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Alfred Pennyworth often wondered if, in a previous life, he had been a particularly mediocre tyrant or perhaps a man who didn't tip his servers. It was the only logical explanation for the karmic retribution that was his current existence as the butler, medic, therapist, and primary witness to the absolute, unadulterated circus known as the Wayne family.
It was 10:30 AM on a Tuesday. In any other household, this would be a time of quiet productivity. In Wayne Manor, it was the "Golden Hour of Chaos."
Alfred was currently attempting to prepare a delicate Soufflé au Fromage. A soufflé, as any chef knows, is a temperamental beast. It requires precision, a steady hand, and, most importantly, a lack of seismic activity. Unfortunately, the Wayne children were the human equivalent of a tectonic plate shift.
Above him, in the rafters of the kitchen—because apparently, chairs were a suggestion, not a requirement—Dick Grayson was suspended by his ankles. He was currently scrolling through his phone, humming a catchy pop tune, and occasionally dropping bits of lint onto the floor.
"Master Richard," Alfred said, his voice a dry rasp of suppressed British suffering. "While I admire your core strength, I would prefer it if you didn't plummet into the cheese sauce. It would be quite difficult to explain to the coroner why you smell like Gruyère."
"Don't worry, Alfie! I’ve got my 'Bat-Grip' on," Dick chirped, swinging slightly. "By the way, did you see the news? Bruce got photographed falling asleep in a board meeting again. They’re saying it’s 'exhaustion from philanthropic endeavors.' We really need to get him a better cover story. Maybe 'chronic narcolepsy caused by being too rich'?"
Alfred didn't look up. He was whisking. Whisking was his zen. "I believe the current consensus is that he is simply 'eccentric,' Master Richard. Now, if you would be so kind as to descend, I believe Master Jason is currently in the library attempting to use a medieval mace as a nutcracker. It would be a mercy if you intervened before he destroys the 18th-century mahogany table."
Dick flipped down, landing silently on the balls of his feet. "On it. Catch you later, Alfie! Smells great, by the way!"
He vanished. Alfred sighed, a sound that contained the weight of several decades.
Peace lasted exactly forty-two seconds.
The kitchen doors swung open with a violence that suggested a breach by a tactical strike team. Instead, it was Tim Drake and Damian Wayne.
The two of them were in what Alfred affectionately (and inaccurately) called their "Natural State": Tim looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward and then forced to solve differential equations for seventy-two hours straight, and Damian looked like he was vibrating with a level of condescension that could power a small city.
Both were carrying empty mugs. They marched toward the sink, ignoring Alfred’s presence with the practiced ease of children who viewed their butler as a sentient, tea-making fixture of the architecture.
Tim was mid-sentence, his voice pitched in that specific "I am trying to be the voice of reason but I am five minutes away from a psychotic break" tone.
"He does, Damian. It’s not even a question at this point. The signs are everywhere. It’s practically geological in its scale."
Damian, with the regal grace of a miniature assassin, began to wash his mug. He didn't use the dishwasher. He preferred the "tactical manual labor" of the sponge. He hissed, a sound remarkably like a teakettle. "I am not arguing with you, Drake. I simply do not see why it matters. My personal life is a fortress. Your attempts to tunnel under the walls are futile."
Tim leaned against the counter, right next to Alfred’s prep station. Alfred shifted his bowl six inches to the left to avoid Tim’s elbow.
"Are you kiddi— Dami, it’s your first crush!" Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "The youngest, deadliest Robin has a feelings-shaped anomaly in his chest! This is a historical event! We should have a gala!"
Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. "It is not, though? I have felt 'attraction' before. I once found a particularly sharp scimitar in the League’s armory that elicited a similar physiological response."
"That’s a weapon, Damian. We’re talking about a human person," Tim countered. "Specifically, a human person who can fly and sneeze through a brick wall. Do you seriously not like him back?"
Alfred paused his whisking. He knew where this was going. He had seen the way Jonathan Kent looked at Damian—like Damian had personally invented the concept of the sun. He had also seen the way Damian looked at Jonathan—like Jon was a particularly interesting specimen of golden retriever that Damian hadn't quite decided whether to train or dissect.
