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Bruce’s first PTA meeting ends with him politely asking, “Harry, could you speak to me outside for a moment?”

One minute and thirty-seven seconds later, Bruce pauses, rolls up his sleeve, and punches Harrison Greeves in the face. The PTA meeting officially ends six minutes after that, and all the members emerge to find Greeves clutching his cracked and swelling nose and Bruce with blood on his knuckles, informing him, “You call my ward a fucking gypsy again, and I will smash your fucking skull in, Harry! Your fucking skull! Consider yourself fucking warned!”

The campus security doesn't seem to know what to do with it. Greeves’ wife Marietta is thankfully actually sane, and even though she kneels next to him and touches tissues to his gored nose, pointedly doesn’t defend him from Bruce. That seems to help along the general consensus that whatever this is is probably deserved.

Dick greets him when he gets home with, “You’re viral on TikTok.”

He shows Bruce a shaky hand-held video of Bruce punching Greeves in the face and his ensuing rant. Then another, from a slightly different angle. Then a third, which is the same as the first but with POV you go to school in gotham added on top. Then a fourth, which has enough visual effects to make it unintelligible. Then a fifth, which cuts part way through to start playing an impressively edited montage of Bruce in slow motion. Then a sixth, which has a random person’s face green-screened in the corner; they point upwards and look exaggeratedly interested. Then a seventh, and Bruce puts his hand on the phone and says, “Okay, I get it.”

Dick hums. “You know this is just going to get me bullied more, right?”

Bruce whips his head to stare at him. “You’re getting bullied?”

Dick raises a single eyebrow. For a ten-year-old, he manages the Expression of Withering Judgement from the School of Alfred Pennyworth incredibly well. Then it fades into a grin. “Can I punch people about it now?”

Bruce puts his head in his hands. “No,” he says. Then corrects it to, “Once, you can punch someone once.”

“Lesgo,” Dick cheers.

All in all, Bruce thinks, his first PTA meeting goes well.

Bruce’s second PTA meeting starts with Candace Pearson-Scott looking at him enter, sniffing, and saying, “I hope we can keep uncivilised displays of violence to a minimum this time, Brucie.”

Bruce stiffens from ass to neck. Stares at her. Considers saying, you know what, Candace? and punching her too, then just sits in the spot Marietta Greeves welcomes him to.

“She’s just testing you,” Marietta promises him, quiet and low, while Avis Berkeley is running through the meeting agenda. “She does it with everyone. Stick it out for a few months, and you’ll be alright.”

Bruce did not bother putting up with this hazing shit in college, but he also did not have Dick in college. He takes a breath and notes to Marietta, “Your husband isn’t here today.”

“I told him he could either keep his mouth shut or his dumb ass home,” Marietta says. After a beat, “Sorry. About what he said.”

Candace pointedly clears her throat across the table. “Bruce, what do you think about that point?”

Bruce stares her down. “I think it is important to get more children engaged in extracurriculars, so I’m excited to discuss it. I don’t understand why asking my opinion is worth interrupting Avis for.”

Candace smiles at him with a rage Bruce has only seen from the Joker himself. “Please,” she says to Mr. Berkeley - who is starting to sweat - not breaking eye contact with Bruce. Bruce will be damned if he’s the one that looks away first.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, “I need the best baked goods the world has ever seen.”

Alfred stares at him. It’s in the same way he does when Bruce has not taken off the suit in three days. Bruce doesn’t think this is at all warranting that level of judgement or concern.

“Oh?” Alfred says, after a good ten seconds. “May I enquire why, sir?”

“B’s being a petty bitch,” Dick informs him, appearing behind Bruce’s legs.

“Language,” Bruce says on instinct. “There’s a baking sale.”

“Insane,” Dick points out. “That school has so much money.”

“It’s for charity,” Bruce says. “And Dick’s stall will win.”

“I did not realise bake sales were a competitive sport,” Alfred says.

“Tell that to Candace Pearson-Scott,” Bruce says.

“I’m sure she agrees with me,” Alfred says.

“If her baulo son’s any indication,” Dick offers, “she might actually be on Bruce’s side here.”

“Don’t call her son a pig,” Bruce says.

“He’s a pig and a narc and his soul will rot in hell,” Dick tells Bruce.

“Dick’s stall will win,” Bruce repeats.

Alfred stares at him. Stares at Dick, by his legs. Back at him.

“Josh Pearson-Scott tried to steal Sabeen’s hijab,” Dick offers. “And Bruce doesn’t want me to know, but she called him beating the shit out of that guy who called me slurs uncivilised.”

Bruce turns to frown at Dick. “How do you know that?”

“I put a bug in your belt,” Dick absently answers. Bruce shrugs and turns back to Alfred, whose face has solidified into marble.

“If you’ll pardon me,” he says, “I have tartlets to cook.”

“Brucie, you can take the young Mister Wayne over there,” Candace directs, pointing to the furthest corner of the quadrangle, where the last stall set-up is completely hidden in the shade of its neighbours. Bruce resists the urge to turn his box of beignets into a bludgeoning weapon only by Dick’s hand in his tightening and Marietta giving him a breathe gesture over Candace’s shoulder.

“Mister Grayson,” Dick corrects, stepping forward. Candace is forced to wrench her eyes down to him. Bruce is not forced to stop jackhammering his gaze into her skull. “I’m the one running the stand, actually, Bruce is just hauling things in from the car.” He laughs his rich-person laugh, then asks Candace, “Can Josh not handle his stall himself? I can help out, if he wants.”

Bruce decides that Dick deserves to go on an extra patrol this week. Two extra, for the holiness of the pinched look on Candace’s face.

“Mm,” she says, low in her throat. “He’s got it handled, but thank you.”

Dick shrugs. “Okay. Bruce, can you go fetch the big box from the car?”

Bruce practically skips to do so. On his way back, Candace says, “What do you have? If it’s chocolate, I’m afraid my Joshua’s allergic.”

“Not to worry,” Bruce promises, narrowing his eyes at her in his smile, “Dick was extremely proactive and thought to bring nut-free, chocolate-free, and Celiac options.”

Candace growls at him. “Oh,” she grits out. “That’s so nice of him.”

“He is,” Bruce says. “So nice. Excuse me.”

Dick has moved the stall a bit forward, not enough to notice if Bruce didn’t see him tucking his butterfly knife back in his pocket but enough to get it out of the shade. He sets up his baked goods on the counter, and informs Bruce, “I need you to know that this is the most boring thing that I’ve ever done.”

“Two extra patrols this week,” Bruce tells him.

“Done,” Dick says, then grins and pointedly shoves Bruce the fuck out of the way to cheer, “Sabeen!”

Dick’s stall makes precisely seventeen more dollars than Josh Pearson-Scott’s. Dick is a good sport despite clearly caring so little about this whole thing that it’s tooth-rotting, and Marietta leans over to Bruce and informs him, “Okay, you may actually be her worst enemy now.”

“Good,” Bruce returns. “She’s mine.”

“I see a boat full of people, yet there’s not a single—”

“They’re all married,” Bruce answers, glancing at his gauntlet’s clock around choking one of Riddler’s goons out.

Eddie pauses. Bruce drops this goon when he passes out and flips the one that’s been trying to punch him in the back for the last minute over his head. “...To light a room, you have a kerosene lamp—”

“A match,” Bruce answers, cuffing the goon and checking his watch again.

“...Do you have another fucking commitment right now?” Eddie demands, and even over the crackly speakers his outrage could melt paint.

“Yes,” Bruce says, because it is rapidly approaching six-o-clock on the second Friday of the month. “Is that the last riddle?”

“No, it’s not the last riddle!” Eddie cries. “What the hell could be more important than this? If you don’t stop me, I blow up City Hall!”

It’s in need of renovations, anyway, Bruce doesn’t say. “Then tell me the last riddle.”

“The gas will kill you in thirty seconds, you know,” Eddie points out.

“I know,” Bruce says, deciding to hell with the last riddle and starting to study the door lock instead. “That’s not my highest priority.”

“Not your highest— I’m about to kill you! Batman! Batman, pay attention to me!”

“Give me the last riddle, then,” Bruce orders, pulling his picks from his belt.

“Fucking—” There’s the sound of papers being angrily reorganised. “When you stop to look, you can always see—”

“Horizon,” Bruce answers.

