging the security bolts, and letting out a breath.
“She’s such a cunt,” Caitlyn grumbled, dropping back onto the sofa and burying her face in a throw pillow.
“Cait, what did we say about the cursing?” Tim said, though he didn't look particularly angry. He looked more like he wanted to buy her a trophy for the 'racist dick' comment.
“I think it’s reasonable given the context,” Conner muttered, his jaw still tight with irritation.
“I’ve dealt with my fair share of people like her, and I know you have too, Cait. We’ll avoid her as much as we can from now on,” Tim said, sitting down next to her and rubbing her shoulder. “We don't need that energy in our house.”
“Wait,” Thomas said suddenly. He was standing in the middle of the rug, his brow furrowed in deep thought as he looked at his sister. “Cait speaks Russian?”
The family froze, the sudden and bizarre shift in topic making their heads spin. Even Tim’s detective mind struggled to follow the logic.
“Where’d you hear that, bud?” Conner asked, kneeling down.
“I heard you and Cait talking about how she’s bisexual! My friend at school said she was bisexual too because she speaks English and Russian! I didn’t know Cait knew Russian! That's so cool!” Thomas cheered, his eyes wide with genuine sibling admiration.
Conner and Tim shared a long, silent look before turning back to Thomas.
“Oh, Caramel Apple, you’re thinking of bilingual,” Conner said gently, trying to hide his smile. “And no, Cait doesn't know Russian. Though she did get a five on her AP Japanese Exam last year.”
Thomas looked visibly disappointed, his shoulders slumping. “Oh. Then what does bisexual mean? Is it like... being two people?”
Tim kneeled down so he was eye-level with his son, taking the boy’s small hands in his. This was one of those moments he lived for—the chance to explain the world clearly and with love. “It means that Cait likes boys and girls in the way that your Papa and I like each other. She told us today because she knew she could trust us with the truth,” he explained softly. “It’s a really hard thing to tell people sometimes, and it can be scary because not everyone is as nice as we are. So, we’re really, really proud of Cait for letting us know.”
Thomas nodded, processing the information with a very serious, small face. He was clearly comparing this to the 'Russian' theory. “Oh. Okay. I am proud of you too, Cait. Even if you only speak one language.” He ran over and hugged her waist again, pressing his head into her ribs.
Caitlyn ruffled his hair, her eyes misting over. “Thanks, Tommy. I'll work on the Russian, okay?”
“Is there anything else you want to tell us?” Tim asked, looking at his son.
Thomas thought for a moment, pulling away from Caitlyn. “Jackson invited me to his birthday party in three weeks. It's at a trampoline park.”
Tim inhaled sharply, turning his head away for a moment and physically biting his tongue. He could already imagine three hours of small talk with Diane Barnett while kids screamed in the background. Conner stepped in with the practiced grace of a man who had been handling Tim’s social anxieties for years.
“We’ll check the calendar and see if we’re busy, okay? Cait, can you take Tommy to his room and help him finish picking up his toys before you start your homework? I think Spider-Man is still waiting for his adoption papers.”
Caitlyn nodded and led a skipping Thomas down the hall. Tim waited until the bedroom door clicked shut before rubbing the bridge of his nose with both hands.
“I didn’t used to drink coffee before I had kids, you know? Back in Gotham, caffeinated teas worked perfectly fine. I could go forty-eight hours on a green tea and a dream. Now? I drink straight espresso shots every morning just to prepare for the school run.”
Conner hummed in agreement, pulling Tim into a deep, crushing hug. “I know, Baby. I know.” Tim melted into the embrace, using Conner’s strength as an anchor.
“I hate that she has to deal with the same things that I and so many others do,” Tim whispered into Conner’s neck, his voice cracking slightly. “The racism, the fear of coming out... I wish I could’ve made this world perfect for her. I wanted her to have the childhood I didn't.”
Conner fought back his own emotion, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder. “Every parent wishes the same thing, Tim. But we can't control the world outside. All we can do is make sure that when she walks through that front door, she knows she is loved, valued, and exactly who she is supposed to be.”
Tim nodded, exhaling slowly. “We should probably have the 'racism is everywhere' talk with Tommy soon. Last week at soccer practice, I heard one of the moms comment about how 'people like him' probably only eat with their hands when he was having his orange slices. I almost punched her, but Tommy needed help changing out of his cleats, and I didn't want him to see it.”
Conner made a low, disapproving noise in his throat. “He eats with his hands because I do, not because of where his ancestors came from. I’m going to go to the next game and eat an entire rack of ribs with my bare hands right in front of her. See how she likes it.”
“A proper punishment for her actions,” Tim said with a small, genuine laugh. He pulled back slightly, looking into Conner’s bright blue eyes. “So... we’re totally going to volunteer to chaperone Cait’s spring formal, right?”
