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It started, as most things in Bruce Wayne's life did, with an anomaly.
The Batcave was quiet. Not the tense, watchful quiet of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the rare, almost peaceful quiet of a night with no major crises, no Joker attacks, no alien invasions, and no—for once, child-induced chaos. Bruce was at the Batcomputer, reviewing case files. Salix was perched on the edge of the massive workstation, legs crossed, sipping what looked like tea but was probably something significantly more caffeinated.
The Batfamily had filtered in one by one, drawn by the gravitational pull of Alfred's promised late-night snacks and the collective inability to stay away from the Cave for more than forty-eight hours.
Dick was already there, doing handstands on the training mats because apparently he couldn't simply sit like a normal person. Damian was glaring at Tim from across the room, though neither could remember why. Tim was on his third coffee, staring at his laptop like it had personally offended him. Stephanie was painting her nails a truly alarming shade of neon green. Cassandra was reading a book upside down. Duke was pretending to meditate but was actually just napping with his eyes open.
Jason had just arrived, still in his Red Hood helmet because he was too lazy to take it off, and he'd immediately commandeered the snack table.
Barbara was in the chair nearest the Batcomputer, working on something on her tablet, though her attention kept flickering to Bruce. She'd noticed something.
Bruce wasn't brooding.
This was, in itself, cause for concern.
Salix set down his cup and gave Bruce a look that the younger vigilantes had learned to recognize: the Look That Meant Chaos Was Coming. It was a subtle thing, a slight crinkle at the corners of his mismatched eyes, a barely perceptible tilt of his head.
"Bruce," Salix said, and there was something in his voice that made Jason pause mid-chew. "I need to tell you something."
Bruce grunted, not looking up from his screen. "Hm."
"Don't 'hm' me. This is important. This is the kind of thing that changes a person."
Now Bruce glanced up, one eyebrow raised. "If this is about the garden gnome incident again—"
"It's not about the garden gnome." Salix's voice was perfectly even, but there was a glint in his eye. "This is about Tom and Jerry."
Dick immediately stopped his handstand, landing in a crouch. "Like, the cartoon?"
"No, like the actual Tom and Jerry. The cat and the mouse. The eternal struggle. The—"
"Salix," Bruce said, and there was already a note of warning in his voice, the kind that usually preceded him telling someone to get to the point. "What about Tom and Jerry?"
Salix paused. And then he took a breath—the kind of breath that storytellers take before they deliver a punchline.
"So," Salix began, and the Batfamily collectively leaned in, drawn by the siren call of an impending story. "Kaminari's friend group had a potluck last week—"
"That sounds domestic," Steph observed, blowing on her nails. "That's cute."
"—and they've been telling this story they heard from this hotel worker," Salix continued, ignoring her. "And this hotel worker had been working the night shift. Graveyard shift. You know the type—bored, tired, seen everything."
Bruce had returned to his screen, but his attention was clearly split. "Mm-hm."
"So the phone rings at like 2 AM," Salix said, and Barbara noticed that Jason had put down his food, his attention fully captured. "And this guy calls down to the front desk. And the receptionist answers."
Salix shifted, mimicking holding a phone to his ear. His voice changed slightly, taking on a mild, unassuming quality. "How would I help you, sir?"
Bruce made a noncommittal noise.
"And the man on the other end of the line says..." Salix paused dramatically. "'My English isn't very good.'"
Jason snorted. "That's literally the first thing he says? Just, like, announces it?"
"That's exactly what he says," Salix confirmed. "Just puts it right out there. No preamble. No 'hello.' Just 'My English isn't very good.'"
Tim had closed his laptop. He was watching Salix with the kind of intensity he usually reserved for cold cases and conspiracy theories.
"And the receptionist, you know, he's just trying to do his job, so he's like, 'Okay, sir.'" Salix's voice shifted back to the bored receptionist. "'Okay.'"
"So the guy says, 'Do you know Tom and Jerry?'"
A beat of silence.
"The cat and mouse," Duke said slowly, now fully awake. "He... called down to the front desk at 2 AM to ask if the receptionist knew about Tom and Jerry?"
"Wait," Stephanie said, her eyes widening. "Wait, wait, wait, the mouse—is that—"
"Jerry is in my room," Salix said, and his voice was so steady, so matter-of-fact, that it took a moment for the implications to sink in.
Damian blinked. Then blinked again. "He called the front desk... to inform them that the mouse from the cartoon was in his room?"
"The receptionist was like, 'Okay, sir,'" Salix continued, and now Barbara could see a tremor in the corner of his mouth, a crack in his composure. "And the guy says, 'Can you bring Tom to my room?'"
Tim choked on his coffee. Coffee went everywhere. He didn't seem to notice.