"Scaff," Damian spat, scrubbing the mug with unnecessary vigor. "'Proper.' This is Jon Kent we are talking about. He is a creature of pure, unbridled sentimentality. He gets a crush on anybody who ruffles his hair or shows a modicum of competence. You should have seen the first time Jason complimented his ability to fly. I thought I’d have to kick him out of the Manor to get away from the puppy-eyed adoration. The boy has no standards."
Tim groaned, rubbing his temples. "He’s such a sweet kid, though! I thought you guys were really close. You spend every weekend together. You have a 'World's Finest' treehouse, for God's sake! Do you really not reciprocate anything romantic?"
Damian stopped scrubbing. He turned his head slowly, looking at Tim with genuine, cold bafflement. "Of course not. I have no interest in human relationships. They are inefficient, prone to catastrophic failure, and require far too much 'sharing of feelings.' I am a son of Al Ghul. I have no need for the frivolous entanglements of the heart."
Alfred, sensing a moment to inject some much-needed sanity before Tim’s head exploded, cleared his throat. He caught Tim’s eye with a warning glare that said 'Drop it before he stabs you with a butter knife.'
"And that is perfectly fine, Damian," Alfred said smoothly, his voice a calm anchor in the sea of teenage hormones. "Relationships do not define us. One can lead a perfectly fulfilling life without the need for romantic attachment. Indeed, many find it quite liberating."
Tim rolled his eyes, though he backed off slightly. "Well, yeah, obviously. All that aro-ace acceptance shit. I’m not saying you have to, Dami. I just think it would be cute to have him as a younger brother-in-law. Imagine the Christmas photos. The height difference alone would be comedy gold."
Damian raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from annoyance to a sharp, predatory smirk. "If you are so desperate for a brother-in-law, Drake, perhaps you should get over yourself and ask out the clone? Or does the sight of a black T-shirt still make your knees weak?"
Tim went abruptly red. Not just a flush—a deep, crimson hue that matched the Bat-symbol on his chest. "I—I don't know what—that’s completely different! Superboy and I are... it’s professional!"
Damian threw the damp dish towel at Tim’s face with a wet thwack. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, Drake. Your 'professional' relationship involves an alarming amount of lingering eye contact and mutual brooding. It’s nauseating."
Tim pulled the towel off his head, whining. "IT’S COMPLICATED! Being a clone is a sensitive subject! We have history!"
"Ugh," Damian groaned, walking over to the fridge with a look of profound disgust. "Everything is 'complicated' with you people. Fucking romance. It’s a biological glitch that you all insist on treating like a Shakespearean tragedy."
Tim sighed, leaning back and watching Damian rummage for a juice box. "Alright, alright. I’m just mourning the potential Damian-Jon wedding, that’s all. I had the playlist half-finished. Lots of My Chemical Romance and whatever hyper-pop Jon listens to."
Damian pulled out a carton of organic apple juice. He paused, his back to them. "Oh," he said, his voice casual, almost bored. "Well, there’s no need for that. I still plan on marrying him."
The kitchen went deathly silent.
Alfred’s hand slipped. The spoon he was holding clattered to the floor, bouncing twice before coming to rest.
Tim’s jaw didn't just drop; it seemed to disconnect from his skull entirely. "...EH?"
Damian turned around, blinking cluelessly as he poked a straw into the juice box. "What?"
"What do you mean 'you still plan on marrying him'?" Tim shrieked, his voice jumping an octave. "You just spent five minutes saying romance is a biological glitch! You said you have no interest in human relationships!"
Damian took a long, loud sip of his juice. "I don't. But marriage is a different matter entirely."
Alfred found his voice, though it felt a bit thin. "...Master Damian, perhaps you could elaborate? My understanding of marriage—admittedly a bit old-fashioned—usually involves a certain degree of... well, affection."
Damian looked at them as if they were both incredibly slow-witted toddlers. "Well, it would be beneficial, wouldn't it? He is clearly affectionate toward me, which is excellent for ensuring long-term loyalty. His meta-abilities make him very useful in a vast array of tactical situations, which makes him a prime candidate for a right-hand man or a permanent partner-in-arms. Marriage is just a business contract, after all. A merger of assets."
Complete. Baffled. Silence.