“I hate you,” Eddie says, but unlocks the door. Bruce is already sprinting through it and out into the street, but he can still hear, “You’re not even going to hunt me down?!”

“Robin’s on it,” Bruce promises, then throws himself into the Batmobile and hits the gas, wincing at the time. The windows are blacked-out, so he pulls off his cowl, disconnects the cape, undoes the latches next to his ribs, tugs off his body piece, unclips his belt, grabs his dress shirt off the passenger seat, tugs it on, starts buttoning it with one hand as he does his best to wriggle his pants off.

He arrives at Gotham Middle at 1759, stops the car where it won’t be seen, throws off his boots and pants and pulls on his slacks, hopping on the way out of the car as he gets his oxfords on, watch in his mouth, and he gets inside the PTA meeting at 1802.

Candace sniffs at him. “Tardy, Brucie.”

Bruce damn near flips the table right there.

There is a beautiful, brilliant, blissful year, where Josh Pearson-Scott graduates from Gotham Middle to Gotham High. It may be the happiest year of Bruce’s life. The next year, Dick graduates from Gotham Middle to Gotham High, and Bruce goes to his first PTA meeting and finds Candace Pearson-Scott sitting right there, agenda in hand.

“Hello, Brucie,” she sneers, in much the same way Baba Yaga would greet a misbehaving child.

“Hello, Candace,” Bruce growls, in much the same way he would greet Baba Yaga.

Bruce has never felt like this before. Not when he saw his parents die. Not when he realised the Graysons had a son. Not under the effects of any one of Crane’s concoctions. Not in any moment where he’s nearly died, when Alfred’s nearly died, when Dick’s nearly died.

Dick blinks lazily up at him, grinning with swollen lips. Pinned beneath his hips, Josh fucking Pearson-Scott looks like he’s about to cry.

Bruce, frankly, thought Dick was getting kidnapped again, hearing the sounds of struggle. Dick has a hand pinning Josh fucking Pearson-Scott to his mattress, under his shirt. Most of Dick’s buttons are undone. Both Dick and Josh fucking Pearson-Scott have their hair ruined and their chests heaving and fucking hickeys.

“Can I help you, Bruce?” Dick asks, raising an eyebrow. Josh fucking Pearson-Scott whimpers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce growls.

Dick looks at Josh fucking Pearson-Scott then back at Bruce, like, isn’t it obvious?

Bruce glares. Gestures at Josh fucking Pearson-Scott. “Him?”

“He’s really grown a lot,” Dick says, getting comfortable. Josh fucking Pearson-Scott makes the same strangled noise as a distressed dog at the vet. “Sabeen forgave him last year.”

Bruce knows Dick knows that’s not the problem here. Bruce also knows that he cannot say what the actual problem is, because that will result in another argument to add to the torrent he and Dick have been having. Bruce realises very quickly that this is Dick deliberately angering Bruce in the most painful, harmless way possible. Bruce has read a lot of books on parenting that say teenagers will try to provoke extreme reactions.

But— “Him?” Bruce repeats.

Dick gives him a proud look, knowing that his betrayal has worked. “You got something to say about it, Bruce?”

Bruce glares. Dick glares right back. Bruce turns on his heel and storms off to find Alfred.

“He’s not out to his mom yet,” Dick says, much too long later. “You don’t get to say jack to her.”

Bruce looks down at his phone, where he was about to send Candace a, I don’t like you. I know you don’t like me. But our sons have engaged in a… and backspaces. He looks over at Dick again, who cocks his hip and crosses his arms, head tilting to stare him down.

“Him?” Bruce repeats.

“Oh my god,” Dick says, throwing up his hands.

Josh Pearson-Scott graduates, and Bruce lets out a sigh of relief. The year later, Dick graduates, and Bruce swears to Alfred, “Thank god I don’t have to deal with PTA meetings ever again.”

Three months later, Jason Todd steals his tires.

“How the fuck is she in the Gotham Middle PTA again,” Bruce demands to Marietta as he stitches the bullet wound in his thigh. “Josh fucking Pearson-Scott fucking graduated.”

“She’s got three kids, Bruce,” Marietta tells him over the phone, puttering around the kitchen. “Adam’s twelve now.”

Bruce hisses through his teeth. He realises that he has made the crucial mistake of not gathering the correct amount of intel on his nemesis. “How old’s the other brat?”

Marietta sighs on the other side of the phone. Her baby is crying, and Bruce hears her pick it up and call out to Brian that his and Dad’s dinner is almost done.

“You need to divorce Harry,” Bruce tells her, not for the first time.

“Thank you for that advice, Bruce,” Marietta says. “Bethany is six or seven.”

“So she won’t overlap with Jason at all,” Bruce tracks. “Not that it matters, because Adam’s in Jason’s year.”

“Maybe by the time Jason graduates, you and Candace will have sorted it out,” Marietta says.

“Thank you for that advice, Mari,” Bruce says.

“Weren’t you just doing a press conference, like, last week about how much you believe in rehabilitation?” Marietta teases.

“Not for this,” Bruce says, starting to wrap a bandage around his thigh. “Not for her.”

There’s a clatter, and Bruce looks up to see Jason staring at him, panicked, a hand in the batarang shelf. “What?” he asks, choked. “Who— Who are you talking about? You said everyone—”

Marietta starts laughing over the phone. Bruce hangs up on her.

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Jason decides, once Bruce is done.

“Language,” Bruce says. “And it’s not dumb.”

“No, it is,” Jason says. “And I’ve heard some dumb shit.”

“Language,” Bruce repeats. “Candace Pearson-Scott is the Devil.”

“Candace Pearson-Scott is a random rich white woman, Bruce,” Jason says.

Bruce shakes his head, pitying. He pats Jason’s fluffy curls. “You’ll see soon enough, chum.”

Jason looks up from under Bruce’s hand, the portrait of scepticism.

When Bruce gets in the office, Jason is quiet and hunched, but still scrubbing his split lip with bloody knuckles and glaring at the kid next to him. That kid looks a whole lot more smug, despite his already-turning-into-a black eye, missing tooth, and completely wrapped hand.

Candace Pearson-Scott is standing behind his chair, talking in a calm, clipped voice to Principal Horgler, who is looking more like he’s going to throw up by the second.

Bruce marches right in front of Jason, crouches in front of him, and judges his lip. He presses his thumb lightly to it, and Jason hisses, but his skin doesn’t come away bloody.

“Did you get ice from the nurse?” Bruce asks.

Jason nods and fishes it out from under his shirt.

Bruce frowns. “What’s injured?”

“Got a hit in against my ribs,” Jason says. He presses his ice pack against his lip. Bruce takes his bloodied hand, judges that it’s cleaned and just keeps reopening.

“If you’re done,” Candace interrupts, “your ward attacked my son, Bruce.”

Jason’s shoulders hitch.

“What happened?” Bruce asks.

“Um,” Horgler says, pushing up his glasses, “Between periods, Mr. Todd attacked Mr. Pearson-Scott. They were both walking to class, and classmates reported Mr. Todd jumping on Mr. Pearson-Scott from behind. They wrestled in the time it took for their peers to alert the nearest teacher.”

“So you understand I am absolutely pressing charges,” Candance says. “That is assault, Brucie. I’m shocked the school’s not in lockdown, what with this—”

Bruce angles his head to meet Jason’s ducked eyeline. “What happened?”

Jason’s eyes flash. “He was snappin’ the bra band of the girl sittin’ in front of him. She told him to stop, and he didn’t. I told him if he didn’t stop, I’d put his head into the wall after class. He didn’t, so I did.”

Candace gasps. “That’s— Mr. Horgler, that’s threats of violence against my son, and that’s a big accusation, young man, I guarantee my Adam would never touch a woman in that way—”

“Well, good thing he’s only touching girls, then,” Jason snaps, teeth bared. “Maybe you should be less concerned about pressing charges and more about keeping tu hermoso ángel's grabby mitts away from any girls he’s interacting with, huh? Hey, Scott, you got a little sister, right?”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Adam growls, jerking forward. “Fucking beat the shit out of your street rat ass—”

“Oh, you want a round two, cabrón, I’ll fucking break every finger in your rookie rapist hands—” Jason returns, pushing up.