Conner nodded. “Yeah, of course. We’re going to be those embarrassing parents. We’re insane.” He leaned back to look Tim in the eye. “I’ve never been to a high school dance, though. My 'high school' experience was mostly being a government experiment.”
Tim thought about it for a second, a distant look in his eyes. “Huh. Neither have I. I was a bit... busy running across rooftops, trying not to get hit by boomerangs, and trying to convince everyone that Bruce was alive. ”
Conner grinned, pulling Tim closer. “So we’re both losers.”
Tim smiled, a real, mischievous glint returning to his eyes. He slowly slid from Conner’s arms and, with a flair for the dramatic he usually reserved for high-stakes missions, got down on one knee in front of his husband.
“Babe, we’re already married,” Conner snorted, though his eyes were shining. “I beat you to the proposal by years, you can’t redo it just because you're bored.”
Tim shook his head, taking Conner’s hands firmly in his own. “No, no—Conner Kent, would you like to make me the happiest man alive and be my date to our daughter’s spring formal? We can stand in the corner and judge the music together.”
Conner couldn't hide his massive, joyous grin. He leaned down and kissed Tim deeply. “You’re such a dork. Of course I’ll be your date. But you’re buying the corsage.”
—
A week later, Tim and Conner had both come to the same jarring conclusion: they knew absolutely nothing about the typical high school experience. They had spent their own teenage years in tactical suits, navigating inter-dimensional crises, multi-universal wars, and urban shadow-games, which left a significant, glaring gap in their knowledge regarding the civilian ritual of spring formals. They certainly didn't know how to navigate the social minefield of dress shopping for a teenage girl who was as discerning, intelligent, and stubborn as she was brilliant.
Tim had spent three solid hours looking at color theory charts for various purple dyes, trying to determine the exact wavelength that would complement Caitlyn's specific skin undertones. Meanwhile, Conner had accidentally ripped the polished oak door off a kitchen cabinet out of sheer, unadulterated frustration with an online "Formal Wear Guide for Modern Parents." The guide had used terms like "tulle," "organza," "sweetheart necklines," and "chiffon overlays" as if they were tactical maneuvers, and Conner’s frustration had reacted poorly to the confusion.
They needed a professional—someone who moved between worlds as easily as they did but had a much better handle on what was actually "in" for teenagers. They knew one person who had some genuine insight into the world of fashion, the psyche of high schoolers, and the delicate balance of superhero life. Luckily, she was free, in the neighborhood, and more than willing to help.
The house’s automated chime rang out, a pleasant harmonic sound that cut through the morning silence. “Cassie Sandsmark has entered,” Phoenix announced in its smooth, unbothered, slightly British-accented tone.
“Where are my favorite niece and nephew?” Cassie announced as she strode into the living room. Her blonde hair was windswept and wild, and she smelled faintly of ozone, clouds, and expensive Italian leather—the telltale scent of someone who spent more time in the upper atmosphere than on solid ground.
Caitlyn hopped off the couch where she had been meticulously tying the laces of her sneakers, ensuring the loops were perfectly identical and centered. “We’re your only niece and nephew, Aunt Cassie,” she said with a laugh, stepping into the woman’s exuberant embrace.
Cassie hugged her back with a strength that could have crushed a normal person’s ribcage if she hadn’t mastered her strength. “Don’t tell Tommy that! It’ll break his heart worse than that time Bart wouldn’t take him to Italy for authentic pizza because Tim said no. He still thinks I have a secret vault of nephews I keep somewhere in the Midwest for backup.”
Thomas came running out from the hallway just then, his face lighting up at the sight of his aunt. Tim and Conner trailed behind him, looking like two battle-worn soldiers who had been rescued from a sinking ship.
“Hi!” Thomas shouted, skidding to a halt on the rug. Caitlyn stepped to the side, checking her laces one last time to ensure they were perfectly symmetrical—a trait she had definitely inherited from Tim’s meticulous obsession with order.
“Can I have a hug, little man?” Cassie asked, kneeling down on the plush carpet.
Thomas answered by sprinting at her, attempting to tackle her with the full force of his six-year-old momentum. If Cassie didn’t possess the raw strength of a demigoddess, she probably would have been sent flying backward through the drywall. Instead, she just laughed, scooping him up with one arm and spinning him around until he was a blur of giggles and dinosaur-print pajamas and his Batman backpack.
“Are you gonna come help us pick out Cait’s dress? We need an expert,” Cassie asked, ruffling his hair.
Thomas shook his head solemnly, his expression turning grave. “I have a doctor’s appointment. I have to go because they have to give me shots. The big ones. For school.” He paused to take a breath, his words picking up speed as they always did when he was nervous. “But it’s okay because Daddy and Papa said we can get Batburger on the way back and I can get the kids meal with the toy. I hope it’s the one with the glowing utility belt, because Jackson got the Joker one and I need to be able to catch him before he hides in the LEGO bin.”
