Chapter Text
The apple landed with a soft thud on the rain-slicked rooftop, rolling to a stop against the toe of Batman's boot.
It was beautiful. Perfectly formed, gleaming like captured sunlight despite the Gotham gloom, and inscribed with a single word in ancient Greek:
ΤΗΙ ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΗΙ
"To the fairest"
Bruce stared at it. The faintest shimmer of otherworldly energy clung to its skin—magic, definitely, but not immediately hostile. His gauntlet sensors registered nothing toxic, no explosive compounds, no trackers.
He bent down.
"BRUCE, NO—"
That was Nightwing, suddenly there, lunging from the parapet with an urgency usually reserved for defusing bombs.
"DON'T—" Red Robin, grappling from the opposite direction.
"GET AWAY FROM IT—" Red Hood, appearing from the shadows with both hands reaching for Bruce's cape.
And Damian, aka Robin—launched himself bodily at his father's midsection with a feral shriek of "FATHER, DON'T YOU DARE—"
Four vigilantes tackled the Dark Knight to the wet rooftop.
Bruce Wayne, who had once held off Darkseid, who had trained with Ra's al Ghul, who could punch through brick walls and vanish into shadows, went down like a bowling pin under the combined weight of his children. His cowl got twisted sideways. His cape pinned under three knees. His dignity evaporated into the cold night air.
"What," he growled, muffled into the gravel, "the hell?"
Dick had his arms wrapped around Bruce's right bicep like he was restraining a bomb. Jason sat firmly on Bruce's lower back. Tim had both hands clamped over Bruce's left gauntlet. Damian stood on Bruce's cape, breathing hard, katana half-drawn.
"The apple," Dick said urgently. "You cannot touch the apple."
"It's a fruit," Bruce snarled, twisting. "Get off me."
"IT'S NOT JUST A FRUIT," all four of them shouted simultaneously.
A beat of silence, broken only by the distant wail of police sirens.
Then Tim, ever the explainer, pushed his domino mask up to rub his eyes. "Bruce. That's the Apple of Discord. Eris threw it at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. It started the Trojan War."
Bruce blinked. "...The Trojan War was started by a golden apple?"
"The concept was started by a golden apple," Tim said. "The apple says 'to the fairest.' Whoever claims it—"
"—gets married," Jason finished, his voice dripping with horror. "Hera, Athena, Aphrodite fought over it. Paris claimed it. Paris got Helen. Troy burned."
Bruce stared at his children. "You think a magic apple is going to force me to get married?"
"It's not about force," Dick said, finally releasing Bruce's arm to pace. "It's about implication. The apple is a catalyst. A narrative device. If Bruce Wayne picks up the apple, the universe goes: oh, Bruce Wayne is in the running. Bruce Wayne seeks the fairest. Who is Bruce Wayne's fairest? Who will he choose?"
"No," Bruce said flatly.
"THEN DON'T TOUCH THE APPLE," Damian snapped.
"I wasn't going to eat it—"
"You were going to pick it up," Tim said. "Which is worse. Possession implies intention. Intention triggers the myth. The myth triggers—" He waved vaguely. "Chaos. Goddesses showing up. Zeus getting involved."
Bruce, now standing and brushing gravel off his armor, looked at the apple where it still lay innocently on the rooftop. Then at his children. Then back at the apple.
"Let me be clear," he said slowly. "You all believe that if I pick up this apple, I will be drawn into a divine beauty contest judged by the king of the Greek gods, which will result in me... getting married?"
"YES," four voices said.
"To whom?"
A terrible silence fell.
"Statistically?" Jason said after a moment. "Selina."
"Selina," Bruce repeated, something complicated flickering across his face.
"Or Talia," Tim added reluctantly. "Depends on which goddess shows up. Aphrodite would push Selina. Athena might push Talia—or, god help us, Wonder Woman—"
"NO," Damian said, with tremendous feeling.
"Hera would pick someone political," Dick mused. "A business alliance. Someone from high society. Maybe that one countess from Brussels who keeps sending you fruit baskets—"
"I don't want to get married," Bruce said.
"We know, Bruce. That's why we TACKLED YOU."
The rain picked up. The golden apple glowed faintly, almost smugly, as if amused by the chaos it had already caused.
Bruce sighed, a long, exhausted sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. "Fine. We contain the artifact. Babs, you getting this?"
"Every word," Barbara's voice crackled through the comms, distinctly gleeful. "I'm sending the recording to Clark."
"Don't."
"Too late."
Another sigh. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose above his cowl. "Alfred. We're bringing in a magical artifact for containment. Possibly cursed. Possibly divine."
"Very good, Master Bruce," Alfred said smoothly. "Shall I prepare the guest room for any goddesses who may materialize, or would you prefer I simply stock the allergy medicine?"
"The latter."
"Splendid. And Master Bruce?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth—I also tackled your father once, when a similar situation arose. The apple, as I recall, was offered by a woman in a feathered hat at the Cannes film festival. He was quite cross with me for a week. But he never did marry her."
Bruce paused. "...Thank you, Alfred."
"You're very welcome, sir. Now do try not to start any Trojan Wars before breakfast."
As his children formed a wary perimeter around the apple, Bruce stood in the rain and stared at the golden fruit that had nearly upended his entire life in the space of three seconds.
He didn't want to get married.
But a small, traitorous part of him—the part that still remembered dancing on museum rooftops and the smell of jasmine perfume—wondered, just for a moment, what Selina would say if he brought her a golden apple.
He crushed that thought immediately.
"Let's bag it and go home," he said. "And nobody tells Clark Kent that I almost got engaged to a piece of fruit."
"Too late," four voices chorused.
The apple, untouched, gleamed in the rain.