Bruce puts a hand on his knee. Jason sits down, even though he doesn’t quite control his sneer.

Adam barks a laugh. “Yeah, bet you sit real pretty for Bruce Wayne, fucking bedwarming—”

“Please control your son, Mrs. Pearson-Scott!” Horgler demands.

“He’s defending himself!” Candace returns. “He’s been traumatised!”

“Oh, yeah, is his support animal his classmates’ tits?” Jason snaps.

“Jay,” Bruce says. Jason looks at him with big eyes. Bruce turns to Candace and informs her, “If you don’t put a leash on your brat, I’ll put one on him for you.”

Candace’s face flickers.

Adam scoffs a laugh, spreading his hands and looking around, but Candace snaps, “Adam, sit down, shut up.”

“Mom—” Adam protests, hands dipping.

“Now,” Candace snaps.

Adam sits down and shuts up. Bruce takes a breath.

“Will your classmate be willing to verify what you’re saying,” Bruce asks Jason.

Jason stares at him. Slowly, he says, “Um. Yeah, I think so.” He turns to Horgler, says, “Sylvia Terrance?”

Horgler makes a strangled noise. “Mr. Wayne, while I appreciate the need for a clear picture, the undeniable truth is that your ward attacked Mr. Pearson-Scott—”

“In defence of another student, finding that your disciplinary systems had failed,” Bruce points out. “I was told this school had a strict policy against discriminatory actions towards female students.”

“It wasn’t—” Adam protests, and Candace snaps, “Adam.”

“The other undeniable truth,” Bruce continues, “is that Mr. Pearson-Scott has spoken in a derogatory fashion to my son about his previous socioeconomic status and living conditions, instigated threats of violence and murder, and spoken in a derogatory fashion about Jason’s place in my home in this room alone. So would you like to ask for Miss Terrance, or would you like to assign blame solely on my son without a ‘clear picture’?”

Horgler picks up the phone.

In the car, on the first of Jason’s three-day suspension (in comparison to Adam’s three weeks), Jason says, “I get what you were saying about the white woman now.”

Bruce has to pull over to laugh.

“Adam,” Candace says, nails gripping Adam’s shoulder hard enough that it has to hurt, “has something to say to you.”

Bruce looks at Adam. His suspension’s not up for another week yet, so he’s wearing casual clothes. He’s apparently been sitting on the step outside the hall during the PTA meeting. He kicks the gravel.

“Sorry,” he says. The nails in his shoulder dig in a bit more, and he winces. “For what I said about you. And Jason. I wasn’t acting like I should’ve. I’ll be better.”

Bruce looks at Candace, sighs, and crouches in front of Adam. Adam startles.

“I accept your apology to me, because I don’t care about what you said to me,” Bruce says. “Why did you say those things to my son, Adam?”

Candace clearly realises she’s trapped in a social disadvantage and starts looking for escape routes. Adam appears to go through a crisis. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Jus’ seemed like it’d piss him off.”

Bruce nods, even as Candace hisses like a vampire. “Why did you want to piss him off?”

“Because he was pissing me off,” Adam answers, fast.

“And you thought pissing him off would change something?” Bruce asks. He adds, before Adam has time to spiral about it, “Why did you snap Sylvia’s bra strap?”

Adam gets even more defensive. Bruce is watching a teenager attempt to be a turtle. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

“Next time, I’d suggest having an answer to why you’re doing something before you do it,” Bruce says. He stands up, wiping off his jacket, and smiles at Candace, who drags her son away from him.

“He doesn’t have to justify himself to you,” Candace hisses.

“Maybe when you tell him he can be anything, you should add that you don’t mean a sex offender,” Bruce hisses back. He gives her a smile and a wave. “See you next meeting!”

Jason is elected valedictorian. Bruce is completely unashamed in finding Candace’s gaze across the graduation hall, thrusting his hands up, and showing both middle fingers.

Bruce stops going to PTA meetings.

Marietta offers him a take-away cup. Her umbrella is massive, blocking the rain. It doesn’t matter; Bruce is already soaked.

He takes the coffee. She settles down next to him, puts the umbrella down, and gets drenched by the rain too.

“I’m divorcing Harry,” she says.

“Good,” Bruce says.

“I punched him,” she says.

“Good,” Bruce says.

“He said well, what did Brucie expect, taking in a kid off the street,” she says. “So I punched him.”

Bruce shudders, curling his shoulders. The rain hits the lid of his coffee, drips from his hair.

“I tell this to Candace,” Marietta says, “and you know what she says?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“Well, that seems a bit overdramatic,” Marietta says.

Bruce is overwhelmed, suddenly, drowning as he is in Jason, Joker, Dick, crowbar, Sheila, 00:00, by the thought:

Thank fucking god I don’t have to talk to Candace Pearson-Scott anymore.

“How the fuck,” Candace demands, slamming her hands into the desk.

“I’m acting as Tim Drake’s guardian,” Bruce says, taking off his jacket and hanging it off the back of his chair. “And, really, Candace, there’s no need for such profanity.”

Candace attempts to set him on fire with her eyes. Bruce is as cool as ice.

“No, what, no,” Dick says, watching Bruce hunt through the pantry for Alfred’s cookbooks. “How? Bruce, how?”

“There’s a fundraiser,” Tim says. “Each student’s meant to get a family recipe. I couldn’t find Mom’s, so I figured I’d just ask for one of Alfred’s.”

“Yeah, I got that much,” Dick says, dismissive. “Bruce. Bruce. Come on, Bruce. What are we doing? What? It’s been ten years, how is this happening?”

“She’s still there,” Bruce says, because he feels like this is obvious.

“B, you’re having a manic episode, this is crazy,” Dick says. “You’re being crazy.”

“I’m not being crazy. They’re going to cook the recipes. I will not let her have the best recipe.”

“What?” Tim asks.

“What?” Dick pleads. “B, Dad, Dat, Aba—”

“What?” Tim demands.

“He’s got this weird beef with this random PTA woman,” Dick says.

“It’s not weird, and she’s not random,” Bruce corrects.

“She sucks, yes, so does everyone else in the PTA, it’s the fucking White Woman Brag About Their Children Classism Club!” Dick cries.

“Language,” Bruce says.

“How is she even still on the PTA,” Dick begs.

“She has a third child,” Bruce answers. “Bethany.”

Dick groans, loud and drawn-out.

Tim says, “How long has this been going on?”

“Since the second I was enrolled,” Dick says. There’s a snap of fingers. “Second.”

“You were on my side,” Bruce accuses.

“Because I was ten!” Dick protests. “And I hadn’t realised you were going to drag this out for ten fucking years!”

“Language,” Bruce says.

“This is deranged,” Dick says. “Bruce, this is deranged.”

“I’m doing what Tim asked me to,” Bruce says.

“I think this goes way beyond that,” Tim says. “I think you need a psychiatrist.”

“I think you need a psych ward,” Dick says.

“Is she a supervillain?” Tim asks.

“Yes,” Bruce says.

“No,” Dick says. “She’s just some racist bitch that somehow, someway, hates Bruce just as much as he hates her.”

“Language,” Bruce says. “She’s my top-priority rogue.”

“I feel like I’m watching a mental break in real time,” Tim notes.

Dana puts her fists in Bruce’s collar and drags him out of the child-collection zone before Jack can see either of them, though Tim does, judging by his head burying itself in his hands.

“Dana,” Bruce defends, raising his hands, “I swear I was only here to talk to the principal about—”

“Don’t care,” Dana says. “Who the fuck is the botox-blown badgering bitch bossing the PTA meeting?”

Bruce is overwhelmed for a moment by the beauty of the alliteration, then nearly brought to tears by the realisation that Dana understands him.

“She’s Candace Pearson-Scott,” he reports, sniffling, “she’s got three kids, Bethany is two years below Tim, but Adam is five years above, so you’ll see her when Tim gets to high school too.”

Dana growls. “She’s got another one. Too young for school.”

Bruce feels his heart drop out of his chest. “No.”

“I am going to kill her,” Dana decides, nodding, eyes wide.

Bruce… sighs. “She tests everyone. Get through the first few months and you’ll be fine.”

Dana gives him a raised eyebrow. “How well did that work for you?”

Bruce winces, but it’s fair. He offers Dana a smile. She moves her tongue in her mouth.