Cassie nodded along, matching his serious energy with a focused gaze. “Well, that sounds like a fair trade. Shots for Batburger is a classic hero's bargain. High stakes, high reward. But listen, I brought something for you. It’s a gift from me and Ms. Diana. Do you remember Ms. Diana?”
Thomas’s eyes went wide, and he gave a vigorous, frantic nod. He had met her for the first time when they visited Metropolis last summer and she had stopped by Clark’s to talk about a mission breifing. He remembers her vividly because she ate ice cream with them.
“It’s on my bike,” Cassie said, turning back toward the door with a mischievous glint in her eyes that made Tim’s internal alarm bells go off.
Tim raised an eyebrow, his protective instincts immediately twitching like a live wire. “You brought your motorcycle to take my daughter dress shopping? In the middle of Saturday morning traffic? During the Jump City marathon weekend when the roads are half-blocked?”
Cassie grinned, tossing her keys in the air and catching them behind her back. “Yeah. She has a helmet, right? Or do I need to fly back to the Tower and grab one of mine?”
Tim blinked at her, his brain already calculating the statistics of motorcycle accidents in Jump City, factoring in the weather, road construction, and the average reaction time of a distracted driver. “Cassie, if my daughter gets into an accident on a bike because you were weaving through lanes or pulling a wheelie, I will dismantle that bike piece by piece with a screwdriver.”
Conner stepped in, placing a calming, heavy hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Baby, breathe. Just breathe. Look at me. We trust Cassie. We love Cassie. Cassie is a literal superhero who flies. A motorcycle is practically a tricycle to her. It’s safer than a minivan with her behind the wheel.”
“Yeah, Cassie is a superhero,” Cassie echoed, pointing a thumb at herself. “And unlike some people I could name in this room, I haven't crashed a vehicle since the late nineties. I’m a professional.”
Tim sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, trying to lower his heart rate. “Fine. I am going to go grab her helmet. The one with the reinforced carbon fiber shell and the MIPS technology. Conner, look over the motorcycle and make sure the engine isn't modified to go above ninety miles per hour. Please check the fuel lines. And the brake pads. And the tire pressure.”
Conner nodded, giving Tim a supportive thumbs-up. He had absolutely no intention of messing with Cassie’s bike—he valued his life and his marriage—but he knew Tim needed to feel like he was exercising some form of control. He followed Cassie and the kids out the front door toward the driveway, where a gleaming motorcycle sat. It was a masterpiece of engineering, customized with a deep royal red paint job and silver stars that shimmered under the clear blue sky. It looked less like a bike and more like a piece of modern art.
On the handle was a long, narrow, black leather bag with intricate gold embroidery. Cassie reached out, her fingers tracing the patterns before she pulled out two long, heavy tubes wrapped in protective velvet. She leaned one against the bike and opened the first tube, revealing what Conner was really, truly hoping wasn't a lethal weapon for a child.
She kneeled down in front of Thomas, holding a leather scabbard horizontally. When she drew the blade just an inch, the Amazonium metal gleamed with a brilliant, white-gold light that seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. It hummed with a low, barely audible frequency.
“This is a sword forged on the hallowed forge of Themyscira,” Cassie said, her voice dropping into a reverent, ancient tone. Thomas’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. “It’s balanced specifically for your height and weight as you grow, and it’s enchanted to never dull and never break. It has your initials engraved on the handle in ancient Greek and English.” She tilted it to show the elegant “TD-K” etched into the pommel.
“Did I get one?” Caitlyn asked, her "cool teenager" facade cracking just enough to show the raw excitement underneath.
Cassie’s grin widened. She handed the second tube to Caitlyn. “Yep. Diana had them crafted after... well, after what happened with Luthor. She wanted to make sure you guys were never without a defense. She said a Drake-Kent should never be unarmed in a world of monsters.”
Caitlyn took the tube, her hands trembling slightly as she felt the weight of the metal. She unsheathed it just a bit, seeing her own initials reflected in the mirror-finish of the blade. It felt light in her hand, almost like it was an extension of her own arm.
“Is that a Kawasaki Ninja H2?” Tim asked with a heavy, long-suffering sigh as he reappeared on the porch, a purple helmet tucked under his arm. “Do you know the statistics regarding the acceleration of that specific model? It can reach sixty miles per hour in under two seconds, Cassie. That's not a commuter vehicle; that's a missile with seats.”
“You’re lucky I left the Ducati at home, Tim,” Cassie said, pointing a playful finger at him. “It’s a dress shopping trip. Relax. I’m going to drive like a grandma. A very fast, very efficient grandma.”
“She also gifted them swords, Tim,” Conner added, motioning toward the children who were currently struggling to hold their respective scabbards upright. Thomas was trying to wear his like a belt, but the sword was nearly as long as his whole body, making him look like a very small, very determined knight.