Dick had his hand clamped over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
"And the receptionist says"—Salix's voice cracked, just slightly—"'No, sir, we don't do this kind of thing.'"
Bruce had gone very still. His screen was still lit, but he wasn't looking at it anymore.
"And the guy says"—Salix was definitely struggling now, his own composure fraying at the edges—"'So you don't do that for me?'"
"Of course sir," the receptionist said.
"And then the next day," Salix said, and he had to pause to breathe, "they found a mouse in the room. And they got a stray cat from the street. And everything was fine."
For a moment, there was silence.
And then Bruce—Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the Batman—made a sound that no one in the room had ever heard him make before.
It started as a snort. Then a huff. Then a wheeze. And then, to the absolute horror and delight of every person in the room, Bruce Wayne started to laugh.
Not the controlled, measured chuckle he sometimes allowed himself. Not the dry, sardonic huff of amusement he occasionally granted particularly clever observations. No. This was the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep in the chest, the kind that couldn't be stopped once it started.
"Oh my god," Stephanie whispered, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "Did Batman just—"
"His English isn't very good," Bruce wheezed, and he had to grip the edge of the Batcomputer desk to keep from falling out of his chair. "His English isn't—Jerry is in my room—"
"It was 2 AM," Salix said, and now he was laughing too, the kind of helpless, breathless laughter that made it hard to talk. "2 AM! And he just—he called down to the front desk—to ask about—"
"Tom and Jerry," Bruce managed, and he was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. "He wanted—he wanted someone to bring Tom to his room—"
"The receptionist was just—" Salix had to stop, had to hug his stomach because he was in actual physical pain from laughing. "He was so professional about it—'No, sir, we don't do that kind of thing'—"
"'And then everything was fine'!" Bruce nearly shouted, and then he was gone again, doubled over, one hand gripping the back of the couch to keep from collapsing.
"His English isn't very good," Tim wheezed, and he was laughing so hard he was starting to cry. "He just—he opens with that—"
"Like that's relevant information," Dick gasped, clinging to a pillar for support. "Like that context matters—"
"He's trying to explain the situation," Jason said, and he'd pulled off his helmet because he couldn't breathe in it, was wiping tears from his eyes. "He knows he's not speaking perfectly, so he's giving the receptionist a heads-up—"
"Jerry is in my room!"
"Can you bring Tom to my room?"
"No sir, we don't do that kind of thing—"
The Cave had descended into chaos. Pure, unadulterated, beautiful chaos.
Bruce was on the floor now, having apparently slid off his chair in the midst of his laughing fit, and he was clutching his stomach, making sounds that could only be described as wheeze-laughing. He hadn't laughed like this in—ever. The last time he'd laughed this hard was probably never, because Bruce Wayne didn't do this. Bruce Wayne was composed. Controlled. He was the goddamn Batman.
And right now, the goddamn Batman was wheezing on the cave floor like a dying creature, tears streaming down his face, because a man had called a hotel at 2 AM to ask if they could bring a cartoon cat to his room to catch a cartoon mouse.
Salix had given up trying to stand and had simply slumped against the couch, his own laughter reduced to silent, full-body shakes.
Tim was on his hands and knees, trying to breathe.
Dick had actually fallen over, and he was lying flat on his back, his laughter echoing off the cave walls.
Damian was pretending he wasn't laughing. He was failing spectacularly.
Stephanie had collapsed into a chair, her neon-green nails forgotten, tears ruining her makeup. "I can't—I can't breathe—his English isn't very good—"
Cassandra was making soft, helpless sounds that might have been laughter—it was hard to tell, because she'd apparently given up on making noise and was just shaking silently.
Duke was sitting on the floor, his head between his knees, shoulders shaking violently.
Barbara had her face in her hands, and if the slight rocking of her shoulders was any indication, she was also losing her composure.
And Jason—Jason was pointing at Bruce with a completely disbelieving expression. "You—you're laughing—at this—I've never seen you laugh at anything—"
"It's the juxtaposition!" Salix managed, waving a hand weakly. "The—the mundane absurdity of it—the man just—he just called down to the front desk—at 2 AM—to ask if they know Tom and Jerry—"
"And the receptionist just rolls with it!" Bruce added, and then he dissolved again.
"The strays," Salix gasped. "They got a stray cat from the street—just any cat—like any old cat would do for catching Jerry—"
"That's the context," Tim finally managed to choke out. "That's the context for everything. His English isn't very good, Jerry is in his room, could you bring Tom—"
"It's a hotel," Jason wheezed. "He's in a hotel. And he sees a mouse. And his first instinct isn't to call housekeeping. It's to—to—do you know Tom and Jerry—"
"Can you bring Tom to my room," Duke repeated, and he started laughing all over again.