“I am going to buy a gun,” she decides, “and I am going to find her husband, and I am going to shoot his dick off.”

“Please don’t tell me about this if you plan to actually do it,” Bruce begs, because she is fuelling his fantasies now.

Dana nods. Lets go of his collar, pounds her fist lightly into his chest. Nods again. Turns and marches back towards her husband and stepson, the latter of whom seems to be mouthing oh my god what the fuck she cannot be that bad.

Sweet summer child.

Steph says, in the middle of patrol, in public, “If you show up at my school, I’m going to call 911 and tell them there’s a pervert stalking me.”

Bruce stares at her.

She holds up a hand. “No, don’t say anything, I know you were going to.”

“Robin,” Bruce says.

“You’re trying to manipulate me, you’re gaslighting me,” Steph says. She holds a hand above her mask and bends like she’s trying to make out something in the distance. “Is that Chris Hansen?”

Bruce decides there’s no winning this.

“Bruce,” Tim says, hands braced on the table and face dressed for a coroner’s appointment, “if you’re going to be taking full custody of me, I am not going to have you going viral on TikTok about a PTA meeting.”

“Sorry?” Bruce asks.

Tim clicks the projector on, showing the original TikTok of Bruce beating the shit out of Harrison Greeves, and a TikTok Bruce hasn’t seen before of him throwing double middle fingers at Candace during the middle school graduation.

“This?” Tim says, waving his hand over the projection, “Is deranged behaviour, Bruce. This is crazy. We’re not doing this.”

“I can’t control what goes viral online,” Bruce feels the need to point out.

“You can control whatever this shit is with Candace Pearson-Scott,” Tim says, pointing at the second video.

Bruce explains, “I don’t do anything. She’s the one that kept comparing Adam to—” He cuts himself off.

Tim stares at him, braced on the table. “Oh my god,” he says. “You are a child.”

Thank the lord above, as far as the geneticist can tell, Cassandra is seventeen, and Bruce can formally adopt her without having to explain why she isn’t in high school. Because she is genuinely perfection, she sees he is going out and gets into the car next to him without hesitation, glancing around at the child pick-up zone when they pull up at 1425.

Tim emerges from the STEAM building and Cass is out of the car and up the driveway before Bruce even gets eyes on him. She weaves through the crowd, reaches him, and without pause picks him off the ground.

Bruce is too far away to hear what Tim says, but he spots what looks like a startled laugh. Cass supports Tim's thighs and he wraps his legs around her waist, Tim calling and waving back to his laughing friends as Cass noses her nuzzling hug on the way back to the car.

Then Bruce sees Candace Pearson-Scott incoming, and is out of the car and walking up to his kids at a speed that would make a Flash sweat.

“Excuse me,” she says to Cass and Tim, sickly sweet, “that’s very inappropriate—”

“Candace,” Bruce greets, putting himself right between her and his children, “Hi.”

“Bruce,” she sneers. “I was actually just—” She seems to realise that she knows who Tim is. “Actually, if you could speak to your ward and remind him that this is a public area—”

Tim seems to be whispering to Cass to just put him down so they don’t have to deal with this, and Cass seems to be resolutely ignoring him, because she is still perfection. Bruce threatens, “What do you find inappropriate, Candace?”

Candace narrows her eyes. “PDA at a school, Bruce?”

Bruce cocks his head. “I’ll let you know if I see any. I’m sure my kids will be sure to do so too.”

Candace does a visual reboot, scanning Cass, who growls. Candace’s eyes widen. She starts getting redder. “Right,” she says, cringing into a smile Cass seems to take in much the same way a chimp would. “Caitlyn, isn’t it?”

“Cassandra,” Cassandra growls, in her hollow, hoarse voice. Candace takes a prim, panicked step back.

From behind him, Bruce hears Tim groan, “Fuck, this is going to go viral on TikTok.”

(It does. Barbara leaves files on the Batcomputer. Someone edits a handheld video of it to look like a video game boss fight - Karen (PTA Mom) vs Brucie Wayne (Prince of Gotham, Orphan-Father). Someone posts a video of themselves that starts with, “This is my impression of Bruce Wayne in the recent Mama Bear video,” and ends with the version of themselves that’s dressed in a black turtleneck and sunglasses looming over the version of themselves in a chopped blonde wig, kneeling and begging for mercy, which Bruce leaves a like on. Someone creates a three-minute, fully animated, over-dramatised anime of the encounter.)

(Bruce always tries to support independent artists, which is the only reason why he subscribes to the highest tier of their Patreon.)

Dick sits down, at some point after Bruce gets back to the present. He puts his elbows against his knees, his hands against his mouth. Bruce spreads the blanket he’s wrapped in, puts it around Dick too.

Dick’s changed in the time Bruce has been… gone, almost enough to make him panic, worry he’s not in his time after all; Dick’s heavier built than Bruce has ever seen him, with more packed muscle, and his hair is cut short, shaved at the back and sides, even though he looks like he hasn’t shaved his face in a few days. He’s more tired than he was, too.

Bruce matches Dick’s breathing, slow and steady. It’s a quiet sort of comfort.

Dick sucks in a deep breath. “I am going to buy a gun, and find that woman’s husband, and shoot his dick off.”

Turns out, little Nevaeh Pearson-Scott is the year below Damian at Gotham Academy. Dick, Damian’s legal carer, has in the time Bruce was gone, “beaten the living racism and chance to have kids again outta” (Stephanie’s phrasing) Roderick MacFarland, “declared Revelatory War on half the PTA board” (Tim’s phrasing), and finally learned what Bruce has been going through these past years.

“Nevaeh is heaven backwards,” Dick points out, fully sobbing. “It’s just heaven backwards. What kind of gadžikani shit is this?”

“It’s Christian white woman shit,” Bruce agrees, rubbing his back. Dick wails.

Talia shows up at the Manor at 1730 exactly. She’s wearing what Bruce supposes could technically be described as a suit; it has a jacket and pants, the jacket cropped and lined, lapels included, in opalescent green that matches the sparks in her eyes, heels that are formal, though they’re also high enough to break atmosphere, and a high-necked blouse of nothing but gold lace and beads and possibly scalemail. It’s unclear whether it’s connected to her lip ring, which is a ring in name alone.

“Hello,” Bruce greets. “I have a prioritised commitment in thirty minutes.”

“Yes,” Talia says, eyebrows raised. She has an ear full of piercings, but nothing dangling. Her hair is straightened, a silky brown wave down her back. “Damian mentioned Gotham Academy’s Parent-Teacher Association. I am a parent of a student, and have a vested interest in my son’s learning.”

Bruce cringes. Talia gives him a look.

“It’s terrible, and petty, and really isn’t about the kids,” Bruce tries.

Talia blinks once. “Beloved.”

Bruce sighs. “Let me get changed.”

“Candace Pearson-Scott is a Christian Zionist that insists on controlling every part of every interaction she’s even peripheral to,” Bruce explains on the trip over. “She’s got more botox than blood and somehow still manages to make passive-aggressive comments about the unnaturalness of men growing their hair out, promotes ‘traditional relationships’ as if she isn’t avidly enjoying the benefits the feminist movement has provided her, and describes her children as the most important part of her life despite the fact the eldest won’t speak to her. She’s a hypocritical, nosey, bossy, controlling plague upon this Earth, who looks down on anyone whose life is not slightly inferior but otherwise identical to hers, and she has some-fucking-how attained enough social standing that no one feels confident in speaking against her.”

Talia stares at him from the passenger seat.

“Well,” she says, “I’m glad to hear you’re not too worked up about her.”

Talia al Ghul, Bruce decides approximately 1.06 seconds after walking inside, is to PTA meetings what a nuclear reactor is to Chernobyl.

Talia surveys the room of turtlenecks and lightweight cardigans. Bruce watches Gotham’s elite realise designer clothing is not a threat to someone who can buy the company Louis Vuitton. Talia identifies Candace, studies her in much the same way a whale studies krill, and clearly deems her equally unimpressive.

“Brucie, you brought a friend,” Candace notes through gritted teeth.

“Talia al Ghul,” Talia introduces before Bruce can imply any sort of control over her place here. “I am Damian’s mother. I am… interested in engaging with his schooling.”

Gail Briggs might just faint. Lydia Neal might just propose. Lydia Neal’s husband Daniel looks like he’s picking up on that and is feeling a way about it.