Alfred leaned against the counter. He felt a migraine forming—a sharp, rhythmic pulsing right behind his eyes.
"Plus," Damian added, tossing the empty juice box toward the recycling bin with perfect aim, "a relationship that has no possibility of producing an heir will severely disappoint my grandfather. Jason tells me that causing Ra’s al Ghul's blood pressure to spike should always be a top priority in any long-term planning."
Alfred was genuinely speechless. He had survived the Blitz. He had survived the Joker. He had survived Bruce Wayne's "rebellion" years where he wore nothing but black eyeliner and listened to The Cure. But this? This was a new frontier of emotional illiteracy.
"And this is a plan you've... thought about?" Alfred managed to ask.
Damian shrugged. "Not much? It just seems a no-brainer. It secures a powerful ally, simplifies logistics for future missions, ensures a stable domestic environment, and irritates the League of Assassins. It is the most logical path forward."
Tim was shaking his head, his hands tangled in his hair. "Damian... Dami, buddy... marriage isn't a 'logistical simplification.' It's... it's a thing people do because they want to spend their lives together! Because they love each other!"
"And I wish to spend my life with someone who can catch a falling building," Damian countered. "And Jon is... tolerable. Better than most. I find his presence less irritating than yours, Drake."
"Does Jon not get a say in this?" Tim asked, sounding genuinely concerned for the youngest Kent’s autonomy. "You’re talking about him like he’s a tactical acquisition! Like you’re buying a new Bat-mobile!"
Damian rolled his eyes. "Well, I assume he’ll have to say 'I do' at some point, so yes, he gets a say."
Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. "And you think this is an arrangement Jonathan would be okay with? A 'business contract' marriage based on tactical utility and spite?"
Damian looked at Alfred, his expression one of pure, unironic confidence. "I’m sure he’s fine with it."
"How the hell would you know that?!" Tim yelled.
Damian sighed, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling and the vast expanse of the Manor beyond. "...Because he’s in the Manor? And he has super-hearing? I assume that if he were against the idea, he would have spoken up by now."
Alfred froze. Tim froze.
They both looked toward the kitchen door, then toward the ceiling.
A beat of silence passed.
Then, faintly, coming from what sounded like the third-floor sunroom on the opposite side of the three-thousand-acre estate, a voice echoed. It was muffled by several feet of reinforced limestone and oak, but for a Kryptonian, distance was a suggestion.
"I'M UP FOR IT!!!" Jon’s voice boomed, vibrating the copper pots hanging above the stove. "WE JUST HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I'M AN ADULT! DAD SAYS SO!"
Alfred’s knees felt weak. He reached out and gripped the edge of the table.
Tim looked like he was having a stroke. "He... he said yes. He just... he’s just waiting to be an adult. He’s okay with being a 'tactical acquisition.'"
Damian turned back to the sink to give his mug one final, smug rinse. "I told you it didn't have to be complicated, Drake. You overthink things. It’s why you’re always so tired."
Damian walked out of the kitchen, whistling a tune that Alfred recognized as a League of Assassins marching song.
Tim remained slumped against the counter, staring into the middle distance. "I’m going to go lie down," he whispered. "I think my brain is leaking out of my ears."
"A wise choice, Master Timothy," Alfred said, his voice hollow.
As Tim shuffled out, Alfred looked down at his ruined soufflé. It had completely collapsed. It was a flat, yellowed disk of disappointment.
He didn't even care.
He picked up the spoon, went to the pantry, and pulled out the "Emergency Brandy" he kept hidden behind the flour sacks. He poured a generous measure, downed it in one, and then began to prep a second soufflé.
The day, however, was far from over.
By 2:00 PM, Alfred had regained his composure. He had cleaned the kitchen, polished the silver, and successfully ignored the sound of a chainsaw coming from the Batcave (he had decided that as long as the Manor didn't physically tilt on its axis, it wasn't his problem).
He was currently in the laundry room, sorting through a pile of what could only be described as "Evidence."
The Bat-kids had no shame when it came to their laundry. Most people would feel a certain bashfulness about leaving blood-stained Kevlar or spandex suits covered in mysterious green slime for their elderly butler to handle. Not the Waynes.