Tim inhaled, his eyes closing for a brief second as he processed the fact that his children now owned ancient Amazonian weaponry. He could already see the awkward parent-teacher conferences. “Right. Right. Of course she did. Because why wouldn't my six-year-old have a sword? It'll go great with his dinosaur collection.” He shook his head, handing the purple helmet to Caitlyn. “Cait, here’s your helmet. It has integrated comms if you need to call me. Conner, put the swords in the hallway closet. Behind the winter coats. Far, far away from the LEGOs. I don't want a repeat of the 'Great LEGO Wall Collapse' with a magic blade involved.”
Conner quickly gathered the weapons, giving Thomas a wink before retreating into the house.
Caitlyn strapped her helmet on, the chin strap clicking into place with a satisfying snap. Cassie hopped onto the bike, her boots finding the pegs with practiced ease, and kicked up the stand. Tim pulled out his wallet, hesitated for a fraction of a second—calculating the potential damage to his credit score—and then handed a black titanium credit card to Cassie.
“What’s the limit?” Cassie asked, checking the weight of the card in her palm.
Tim just looked at her, raising an eyebrow in a way that communicated decades of Wayne and Drake wealth and industrial power. “Cassie. You know who my father is. You know what company I run. There is no limit. Just don't buy a small island.”
Cassie snorted, a sharp, delighted sound. “Right. I don’t know why I even asked.”
“The pin is their birthday,” Tim reminded her, his voice softening as he looked at his daughter.
“Gotcha,” she said, sliding the card into her phone case and tucking the phone into the reinforced pocket of her cargo pants.
“Please drive safely. Be alert. Keep the visor down. Take lots of photos. If anyone looks at her weird, call me and I’ll have the building's permits revoked by noon.”
“I got it, Dad. I’ll be okay,” Caitlyn said, her voice slightly muffled by the padding but clearly amused.
Tim let out a long breath, the worry finally beginning to settle into a quiet, vibrating acceptance. “I know, I know. Just... have fun, okay? Pick something that makes you feel like yourself.”
She nodded. “We will.”
Conner was back out now, helping a reluctant Thomas into the SUV for his appointment. “Love you, Cait! Cassie, take pictures of every single dress! Even the ones that look like they were made out of window curtains or old parachutes!”
Cassie gave a thumbs-up and instructed Caitlyn to hold on tight. She pulled out of the driveway carefully, the engine letting out a low, predatory growl that vibrated in the chests of everyone standing on the porch. She weaved through the suburban traffic with an ease that suggested she was part of the wind itself. She made sure to stay exactly at the speed limit; she knew Tim well enough to know he probably had a script running that would alert his phone if she hit a certain velocity via the Jump City traffic cameras.
The ride was exhilarating. Caitlyn leaned into the turns, the world blurring into streaks of green and gray. They crossed the bridge into the city, the skyline rising up to meet them. They eventually arrived at a small, boutique "mom and pop" shop. It was a place known for selling dresses specifically for school dances—elegant, tasteful, and, most importantly, "school appropriate." It was run by an elderly couple, the Millers, who had been dressing the city’s youth for forty years. The shop smelled of cedar, lavender, and old-world charm.
Cassie parked in the small lot, and Caitlyn lifted her helmet off, her hair a bit messy from the ride. She carried the helmet inside as the bell above the door chimed with a silver ring.
“Welcome!” the receptionist greeted, a woman with silver hair and a kind smile. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for today? We have a new shipment from Hub City that just cleared customs this morning.”
Cassie glanced at Caitlyn, giving her the floor. “You have any specifics in mind? Floor length? Something with a train? Sparkles? Feathers?”
Caitlyn nodded, having already visualized the look during her chemistry lab. “I want something in purple. Calf-length, maybe a bit shorter in the front. And I want it to look good with black and silver accents. Nothing too 'princessy,' but I still want it to be formal. I want to be able to move in it.”
“All of our purple dresses are right over here. It’s for the spring formal, right?” The receptionist asked, leading them toward a section further in the back where the sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the floor. “We had a few girls from the school come in last week. One of them picked out this gorgeous emerald suit—it looked amazing on her. Very bold, very modern.”
The section was a sea of violet, plum, lavender, and royal purple. The fabrics ranged from heavy satins to light, airy tiffanies and delicate laces. Cassie and Caitlyn immediately began sifting through the racks, their fingers brushing against the different textures. A stylist named Elena arrived to assist, her eyes scanning Caitlyn’s features with a professional’s precision.
“The darker purples will bring out the warmth in your skin and the darkness of your hair,” Elena suggested, steering Caitlyn away from a pale lilac that was a bit too muted. “You have olive undertones; you need something with a bit of 'punch.' Something royal.”