“Always good to have more volunteers,” Marietta says, standing and smiling. Bruce has never been more grateful for little Karina Lyashenko-Greeves being born when she was. “Hi, Talia. I’m Marietta. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Talia gives Bruce a hidden signal for him to indicate whether or not this woman is an ally. Bruce gives her a slow blink in return, and she smiles. “Marietta. Likewise. May I sit?”

Bruce takes the strategically inferior position next to Marietta, Talia beside him in the corner seat, answering smalltalk questions with visible amusement - what do I do for work? Oh, I’m the CEO of an international energy business centred in the Middle East. I hope you understand I can’t go into the exact details of our dealings, with how far energy reaches these days.

“Will she let me fuck her?” Marietta whispers to Bruce. “Or let me be fucked by her?”

“Don’t,” Bruce grumbles into his hand. “It will ruin your life.”

Marietta laughs at him.

Talia takes out a digital notebook and stylus when Avis gets started on the agenda. Candace narrows her eyes at her across the table as Talia jots things down

“I would have thought she’d be happy for it,” Talia mutters against the lip of her glass in League dialect Arabic.

“Naïve,” Bruce returns the same. “You’re outshining her.”

Talia snorts.

“يا إلهي هذه الكلبة,” Talia mumbles to Bruce fifteen minutes later, after Candace loops them back to the same point they’ve already gone over seven times.

Bruce swallows his giggle. “.حق؟ أنا أحتضر”

“لا أصدق أن أحدا لم يقتلها بعد,” Talia hums, and Bruce almost loses it right there before Candace pointedly clears her throat.

“If there’s something you two want to say,” she starts, pointed, “I’m sure it could be said in the language we all speak.”

Talia raises her eyebrows, leaning back. “This council only speaks English?”

Candace’s face pinches. “We find it best not to confuse the children. They don’t know what languages they’re speaking.”

Talia starts using Bruce’s hair like a stress toy. He gives her a look, but allows it.

“Beloved,” Talia asks, “are children in America often confused by the existence of multiple languages?”

Bruce hums. “Not that I’ve found.”

“Hm,” Talia returns. To Candace, “I feel sorry for your poor children. I’ve always encouraged a well-rounded, worldly education for my Damian— He’s fluent in three languages, now, but knows three more.”

“Four more,” Bruce corrects. “He’s been learning Romani.”

“Ah!” Talia exclaims. Bruce figures that, given a year, she would make this Association her personal fiefdom. “It’s so important to encourage an attitude of learning in our children, I believe, so that they seek it themselves. Polylingualism is the simplest example to foster this mindset. Candace, how many languages do you speak?”

She stares Candace down with the gaze of an executioner. Candace turns a shade of purple usually reserved for mould. Marietta grabs Bruce’s hand so hard there’s a crack.

“Now,” Talia says, “I think fostering an attitude of learning is a good segue to discussing extracurriculars.”

After the meeting, Bruce and Talia climb on top of Gotham Academy Middle School’s assembly hall and share a joint on the roof. It’s an echo; when Bruce blinks, he sees the hundred times they snuck out of their apartments in the middle of the night, into the hidden alcoves in the Room of a Hundred Fountains, shared a joint like the teenagers neither of them were.

Bruce isn’t sure Talia loves him. He thinks she loves that joint more.

“How’s your dad?” Bruce asks.

“Dead, Bruce, you know that,” Talia says.

“Can’t hurt to check, with him,” Bruce points out.

Talia giggles. Curls forward, hair falling over her shoulder. “How’s our son?”

“Alive,” Bruce answers.

“Both of them?”

“Jason too,” Bruce agrees.

“Can’t hurt to check,” Talia says, taking the joint for herself. “With them.”

Bruce chuckles at that. Talia puffs out a smoke ring.

“You know,” Talia says, head flopping over to look at Bruce, “you undersold Candace.”

Bruce throws his head back and laughs.

Cassandra is in the middle of a Mexican stand off. She is a beautiful embodiment of defiant wrath, hair and make-up and tutu all perfect. Her white point shoes are braced flat on the dance studio floor, fourth position, arms out just enough to not fold the tutu. In the driveway, Lady Shiva is standing slouched and comfortable. She’s wearing a tight black turtleneck and a suit baggy enough it’s impressive it’s not falling off her. Her hair’s been cut since Bruce last saw her. Between them, a plastic take-out bag tumbleweeds.

Bruce doesn’t step in, partially because he doesn’t know how he would.

Shiva tilts her chin. Cass growls. Shiva moves her shoulder. Cass’ growl turns into a snarl turns into a hum. Shiva bows. Cass scoffs, turns and gives Bruce a kiss on the cheek, then marches off to rehearsal.

“Shiva,” Bruce greets.

“Bruce,” Shiva greets. “Parents and teachers of the ballerinas are having a tête-á-tête during the rehearsal, yes?”

Bruce evaluates the situation. Cass has clearly allowed Shiva in, at least in some sense. Shiva looks bored, which is usually dangerous. Cass has been… chafing with her classmates, as much as she is confident enough to not be overly affected by the bullying.

“No one dies in my city,” Bruce orders, brushing past Shiva to wait in his car. She flaps a hand at him.

Shiva leaves the building twelve minutes early, whistling to herself. Bruce gets out of his car, but she waits by the door, presumably for Cassandra.

Someone brushes past her, on the phone and shaking. She gives them a smile. They flinch away from her, enough that they trip on their heels and then abandon them entirely to leave with more efficiency.

“Didn’t kill anyone, promise,” she says when Bruce passes. He flaps his hand at her.

He walks through the studio, and when he gets to the tête-á-tête, finds a room full of people irreparably changed.

“I need— I need to go to church,” one mutters, rubbing his arms, then he stands up and rushes right past Bruce. Several people are sobbing. Several are staring blankly at the wall. One is hunched over a garbage bin and convulsing. Bruce looks under the table and finds a man with his knees against his chest and his arms around his knees, rocking.

Bruce decides he doesn’t want to know.

“It was,” Candace says, with an implied fucking awful for both of us, claws in Nevaeh’s shoulder, “so nice to meet Thalia, Brucie! Would any of your other kids’ parents be interested in joining us?”

Bruce channels all of his hatred into a laugh. “Talia,” he corrects, with an implied you putrid bitch, entertaining himself with the brilliant image of unleashing Shiva on Gotham Middle’s PTA. “You must have heard of the Drakes’ passing, Candace.”

Candace’s smile turns more into a sneer. Bruce telepathically beams you can’t shame me for adopting my kids, Mormon.

“And I was thinking just the same thing!” Bruce says, before she can get a word in. “How long have we known each other, and I’ve never seen your husband at a PTA meeting! I’m beginning to worry you’re keeping the poor man in the basement!”

He laughs. She laughs. They don’t break eye contact.

“Maybe I will bring Clive,” Candace threatens. “He’s been just so busy with work, but if you’d like to meet him, I’m sure he could take a break.”

Bruce has never wanted to meet a man named Clive in his life. “I’ll mark it on my calendar.”

Candace sneers, then spins and drags Nevaeh away. Nevaeh waves goodbye to Damian, who’s staring at Bruce with an expression that could only be described as complete and utter bafflement.

“Father,” he says, “what the fuck.”

“Language,” Bruce says, in shock. Then he crouches down to meet Damian’s eyes. “I thought Dick had been dealing with the PTA when I was away.”

“Richard did not speak like that,” Damian argues, gesturing to the retreating Pearson-Scotts. “When he found issue in Roderick MacFarland, he removed them from the monthly meeting then kicked MacFarland in the genitals, diaphragm, and kidneys until he pissed himself and was unable to continue begging for mercy, upon which Richard noted MacFarland’s ‘superior white intelligence’ seemed to be degrading while Richard’s remained perfectly functional, and informed MacFarland he could now return to his wife and three mistresses and tell them they could run off with the brown men they were cucking him for, since he would no longer be able to trap them with carrying his pureblood pug-rat children.”

Bruce may openly gape. “What did MacFarland do?”

Damian shrugs, head ducking slightly. “I believe he stated explicitly that my race both was a… spoiling of the Wayne bloodline and begot a lower intelligence that would make me unable to keep up with Gotham Academy’s curriculum.” He sniffs. “Foolish baulo-gadžo. I am excelling in all my classes.”