Alfred held up a pair of Dick’s Nightwing leggings. They were torn in a way that suggested a very specific encounter with a gargoyle.
"Master Richard," Alfred murmured to the empty room. "One of these days, I shall buy you a sewing kit and a book on basic self-preservation."
The door to the laundry room creaked open. Jason Todd walked in, wearing nothing but a pair of faded Gotham Knights sweatpants and a scowl. He was holding a pile of laundry that looked like it had been through a woodchipper.
"Hey, Alf. You got any of that heavy-duty stain remover? The one that works on 'extradimensional ichor'?"
Alfred didn't even blink. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle with a handwritten label that simply said THE GOOD STUFF.
"Here you are, Master Jason. I assume the mission to the Phantom Zone went... poorly?"
"Eh, could’ve been worse," Jason said, leaning against the washing machine. He started stuffing his ruined clothes into a machine. "Roy almost got eaten by a shadow-beast, and Kory accidentally set fire to a nebula. You know. Tuesday."
Jason paused, looking at Alfred. "So, I heard the news. Damian’s 'business proposal' to the Super-Brat."
Alfred sighed. "It seems the word has traveled fast."
"Fast? Alfie, Jon shouted it so loud the Titans' Tower probably heard it. Dick’s already started a betting pool on who’s going to be the Maid of Honor. He’s convinced Damian will make him do it in a dress just for the psychological warfare."
Alfred leaned against the folding table. "I find myself concerned, Master Jason. The boy is... developmentally unique. To view a lifelong commitment as a 'tactical merger' is... well, it’s quintessentially Damian."
Jason snorted, a sharp, cynical sound. "Look, Alf. The kid’s an Al Ghul. They don't do 'love' like normal people. For them, love is 'I won't kill you in your sleep because you're useful.' For Damian to say he wants to marry Jon? That’s basically the equivalent of a normal person writing a five-hundred-page poetry book about someone’s eyes. It’s the highest compliment he’s capable of giving."
"I suppose there is a certain logic to that," Alfred conceded.
"Plus," Jason grinned, "think about the look on Bruce’s face when he has to sit across the table from Clark Kent and discuss 'nuptial logistics.' Bruce is going to lose his mind. He’s going to try to put a prenup on the Fortress of Solitude. It’s going to be the funniest thing to happen to this family since Tim tried to convince us he was a 'functioning human' while living on nothing but Red Bull and spite."
Alfred couldn't help a small, ghost of a smile. "I suspect you are right. The friction between Master Bruce and Master Kent will be... formidable."
"Formidable? It’ll be a localized apocalypse. I’m bringing popcorn."
Jason finished loading his laundry and started the machine. As he turned to leave, he paused. "By the way, Alf? Don't worry about the 'business' part. I saw Damian in the library earlier. He was reading 'A Beginner's Guide to Healthy Relationships.' He tried to hide it inside a manual on 'Advanced Torture Techniques,' but I saw the cover."
Alfred felt a small spark of hope. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. He’s trying. In his own weird, stabby way." Jason winked and headed out.
The evening brought the entire family together for dinner. This was usually the time when Alfred’s patience was tested to its absolute limit.
Bruce was at the head of the table, looking remarkably like a man who wanted to be anywhere else. He was reading a report on his tablet, his brow furrowed in that classic "Bat-Scowl" that terrified criminals and annoyed his children.
Dick was regaling a silent, judging Cassandra Cain with a story about a talking gorilla he had fought in Blüdhaven. Tim was vibrating in his seat, his eyes darting between Damian and Bruce, clearly waiting for the bomb to drop.
Damian sat perfectly straight, cutting his vegetarian lasagna with the precision of a surgeon. Jon Kent was sitting next to him, having been invited over for "study session" (which everyone knew was actually a "discussing the tactical benefits of our future marriage" session).
Jon looked delighted. He was glowing—literally. A faint yellow aura of Kryptonian happiness flickered around his shoulders.
"Pass the salt, please, betrothed," Damian said.
The table went silent.
Bruce’s tablet cracked slightly in his grip. He looked up, his eyes wide. "I'm sorry. Damian, what did you just call him?"
Damian didn't look up from his lasagna. "Jon. I was asking for the salt."