After rotating through four different options—one that was far too poofy, one that felt too tight to breathe in, and one that made Caitlyn look like a giant grape—she finally pulled a royal purple dress from the rack. It was an off-the-shoulder design with a structured bodice and a skirt that flowed like liquid silk. Originally, the hem touched the floor, pooling around her feet like a shadow. Caitlyn stood on the velvet-covered pedestal and asked Elena to pin it up to her mid-calf.
The stylist moved off to help another employee while Cassie took advantage of the three-way mirror. She snapped a dozen photos from every conceivable angle, making sure the lighting was perfect. Caitlyn twirled, the fabric catching the light and shimmering like a deep-space nebula. A wide, genuine smile broke across her face.
“Yeah. This is the one,” she said, looking at her reflection. She paused, tilting her head. “I’m really not sure about the specific shade in this lighting, though. Do you think it's too 'prom' and not enough 'formal'?”
“We could call our resident purple expert,” Cassie suggested, pulling out her phone and tapping a contact she had on speed-dial.
Caitlyn’s face lit up. “Yes, definitely. She'll know instantly.”
Cassie initiated a FaceTime call, and within seconds, the familiar, upbeat ringing tone filled the dressing area. Caitlyn took the phone and turned the camera around to face the mirror, intentionally hiding her face. The call connected with a happy ding, revealing a chaotic, blurry background.
“Hey! What do you think of this one for the formal? Be honest, even if it’s brutal,” Caitlyn asked.
Stephanie Brown, currently clad in her Spoiler suit but with her mask pulled down to reveal her sweating, grinning face, looked closer at the screen. “Hey Kid! That looks so gorgeous, oh my god. Wait, Orphan, look!”
Behind her, the camera briefly caught a glimpse of Cass, also in full gear, currently holding a very disgruntled Riddler in a firm chokehold against a damp brick wall. Cass looked at the screen, gave a small, approving nod, and pointed at the dress.
“Lace black fingerloop gloves,” Cass suggested, ignoring the Riddler’s muffled protests. “And those heeled boots you wore when you came last time, the ones with the little engraved flowers. You look beautiful.”
Stephanie turned the camera back to herself, nodding along with her own advice. “Send me high-res photos when the alterations are done! We love you! We have to go, Edward is being fussy!”
Caitlyn and Cassie both replied in unison, “Love you too!”
The call ended, and Caitlyn looked back at the mirror with renewed confidence. “Okay, let’s tell the stylist about the hem changes, pay for this, and then there’s that alternative store down the street. We can get the gloves Aunt Cass recommended there. I think they have a vintage section.”
Cassie nodded, leaning against the pedestal. “I know the one. Me and your pops used to go there a lot during our... teen years. Back when we thought wearing that much eyeliner and safety pins was a personality trait.” She sighed, a look of mock-distress on her face. “I feel so old, Cait.”
“You’re not old, Aunt Cassie,” Caitlyn said, stepping back into the changing room to swap the dress for her regular clothes.
“I just said 'teen years' like it was another century! My teen years were a decade ago. I’m practically ancient. I’ll be asking for a senior discount at the movie theater next. I’ll start complaining about the 'loud music' the kids play.”
“You’re still just as cool as you were then. Maybe cooler, because you have the bike now,” Caitlyn’s voice came from behind the heavy velvet curtain.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Cassie said, checking her own reflection and adjusting her jacket. “But it’s a different kind of cool. It’s the difference between being cool as a teen and being cool as an adult. Adult cool involves having a 401k, knowing how to cook a steak without burning the house down, and having a favorite brand of dishwasher pods. It's much more exhausting.”
Caitlyn hummed, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Whatever you say.”
When Caitlyn was finished, they went to the register. Cassie didn't even glance at the total on the screen before swiping Tim’s card with a flourish. She immediately sent the best photos to the group chat with Tim and Conner, along with a text detailing the date the dress would be ready for pickup.
They began walking down the street toward the alternative accessory shop. The afternoon air was warm, and the city felt alive, bustling with people enjoying the weekend.
“Can you send me those photos? I want to show my friends on the group chat,” Caitlyn asked. Cassie nodded, her thumbs flying across the screen as she forwarded the images.
“So,” Cassie started, bumping her shoulder against Caitlyn’s in a playful, supportive nudge. “You going with a group of friends? Or is there a special someone you were planning on asking? A 'plus one' situation?”
Caitlyn’s pace faltered for a second, and a faint, unmistakable blush crept up her cheeks. She looked off toward a window display of vintage records, suddenly very interested in a 1920s jazz album. “I was gonna ask my friend Inaya. But... I haven't exactly found the courage to do it yet. Every time I try, my throat just closes up.”
Cassie raised an eyebrow. “Isn't the dance in, like, three weeks? The clock is ticking, kiddo. The good corsages are going to be sold out soon.”