Bruce puts his knuckles to his mouth to silently process that someone said that shit about his son, that Damian just called someone a pig-man, and that Damian is using Romani terms even when Dick isn’t around. He tables the tears for later.

“What were the aftereffects of that?” Bruce asks.

“It’s my understanding that Pennyworth, ah, oiled some hands,” Damian explains.

“Greased some palms,” Bruce corrects.

Damian wrinkles his nose like that can’t be right but pushes on. “Though, Ms. Lyashenko and her allies also acted protectively of Richard, which was helpful.” Bruce makes a note to send Marietta a fruit basket. “Upon Richard’s entry to the next Parent-Teacher Association meeting - I planted a bug in his necklace,” at Bruce opening his mouth to ask, “Candace Pearson-Scott commented that his violence was most unbecoming and out of place in her Association. Richard replied that it’s telling that MacFarland’s comments were not out of place in her Association, he reacted appropriately to hearing eugenics talk about his little brother, and if anyone wanted to defend the neo-Nazi neckbeard, he was putting his lawyer’s number on the Facebook group and they could take his happy brown ass to court.”

Bruce takes this all in. In a horrified, proud storm, he’s forced to admit:

He’s been outdone.

Bruce gets called on Duke’s third day of attending Gotham Academy, which has Jason unblocking him to send a GIF of Chris Evans collapsing out of his chair laughing. Bruce gives it the laughing reaction, and then Jason blocks him again, at which point Bruce is in the reception office and handing Rebecca at the desk her favoured coffee order.

Duke’s sitting cross-legged where Rebecca can see him, looking vaguely bored, tapping his fingers against his ankles. Bruce crouches in front of him, wincing at the creak of his knees, and doesn’t see any injuries.

“Sorry,” Duke says.

“Forgiven,” Bruce promises. “What happened?”

“She said some shit about you,” Duke says.

“Language,” Bruce says. “What type of shit?”

Duke’s face twitches into a smile. The fist squeezing Bruce’s heart loosens a bit. “Some homophobic shit. I mean, the others told me to expect it—”

“The bedwarmer shit?” Bruce asks, trying to keep his anger out of Duke’s view.

Duke nods. “Yeah.” Bruce actively doesn’t grind his teeth. Duke blows out a sigh. “So, I told her just because her dad was a pedophile didn’t mean mine was and if she was so invested in your sex life she could just ask her mom.”

Bruce blinks.

“And if she was so concerned about my situation she could talk to the counsellor, maybe they could tell her why her boyfriend was leaving her unsatisfied while she was there,” Duke adds.

Bruce blinks again. Opens his mouth.

“And then I said, well, I guess I wouldn’t be too hot on gay people either if I could find every one of my exes on Grindr, but maybe it’s saying something you’re dating dudes old enough to pass verification,” Duke adds.

Bruce coughs a strangled sound.

“And said maybe she should just admit why she’s so obsessed and start fucking women,” Duke adds.

Bruce closes his mouth. Opens it again.

“Though, it makes sense she’s not having much luck in that department, because lesbians tend to have better fashion sense, you know that dressing yourself in shitty designer doesn’t hide the insecurity, right? Or does your mom still choose your outfits for you, that explains why you look like a middle-aged white woman’s idea of a prostitute,” Duke adds.

Bruce blinks rapidly.

“And then she started crying,” Duke finishes. “So now I’m wondering if it was the right move.”

Bruce feels Rebecca’s gaze on his back. He puts his hand over his mouth.

“Okay,” Bruce chokes. “Who was the student?”

“I dunno,” Duke answers with a shrug. At Bruce’s look, “Seriously, I don’t. Never talked to her before in my life.”

“Bethany Pearson-Scott,” Rebecca calls.

Bruce feels something akin to a holy revelation.

“That’s a look,” Duke notes. “What’s— What’s happening?”

Bruce says, “You did good,” stands up, and opens the door to Horgler’s office.

Candace glares at him with the might of a thousand barely-restrained suns. Bruce has never felt euphoria like this before.

“No, no, what,” Duke’s saying into his phone when Bruce skips out of Horgler’s office, a pen in Duke’s hand and a notepad next to the phone on the table. “That can’t be it.”

“That’s one-hundo-percent it,” Stephanie says on speaker.

Cass’ voice adds, “Obsessed.”

“Yeah, I’m— I’m seeing that,” Duke says, flipping through a few pages of his notebook. “Just— How?”

“Because they are the same,” Stephanie says. “They’re both fuckin’ crazy. Control freak obsessive losers.”

“Losers,” Cass echoes.

“Okay,” Bruce says, and ends the call. Duke looks up at him, and for the first time since he has come into the family, appears completely free of anxiety.

“I have no respect for you anymore,” Duke informs him.

Upon investigation, Bruce finds Damian is participating in a strike by locking himself in a room for the last three days, which upon investigation has Bruce finding out Talia called Jason three days ago to go in her place to the Gotham Academy Field Day and serve all the brown elegance Talia can’t in person, which upon investigation has Bruce finding out that Jason is apparently Damian’s League-assigned testamentary guardian, Gotham Academy Field Day is apparently a thing that is happening, and Cassandra and Lady Shiva are in the backyard right now beating the shit out of each other. It takes promising Shiva that neither Cass or Tim are competing, leaking where Dinah will be on the day, and ultimately an unreal amount of bribery to keep her from attending.

Because this is clearly a conspiracy, Bruce immediately goes to Stephanie and Barbara, who immediately tell him while Duke begs on his knees for them not to. The field day is a hundred year anniversary of Gotham Academy, so the elementary, middle, and high school are all combining to compete. Families are encouraged to come in their entirety to support their kids. Duke lies on the ground and Steph puts her heels on his stomach.

Bruce brings Duke and Tim in the minivan, because they’re the only ones that care to be seen with him and Alfred’s on vacation. When they arrive, somehow Damian and Dick have are already there, leaning on Dick’s motorbike, Damian in his pristine sports uniform and Dick seemingly having dressed in about a minute and a half while he was being dragged out of the door by the hand that wasn’t brushing his teeth.

“Middle D,” Dick greets, giving Duke an up-nod. “How you feeling?”

“Ready to come a respectable third,” Duke tells him. Damian sniffs.

Jason’s bike screams down the street, gets honked at by about a dozen drivers he flips off, and peels in next to Damian with a screech of rubber. He takes off his helmet and sheds his jacket to reveal a perfect black suit that must be a gift from Talia, then takes off his gloves with his teeth and flicks Damian on the forehead in greeting. “Grasshopper.”

“Whore,” Damian greets.

“Language,” Bruce and Dick say in time, then stare at each other in horror.

Steph’s bike screams down the street, gets honked at by about a dozen drivers she flips off, and peels in next to Bruce. Cass takes off her helmet and sheds her jacket to reveal a perfect black suit that is making Bruce seriously reconsider if Talia actually cares about her, or Shiva about Jason. Steph’s wearing Cass’ dance jersey and not much else.

“Is Mom coming?” she asks Dick, which has Bruce blinking.

“Babs is taking a half day, Jim and her are coming at lunch,” Dick answers. He’s tucked his shirt in, moved his watch, done his laces, and is adjusting his hair, and somehow has managed to turn a disaster is actively occurring into attractively rumpled, which Bruce really shouldn’t be surprised about anymore.

Bruce gives both Damian and Duke a hand on the head as his good luck, which he thinks is preferable to Steph’s wet willies and Dick calling over his well-wishes from where he is submitting to a pat down by campus police. (Bruce quells his jealousy, but not enough to keep Cass from zapping his ribs.) Jason crouches down in view of everyone and tells Damian, “إذا قتلت أحدًا ثم سوف سأحولك إلى خرقة. Love you, Dami.”

Damian accepts this with only a minor attempt to break Jason’s fingers, which is really a display of how much they both respect Talia rather than anything else. Duke gets a kiss on the cheek from Cass before he and Damian run off to the students’ areas.

“How hard is Talia wrangling your balls?” Steph mutters. Jason stomps into her foot and pulls on his sunglasses. Bruce watches Cass pull on a matching pair.

Tim’s already vanished. The campus cops finally decide Dick is not as much of a threat as he could be, and Cass and Jason fall in behind him like mafia enforcers.