"No," Tim chimed in, leaning forward with a manic grin. "You called him 'betrothed.' We all heard it. Don't go back on it now."
Damian sighed, finally looking at his father. "Father, I have decided to enter into a long-term strategic alliance with the House of El. Jon has agreed to the terms. We will finalize the contract upon his reaching the age of majority. It will secure our borders and provide us with a high-level meta-human asset for the foreseeable future."
Bruce blinked. He looked at Jon.
Jon beamed. "It’s true, Mr. Wayne! Damian explained all the benefits! I get to stay in Gotham more, and he says we can even have a 'joint tactical headquarters' that isn't a treehouse!"
Bruce looked like he was trying to reboot his brain. He looked at Alfred.
Alfred, who was standing by the sideboard, simply inclined his head. "It was quite the discussion in the kitchen this morning, sir. Very... efficient."
Bruce turned back to Damian. "Damian... you're thirteen. Jon is... what, fourteen now?"
"Thirteen and a half!" Jon corrected cheerfully.
"The point is," Bruce said, rubbing his face with his hands, "you can't just... 'acquire' a spouse for tactical reasons."
"Why not?" Damian asked, genuinely curious. "It worked for the Habsburgs for centuries. And the Al Ghul line was built on similar arrangements. Why change a system that functions?"
"Because we aren't the Habsburgs! And we aren't the League of Assassins! Marriage is about... it’s about..."
Bruce trailed off. He looked at Dick. Dick gave him a thumbs-up. He looked at Tim. Tim was busy recording the conversation on his phone. He looked at Jason, who had just entered the room and was leaning against the doorway, eating a piece of celery.
"Don't look at me, B," Jason said. "I think it’s a great idea. I’ve already started drafting the 'Wayne-Kent Merger' logo. It’s got a bat with an 'S' on its chest. It looks very corporate."
Bruce groaned. "Clark is going to kill me. He’s going to fly me into the sun."
"Actually, Mr. Kent was quite intrigued when I spoke to him on the phone earlier," Alfred interjected smoothly.
The entire table turned to look at Alfred.
"You talked to Clark?" Bruce asked, his voice cracking.
"Indeed, sir. I felt it was prudent to ensure the Kent family was aware of the... strategic developments. Master Clark was a bit confused at first, but once I explained Damian’s 'business contract' approach, he laughed for ten minutes straight. He said he’d bring over some pie this weekend so they could 'discuss the merger.'"
Bruce put his head down on the table with a soft thud.
Jon patted Damian’s hand. "Don't worry, Dami. My mom says we should have a long engagement anyway. To make sure our 'synergy' is optimal."
Damian nodded solemnly. "A wise precaution. We shall conduct quarterly performance reviews of our partnership to ensure maximum efficiency."
"I love you too, Dami!" Jon chirped.
Damian stiffened, a faint pink tinge reaching his ears. "Yes, well... the 'synergy' is acceptable. Pass the salt."
Alfred stood at the edge of the room, watching the chaos unfold. Dick was now arguing with Jason about whether the wedding should be at the Manor or the Fortress. Tim was trying to calculate the tax benefits of a vigilante marriage. Bruce was still face-down on the table.
And Damian and Jon were sitting there, sharing a piece of garlic bread in a way that was, despite all the talk of "tactical assets," undeniably sweet.
Alfred sighed, but this time, it wasn't a sigh of exhaustion. It was the sigh of a man who realized that while his family was completely, hopelessly insane, they were insane together.
He walked over to Bruce and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Shall I bring out the dessert, sir? It’s a chocolate torte. It’s very... tactically sound."
Bruce looked up, his eyes weary but flickering with a hint of a smile. "Thank you, Alfred. I think I’m going to need it."
"Indeed, sir," Alfred said, turning toward the kitchen. "Indeed."
As he pushed through the doors, he heard Jon say, "Hey Damian, if we’re business partners now, do I get a Bat-mobile?"
"Don't push your luck, Kent," Damian’s voice echoed. "We haven't even finished the first quarter."
Alfred smiled. He had fourteen parts of this masterplan in his head already. He suspected he’d have another fourteen by the end of the month.
But for now, there was chocolate torte. And in Wayne Manor, that was a victory in itself.