“I know,” Caitlyn sighed, her shoulders dropping. “I just don't know how to ask her without making it weird. We've been friends for so long, and she's so important to me. I don’t want to ruin that friendship over the possibility of a relationship that might not even work out. What if she says no and then we can't even talk anymore?”
Cassie went quiet for a moment, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically wise and grounded. “I get that. I really do. It took me until your parents' wedding for me to finally confess to Cissie. We were both Groomswomen for Conner—which was a whole fashion disaster on its own—and we ended up hookin— wait, no, stop.” Cassie stopped walking and waved her hands frantically in front of her face. “This is not an appropriate story for a niece. Erase that last part. Brain bleach. Now. Pretend I said we went for coffee.”
Caitlyn laughed, the tension breaking instantly. “My lips are sealed, Aunt Cassie. I promise.”
“Good. What I’m trying to get at here,” Cassie continued, her voice becoming steady and sincere again, “is that if telling the truth ruins the friendship, then the friendship wasn't as strong as you thought it was. You are a great person to love, Cait. You're smart, you're kind, and you're brave. If Inaya can't love you—whether it's as a best friend or as a girlfriend—after you share that part of yourself, then she doesn't deserve you in the first place. But honestly? I think she’s probably waiting for you to ask.”
Caitlyn smiled, a small, hopeful thing that reached her eyes. “Thanks, Aunt Cassie. That... actually helps a lot. I think I might try on Monday.” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And I won’t tell my dads about the wedding story. Though Papa probably remembers.”
Cassie let out a breath of relief, patting Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Now, let’s go get those gloves before I turn into dust from old age and need a nap.”
—
The last time Tim had seen his husband dress this well was on their wedding day, eight years ago.
The suit Conner had worn then was a masterpiece of sentimental engineering. It had been a deep charcoal, with intricate patterns embroidered subtly along the waistcoat in a thread that seemed to shimmer whenever the light hit it just right. Tim remembered the small, hidden words engraved on the inside of the breast pocket—their vows, stitched in a micro-font that only someone with super-vision or a magnifying glass could read. Conner had looked different back then as well. He still carried a hint of "baby fat" in his cheeks, a soft remnant of his accelerated youth. His chin had been smooth, lacking the rugged stubble he sported now, and his curls had been a wild, untamed mess that Tim had spent twenty minutes trying to fix before the ceremony.
Most of the time, for anniversaries or dates, the two of them preferred the sanctuary of their own home. They were men whose lives had been defined by public spectacle and high-stakes drama; a quiet night on the sofa with a shared bowl of popcorn and a bad movie was their ultimate luxury. When they first adopted Caitlyn, she became a permanent fixture of their date nights. Tim had been fiercely protective, unwilling to let a babysitter into their inner sanctum. It wasn't until she was eleven that he finally relented, allowing Bart and Cassie to take over the house so he and Conner could slip away to a movie. Even then, Tim’s phone had buzzed every two hours with check-in texts. Usually, those dates involved hoodies, jeans, and the comfort of anonymity.
But today was different. Today was a celebration of their daughter, and Conner had risen to the occasion. He wore a crisp blue button-up that made his eyes look like the heart of a star. It was tucked into tailored black slacks, cinched with a simple gold-buckled belt. He had leaned into a more mature, bohemian aesthetic lately—gold bracelets clinked softly on his wrists, and a thin gold chain rested against the hollow of his throat. His curls were shiny, tamed with just enough product to look intentional rather than chaotic.
The most striking changes, however, were the details. Conner had a thin line of black eyeliner along his waterline, a look that made his gaze piercingly intense. He hadn't shaved in a few days, leaving a shadow of stubble that highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw. His ears were now decorated with several silver rings, and a small, delicate silver hoop pierced his left eyebrow.
Tim leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, his heart doing a strange, fluttering somersault. Yeah, Tim thought with a slow, appreciative smile, he was definitely going to appreciate this look much more closely once the kids were sound asleep.
“Sunshine, you look so good,” Conner said, catching Tim’s reflection in the mirror. He didn't turn around immediately; he just watched Tim with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration.
Tim knew he cleaned up well. He had chosen a dark, wine-red button-up that hugged his shoulders and chest in all the ways he—and more importantly, Conner—liked. He had strapped on the vintage watch Bruce had gifted him for his twenty-first birthday, a heavy piece of silver and leather. He’d even used a bit of concealer to hide the permanent dark circles under his eyes, the "Drake Legacy" of late-night coding and early-morning parenting.
Tim walked closer, stepping into Conner’s space. Conner turned around, a wide, breathtaking grin breaking across his face.
“You look nice too,” Tim said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached up, wrapping his arms around Conner’s broad shoulders. Conner’s hands instinctively found their home on Tim’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.
Tim leaned forward, pressing his lips to Conner’s. The kiss was slow and deep, a familiar language they had been perfecting for years. It tasted like peppermint and home. Conner’s grip tightened, his fingers splaying against Tim’s back, grounding him. It was a kiss that held a promise of the quiet hours to come, a brief moment of "just us" before the whirlwind of the evening took over.