“Hey, Bruce?” Steph asks.

“Mm,” Bruce says, watching Dick playfully snap his teeth at one of the cops, who startles backwards.

“When are you going to admit that you’re just as much a PTA Mom as anyone else?” Steph asks.

Bruce stares at her in complete and utter betrayal. She grins with all her teeth.

“I am not,” Bruce growls.

“And yet,” Steph says, worming around him to walk up into the bleachers backwards, hands behind her back, “I can’t help but notice we are here earlier than anyone else, you are wearing a cashmere sweater made in Melbourne, and you pulled up outside in a Mercedes Benz V-Class.”

“I have six children in my care, Stephanie,” Bruce defends.

“Only two live with you consistently,” Steph argues.

“Nonetheless,” Bruce says. “It’s a good car, and I can afford it.”

“It’s a fuckin’ Mom Van,” Steph says.

“That’s a misogynistic stereotype,” Bruce points out.

“You’re a real feminist, buddy,” Steph says. She closes her eyes and holds her fist up beside her head. “Really breaking those stereotypes.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says.

“Bruce,” Stephanie says, returning to her official stance of condescension. “You go to PTA meetings twice a month.”

“Is it a crime to care about my kids’ education?” Bruce asks.

“Everyone knows that’s not why you’re going,” Tim informs Bruce from beside him, because him and Stephanie are like fucking hyenas.

“Admit what you are,” Stephanie whispers in his ear, drawing away from him across the perch she somehow managed to get in the three milliseconds Bruce has been looking at Tim. Bruce suddenly regrets allowing them both to be here and starts looking for escape routes.

Marietta waves at him. Karina Lyashenko-Greeves continues to be the best thing to ever happen to Bruce. He heads over to her, ignoring the vultures he adopted swooping along behind him.

“You are a blessing, Mari,” he greets.

“Roderick MacFarland is at your seven o’clock,” Marietta greets.

Bruce whirls. Roderick MacFarland is indeed at his seven o’clock, a decent seven rows away, with all the pallor and moisture of a chicken just taken out of the freezer and wide eyes on Dick. Dick is tactfully not looking at him, going through a bike bag. Jason and Cass both lean out around Dick like Dracula owls and mug hard. Jason weaves his head and does the two-fingers I’m watching you. Cass jerks forward and laughs when MacFarland jolts back.

Bruce decides they’re fine and turns back to Marietta.

“Ms. Lyashenko,” Tim greets from where he’s settling down on the seat below them, holding out his hand to her. “Timothy Drake.”

“Marietta, please,” Marietta says, taking his hand with a grin. “Bruce has spoken so much about you.”

Tim hums, seemingly pleased that Marietta passed his test of greeting him like normal despite the fact he’s dressed in clothes Stephanie says are “skater-chic” and Bruce thinks might have been pawned off Killer Croc. “And you. You’re the only one in the PTA he seems to like.”

“Tim,” Bruce snaps.

“Marietta, catch this shit, Brucie’s trying to be scary,” Steph says, dropping her weight onto Bruce’s shoulders, because she and Tim are still like fucking hyenas. She holds out her hand to Marietta too, arm braced on Bruce’s head. “Steph. Cass’ girlfriend.”

Tim pulls out his phone and starts absently humming happier by Olivia Rodigo. Bruce watches Marietta’s eyebrows raise at that, and then her gaze move to where Cass, Jason, and Dick are setting up what sounds like a military camp in their chosen seats.

“Nice to meet you,” Marietta decides. She makes eyes at Bruce. Bruce communicates I don’t want to know.

“Is Karina competing?” Bruce asks.

“Yes, she’s swimming,” Marietta says. “She's been enjoying it.”

“Y’all are fucking boring,” Steph declares.

“Stephanie,” Bruce snaps.

“You know what you are,” Steph says, pointing at him. She shoves up. “Both you shout if there’s an ex husband you need taken care of or something.”

Tim has somehow unearthed a laptop that he’s now digitally linking to his phone. Bruce sighs.

“Where’s Brian to embarrass you?” he demands of Marietta.

“California,” she tells him cheerfully. “Where’s Talia to bail you out?”

“Pakistan,” Bruce groans.

“She sent me instead,” Jason says, because Bruce’s life is nothing but torture and misery. “Hi. Damian’s big brother.”

“Oh,” Marietta says, eyes flicking to Bruce.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Jason says with a grin. “Half-brother. You must be…?”

“Marietta Lyashenko,” she greets.

Recognition flashes in Jason fast. “Lyashenko?”

“You met her ex-husband,” Bruce offers, because they divorced when you were dead isn’t an amazing thing to drop into civilian conversation.

“Ex-husband,” Jason repeats with a sharp-toothed smile. Bruce breaks out into a cold sweat. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Marietta says.

“Is he here watching the kid, too?” Jason asks. Bruce tries to summon lightning.

“Karina,” Marietta gracefully supplies. “And no, he doesn’t particularly care.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jason says easily. “What’s Karina competing in?” despite the fact he absolutely overheard.

“All the swimming races,” Marietta answers. “Damian?”

“Running and fencing,” Jason says. “I am frankly appalled that there are schools pretentious enough to have fencing on field days, but the kid’s following his pretentious heart.”

Marietta rolls her eyes, letting out a little breath. Jason grins.

“Your name’s Ukrainian?” he asks, settling in. Bruce prays for divine intervention.

“Mm, first generation American,” Marietta says.

“Same, on my mother’s side,” Jason says, which is almost true enough that Bruce can’t call him on it. “Though, you’ve met Talia, so I am offering nothing here.”

Marietta laughs a little. “Have you ever been to Ukraine?”

“Technically, but I say prisons are like airports, so it doesn’t count,” Jason says with a grin and a shrug. Bruce is actively dying. “I’ve wanted to visit Poltava for a while, though, since I read Eneïda.”

Marietta’s eyebrows go up.

“She is too old for you,” Bruce interjects.

Jason throws up his hands. “Well, if you’re not going to romance the hot forties-something single mother of a girl named Karina who likes swimming, then I guess I have to step up to the plate!”

Marietta laughs, genuine. “Add a decade.”

Jason genuinely goes surprised, visibly redoing his math. Bruce watches him remember he missed half a decade by dying. “La hostia,” he says, instead of anything else. “You’re wearing it beautifully.”

Bruce summons a black hole in his ribcage in an attempt to implode.

“Y sos adulador,” Marietta returns with a raised eyebrow.

Actual interest overtakes Jason’s flirting like a puppet given life. “Sos,” he notes. “Я б назвав акцентом Peninsular.”

Marietta adjusts, leaning on her elbow. “Tu as dit que vous n'étiez pas allé en Ukraine.”

Jason grins. “J’ai dit je suis y allé en prison.” He tilts his head. “And I’ve been to Quebec.”

Marietta winks an eye. “You know your dialects.”

“Don’t,” Bruce interrupts them both, a finger pointed at the interaction. Jason blows out air. “Marietta’s an interpreter. Mari, he’s twenty-three.”

“Twenty-four,” Jason corrects, “he always cuts six months.”

“Don’t be jealous, Bruce,” Mari teases.

Jason makes an expression of pure delight. “Yeah, don’t be jealous, Bruce.”

Bruce throws up his hands and is thankfully saved by Avis Berkeley turning on the microphone and making an announcement. Bruce turns behind him and sees Steph liquidating over Cass’ and Dick’s laps in their shade. Bruce looks down in front of him, and Tim has summoned a tablet from the void that is being connected to the side of his laptop.

Bruce reaches forward and taps Tim’s arm. He gestures upwards towards the others, where Tim’s devices will be protected by the geodesic tent. Tim makes an expression like he’s smelled something foul and shakes his head. He makes the hand gesture for flanking manoeuvre. Bruce frowns, then realises bringing all his kids here is the worst decision he’s ever made and starts looking for escape routes again.

Duke finishes all his competitions first, sitting beside Babs with a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Jason’s gotten bored, or maybe has a - ah - business matter to deal with, because he’s vanished fully out of the bleachers to talk on the phone. Tim’s finally relented into the tent. Dick’s against the railing, watching Damian, and Cass is leaning beside him, ostensibly asleep. Steph’s somewhere behind Bruce, wreaking havoc. He’s building up the courage to turn around.

“Damian’s next,” Jim tells Bruce and Marietta, holding out a drink for them both. “Whatever race he’s doing.”

Bruce perks up a little. An announcement rings out, then Damian’s on the block, right next to Nevaeh fucking Pearson-Scott.

“Oh, dear,” Marietta hums. Barbara and Duke put their heads in their hands in sync. Steph yells at someone to suck her hairy dick.

Damian looks at his left, just slightly. Tilts his head. Does the readjustment that every one of Bruce’s Robins does when they’re debating whether or not to disobey his orders.

Bruce leans forward, elbows on his knees.

The starting bell goes, and Damian’s off. Not fast enough to draw attention, though. A burst to first, then falling back a few places. Bruce fists his hands in his pants. Steph KA-CAW!s and swoops someone.

Nevaeh passes Damian. Something visibly passes over Damian’s whole form.

“Don’t fucking let her win,” Barbara whispers.

“Oh my god, not you too,” Duke begs.

Damian’s adjustment pushes him into fifth, then sends him off with the speed and force of a bullet. All of Bruce’s, Dick’s, the League’s training pushing him forward, faster than any of the others, until he overtakes Nevaeh just before the finish line and Bruce stands up and cheers, “FUCKING YES!”

Marietta bursts out laughing. Dick is shouting something even louder than Bruce, cheering loud enough that Damian looks over, and Bruce hears one of Jason’s ear-rattling whistles join in from down where he’s definitely doing something Batman will have to deal with later. Cass offers wordless noise, Duke looks bewildered, and Barbara says, “Come on, don’t pretend you’re not a little bit into it too.” Steph starts barking at someone.

“Oh, was that one of the postscript kids,” Jim realises in Marietta’s direction as Bruce sits back down.

“The Pearson-Scotts, yeah,” Marietta agrees. “Hi, Kiki.” She kisses Karina’s face all over.

“Fuck, that felt good,” Bruce says with a sigh. “Sorry, Karina.” Karina giggles.

“Uh huh,” Jim says with raised eyebrows. “Bet it did. Uh, incoming.”

Bruce looks up.

Candace is wearing sunglasses bigger than Bruce’s cowl that do nothing for the egregious cut of her asymmetrical bleach-blonde bob. Her tan three-quarter coat does not help with anything but proving she’s in a Home-Owners Association.

“Brucie,” she sneers.

“Candace,” he growls.

“This is my husband, Clive,” Candace says, nudging the man with her nails in his arm forward.

“I’d hope so,” Bruce says.

“Candace and Clive,” Jim mutters.

Clive is greying, in hair, skin, clothing, and spirit. Bruce finds nothing of note about him as he politely laughs at Bruce’s joke. He has no callouses when they shake hands.

“Hell of a show y’all put on,” Clive says, nodding at Dick and Cass.

Bruce ignores Stephanie performing a Maōri Haka somewhere behind him. “We all try our best to express our rigorous support of Damian’s achievements.”

“Solid, solid,” Marietta mutters.

“Mm,” Clive hums. “His momma ain’t here to do that for you?”

Jason teleports into existence to walk up to Dick and Cass and hum on the phone, “Yeah, first place, Talia, he’s so good. I’ll send a video.”

“She lives and works internationally,” Bruce says. “But I’d be cheering just as hard regardless.”

“Keeping it down, yep, yep,” Marietta mutters.

“Mm,” Clive hums. “And this one’s the one that swam against Bethany, yes?”

“Duke,” Duke introduces. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That is quite rude—” Candace interrupts.

“He doesn’t have to talk to you,” Barbara repeats, hand on Duke’s shoulder. Bruce gets the sudden sensation she might be carrying, or Huntress is somewhere on the scene waiting for Oracle to give her the order. Candace also seems to realise that, given that she whips away from them.

Clive appears to be facing an incoming seizure, judging by the fact his focal range has narrowed to something borderline non-existent. “Hey, your kid gave my Nevaeh a run for her money. Ha!”

Bruce is overwhelmed with the sudden desire to buy a gun, hunt Clive down, and shoot his dick off.

“Ha,” he says.

“Ha,” Jim says.

“Ha,” Marietta says.

“She ran incredibly well, you should be proud,” Bruce says.

“Keep it together, stick the landing,” Marietta mutters.

Clive nods. Bruce wonders if Candace lobotomised him. Stephanie screams something in Akkadian and may actually attack someone.

“Well,” Bruce says, “Damian’s starting his next race in a second, so. Lovely to meet you.”

“Good to finally meet the man my wife’s been talking about for years,” Clive ‘jokes’. He takes Bruce’s hand again, which is once more than Bruce ever needed, and leans in in a way that implies he has gotten the false impression he can treat Bruce as a confidant. “Hey, thought you were sleeping with her for a while there.”

Mari and Jim both immediately retreat behind their hands.

“Clive,” Bruce says, earnest, “I would rather use a jackhammer as a dildo.”

“Black Bat!” Bruce calls, holding off Manbat’s jaw on his gauntlet.

Cass descends from the sky like the angel she is, lands on Manbat’s shoulders, and rips his head backwards. He tries to trap her in his wings, and she starts visibly considering if biting him is worth it. Bruce growls, “He. Will. Make. You. Sick,” then drops through a sewer grate, carefully making his way to somewhere black, quiet, and empty to open the call buzzing on his comm.

“Mari?” he asks, forcing sleepiness into his voice.

“Bruce,” Marietta says, sounding manic, “I have some amazing news for you.”

“It’s truly meant so much to be part of this committee,” Candace says, hand on her chest, eyebrows drawn. “This has been such an amazing part of my life for the past years, and I am— I am honoured to have been able to contribute so much to this group, and this community, and to have helped my children so much. I’ve been stewing on this discussion for days, weeks, months—” She pauses, wiping her dry eyes, “—but, but with Nevaeh graduating, this is the last PTA session I’ll have with Gotham Academy Middle School.” She shakes in a completely unaffected breath, which also serves as a pause for emotional impact. “I am feeling, just, so many— For fuck’s sake, Bruce, could you take this seriously?”

Bruce breathes in, refurling his party horn. It blows back out with its PTUUUU!. His crown of sparklers continues to spark, and won’t be stopping any time soon. His rhinestone-studded shutter glasses match his entirely hot pink, sequined suit. His party hat may be about to catch fire.

“No,” Bruce says.

Candace puts a hand on her hip. She’s wearing all black, like this is an honest-to-god funeral. “After everything we’ve been through, don’t you have just a little respect for me?”

PTUUUU!

“No,” Bruce says.

Candace scowls. She takes a breath and reorients herself. “I am feeling, just, so many emotions, but most of all I am feeling the love that I have for all of— Bruce, what the fuck?”

Bruce licks the froth off the champagne bottle. Avis Berkley cheers, “Caught it!” and pops up off the floor, holding up the cork.

“Please, Candace, do go on,” Bruce says, “I was rapt.”

Candace takes another breath. “The love,” she grits out, “that I have, for all of you.” She pauses for her few sympathetic awws. Bruce offers a PTUUUU!. “I know you’ll all go far, and I have the utmost faith in you. Thank you all for everything that you’ve given me, and for everything you’ve allowed me to give you, and I look forward to seeing where you bring the future of this organisation, and of us, through our children.”

There’s polite applause. Candace sniffs, pretends to cry some more, shoots Bruce another withering stare, and Bruce says, “Oh, get fucked and get out already, or is that not civilised enough for you?”

Candace looks like a frog has died in her mouth. “I will, as always, be the bigger person here and not respond to that.”

Bruce raises the bottle to her. She leaves the hall with the click of her designer heels.

For a breath, Bruce watches her, and wonders. He wonders if the hatred he has for Candace Pearson-Scott is because they’re different breeds of the same species, if Stephanie is as right as she usually is, if there’s something to what the Joker says, when he talks about how Bruce could never be without a true nemesis.

Bruce whips out his Bluetooth speaker, smacks it onto the table, and starts playing Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead. Alfred comes in wearing a matching party hat and sunglasses and pushing a tray of rattling champagne glasses, more bottles, and a parade of party hats. Marietta picks a sparkler out of Bruce’s hair and kisses him on the cheek as someone kicks the prom disco lights on.

“A second for every year we survived the bitch!” Bruce cheers, and starts chugging.