“Dad! Pops! I am ready! And I look incredible, so hurry up!”
The spell broke. Conner backed away first, though he couldn't resist pressing one more quick, lingering kiss to Tim’s forehead.
“Let’s go to the spring formal, Mr. Drake-Wayne,” Conner grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
Tim shook his head, a laugh bubbling up. He reached down, hooking a finger into Conner’s belt loop and playfully tugging him toward the door. “After you, Mr. Drake-Kent.”
In the hallway, Caitlyn was waiting, and Tim felt his breath catch for a second time that day. She was wearing the dress from the photos Cassie had sent them—the royal purple satin that seemed to glow in the hallway light. The off-the-shoulder sleeves rested perfectly on her upper arms, framing a silver necklace they’d picked out together. She wore black lace fingerloop gloves,and her black boots gave her a few extra inches of height, the heels decorated with delicate, embroidered silver flowers.
She had added some flair of her own. Tim noticed new piercing jewlery—small silver balls in all four of her lobes, and silver spikes emerging from her vertical helixes, two on each ear. Her makeup was bold; more eyeliner than she usually wore, paired with a matte black lipstick that made her look fiercer and undeniably confident. She’d braided the front sections of her hair, pinning them back so the rest of her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders.
She spun in a slow circle, the satin skirt flaring out. “How do I look? Is it too much? I feel like it might be too much.”
Tim’s smile was wide and genuine. “Cait, you look amazing. Truly. You look like royalty.”
Conner leaned against the wall, his jaw dropping in a theatrical display. “If I were a cartoon character right now my jaw would be on the floor. Wow.”
Caitlyn snorted, though she looked immensely relieved. “Thanks, Pops.”
“Inaya is going to think so too,” Tim added with a wink, giving her a gentle nudge.
The blush was instantaneous, clashing beautifully with the purple of her dress. “I haven’t actually asked her yet,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I kept chickening out. I had the speech ready five times this week, and then I just... asked her about the history homework instead.”
“Oh, Cait,” Conner hummed, stepping forward to tuck a stray braid behind her spiked ear. “It’s okay. You have plenty of time. The night is young.”
Caitlyn blinked at him, checking her watch. “Pops, the dance starts in exactly one hour. The 'pre-game' photos are happening right now.”
Conner tossed his hands up in the air. “That is plenty of time! Do you know how much a superhero can get done in an hour? We could save a small country, stop a tidal wave, and still have twenty minutes left for snacks. You can definitely ask a girl to dance.”
Caitlyn shook her head, though the tension in her shoulders had eased. She walked toward the front door, pulling her phone from her clutch. “They’re already here for photos anyway. Right, Phoenix?”
“Axel Deering and Inaya Nazari are on the patio,” the house system announced. “Cassie Sandsmark and Bart Allen are approaching the rear entrance.”
“See? The cavalry is here,” Caitlyn said, swinging the door open.
The afternoon sun hit the patio, illuminating the small group gathered there. Inaya looked stunning in a deep emerald green suit, her hair styled in elegant curls. Axel stood beside her, looking surprisingly put-together in a vintage brown suit that actually fit him, though he was still wearing his signature beaded necklaces.
Thomas came bursting out of his room a second later, wearing his favorite Superman onesie, complete with the cape. “I’m here for the pictures!”
The next thirty minutes were a blur of flashes and laughter. Inaya, who was taking a photography elective, took charge of the staging. She insisted on a photo of the whole family, including Thomas, who insisted on posing with his hands on his hips in a classic "superhero" stance.
“Cait, come here,” Inaya said, her voice warm. “I want to get one of just you. The light is hitting the purple perfectly.”
As Caitlyn posed, Tim and Conner stood off to the side, watching the interaction.
“Did she ask yet?” Tim whispered, leaning into Conner.
“Not yet,” Conner replied, watching Caitlyn’s nervous smile. “But look at how Inaya is looking at her. She doesn’t need to ask. The answer is already 'yes.'”
Axel, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. He had picked up "mini-Superman" and was currently flying Thomas around the patio while Bart and Cassie cheered them on from the sidelines.
“Alright, time to move this party to the venue,” Conner announced, jangling his keys. “I’m driving because Tim’s car is way to small.'”
They walked toward Conner’s pristine black SUV. Axel immediately jumped toward the back. “Dibs on the backseat! I’m going to sprawl.”
Tim pointed a stern finger at the teenager. “Axel. Listen to me very carefully. No putting your feet on the upholstery. No smoking in or near the vehicle. And if I find a single sunflower seed shell in those cracks, you are walking home.”
Axel paused, his hand on the door handle, looking at Tim with a look of profound honesty. “I’m not even going to try to lie to you, Mr. Drake. I was one hundred and ten percent planning on doing all of those things. Like, it was the top of my to-do list.” He shrugged, a lazy grin on his face. “But I won’t now. I value my life. I don’t really care where I sit.”
Inaya stepped in, gently pushing Axel toward the far back. “You’re sitting in the third row, Axel. I’m sitting next to Cait.”
The ride to the high school was filled with Axel’s "vibe" commentary and Inaya and Caitlyn talking about the playlist they hoped the DJ would play. Tim sat in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the center console, where Conner’s hand quickly found it and squeezed.
Behind them, Bart and Cassie remained at the house, tasked with the monumental challenge of babysitting Thomas.
When they arrived at the school, the gymnasium was transformed. String lights hung from the rafters, and the smell of cheap punch and expensive perfume filled the air. Tim and Conner followed the kids inside, staying close enough to be "involved" but far enough back to give Caitlyn her space.
The music was loud—a mix of current hits and a few "throwbacks" that made Tim feel ancient. They watched as Caitlyn and Inaya wandered toward the edges of the dance floor, Axel already lost in the crowd, probably looking for the snack table.
About an hour into the dance, a slower song began to play—a soft, melodic indie track. Tim watched from the shadow of the bleachers as Caitlyn finally gathered her courage. She turned to Inaya, her hands fidgeting with the lace of her glove.
"Inaya?" Caitlyn started, her voice barely audible over the music. "Would you... I mean, since we're here... do you want to dance?"
Inaya stopped swaying and looked at her, her expression unreadable for a split second. Then, she slowly tilted her head, a playful, mischievous glint entering her eyes. "No," she said flatly. "Why would you even ask that?"
Caitlyn’s face went pale. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and for one agonizing second, she actually forgot how to breathe. "Oh," she managed to choke out, her stomach dropping through the floor. "I—I'm sorry, I thought—"
Inaya let out a soft, bubbling laugh and immediately reached out, grabbing Caitlyn’s hands to keep her from retreating. "Cait, Cait, I'm kidding! Take a breath." She squeezed Caitlyn’s fingers, her smile turning warm and genuine. "Of course I want to dance with you. Honestly, you should have asked me weeks ago. I’ve been dropped hints since the last chem’ project."
Caitlyn let out a long, shaky breath, her face flushing as red as her father's shirt. "You're mean," she muttered, but she was smiling too as she let Inaya lead her onto the center of the floor.
They moved together, swaying slowly as the string lights reflected in the satin of Caitlyn’s dress. Tim and Conner watched from the sidelines, both letting out a quiet sigh of relief.
“She did it,” Conner whispered, his voice thick with pride. He turned to Tim, his eyes gleaming. “And now it’s our turn. You want to dance, Sunshine? I think I remember the basics. Step, step, try not to break the floorboards?”
Tim laughed, letting Conner lead him toward a quiet corner of the floor. As they moved together, surrounded by the chaos of a hundred teenagers, Tim felt a profound sense of completion. He looked at his husband—the messy curls, the eyeliner, the steady, loving eyes—and then at his daughter, finding her own rhythm in the world.
—
"I’m telling you, the couch is lava!" Bart shouted, vibrating so fast he looked like a glitch in a video game. "If your toes touch the rug, you lose your superhero license! It's the law!"
Thomas, standing on a pile of cushions in his Superman onesie, wobbled dangerously. "You can't make laws! You're just the babysitter! Aunt Cassie, tell him he's not the boss of the rug!"
Cassie was slumped in the armchair, covered in popcorn. "Bart, leave the kid alone. He’s already saved the 'LEGO Mayor' three times. Let him have the rug."
"No mercy in the lava zone!" Bart zoomed into the kitchen and back in a blink, holding a juice box. "Thomas, if you make it to the fridge without dying, I’ll tell you the story about the time your Papa accidentally flew into a giant birthday cake."
Thomas’s eyes went wide. "A giant cake? Did he eat it?"
"He wore it," Cassie chimed in, grinning. "He looked like a very muscular strawberry shortcake for three hours. He cried a little. It was beautiful."
"I want to wear a cake!" Thomas declared, preparing to jump.
"No cake-wearing on my watch," Cassie said, pointing a finger at Bart. "And Bart, stop vibrating. You’re making the TV remote slide off the table."
"I can't help it! The vibes in this house are too high!" Bart grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it to Thomas. "Here! A safety lily pad! Use it wisely, young warrior!"
Thomas leaped, landing squarely on the pillow with a triumphant "Hah!" He looked at his aunt and the speedster with a gap-toothed grin. "We’re the best team. When Dad and Pops get back, can we tell them we fought a lava monster?"
"We’ll tell them we fought three," Cassie promised, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. "And that Bart was the first one to fall in."
"Hey!" Bart squawked. "I did not fall! I was performing a heat-resistance test!"
"Sure you were, Sparky,"