Damian finally cracked. A small sound escaped him—something that might have been a giggle, though he would deny it to his dying day—and suddenly he was holding his sides, his composure completely shattered. "This is the most illogical thing I have ever heard," he managed, and his voice was strained. "This is—incompetence of the highest order—"
"He was giving context," Salix wheezed, and the tears were just streaming down his face now. "He had to give context for the request. It wasn't just 'can you bring a cat to my room.' That would be crazy. No, no, he had to explain why. So he established the connection. 'My English isn't very good'—tells the receptionist he might not be expressing himself clearly. 'Do you know Tom and Jerry'—establishes the shared cultural reference point. 'Jerry is in my room'—defines the situation. 'Can you bring Tom to my room'—makes the request. It's—it's a masterclass in communication—"
"We don't do that kind of thing," Bruce gasped, and then he was gone again.
It took a full twenty minutes for the Cave to return to something resembling order.
Bruce had managed to pull himself back into his chair, though his face was flushed and there was a suspicious dampness around his eyes that no one mentioned on pain of death. Salix had recovered enough to sit upright, though every now and then a giggle would escape him and set the whole room off again.
Alfred arrived with a tray of refreshments, took one look at the scene, and raised an eyebrow so perfectly judgmental that it could only have been learned through decades of practice.
"Good evening, Master Bruce. I see you've found something amusing."
Bruce opened his mouth, and then immediately closed it, making a sound that was suspiciously like a repressed laugh.
"You had to be there, Alfred," Salix managed. "It was—it was something else."
Alfred set down the tray and surveyed the room with the calm of a man who had seen absolutely everything. "Shall I assume from the general state of chaos that no one will be requiring any refreshments in the immediate future? Or should I simply leave the tray and return in an hour when everyone has, ah, recollected themselves?"
"An hour might be optimistic, Alfred," Barbara said, and she was still smiling, which was basically unprecedented.
"Very well. I shall return in ninety minutes." Alfred turned to go, and then paused. "Oh, and Master Bruce? Your face is still rather red. I recommend splashing some cold water on it before attempting any sort of patrol. It would be quite unfortunate if the citizens of Gotham were to witness Batman giggling."
"I was not giggling," Bruce said, with as much dignity as he could muster. Which, given the circumstances, wasn't much.
"Of course not, Master Bruce. My apologies." Alfred's voice was perfectly even, perfectly professional, and perfectly devastating. "I shall endeavor to forget that in the past twenty minutes, I have heard you produce sounds more commonly associated with a dying donkey than the Dark Knight."
The room erupted again.
Much later, when the laughter had faded to occasional giggles and everyone had finally managed to get themselves under control, Jason came to sit next to Salix.
"I just want you to know," Jason said, and his voice was serious, "I could have died tonight. I could have actually died. Because you made Batman laugh. Like, really laugh."
Salix smiled, soft and slightly exhausted. "He needed it."
"Everyone in this room needed it." Jason gestured vaguely at the Cave, at his family—his ridiculous, chaotic, insane family. "We all spend so much time being serious, being the vigilantes, being the Dark Knight and the Red Hood and Nightwing and whatever the fuck Damian is today—we forget sometimes. We forget we're allowed to just... laugh about stupid shit."
"It's not stupid," Salix said, and his voice was quiet. "It's important. This is the thing that keeps you human. This is the thing that keeps you from becoming what you're fighting."
Jason was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."
And then, because he was Jason Todd, he ruined the moment by adding, "Also, the fact that Bruce Wayne—the goddamn Batman—just laughed so hard he fell off his chair is going to live rent-free in my head for the rest of my life. I'm never going to forget this. I'm going to remember this on my deathbed."
"I will be there, Jaylan," Salix said, and his voice was warm. "And I will remind you."
Jason snorted. "You're a menace."
"I know."
---
Three Days Later...
Bruce was in a meeting. A very important meeting. With very important people. About very important business.
And then his phone buzzed.
It was Salix.
Bruce glanced at it, frowning slightly. Salix knew he was in a meeting. He wouldn't text unless it was an emergency.
He discreetly checked the message.
Salix: Jerry is in my office. Can you bring Tom? My English isn't very good.
Bruce made a sound. A sound that was not a laugh, because he was the goddamn Batman and he was in a business meeting and he had a reputation to maintain. A sound that was more of a—a cough. A strange, strangled cough.
The board members looked at him with concern.
"Mr. Wayne? Are you feeling unwell?"
Bruce took a deep breath. Then another. Then he said, with the kind of composure that had been honed over decades of managing impossible situations:
"His English isn't very good."
And then he excused himself from the meeting and went to the bathroom to wheeze-laugh into a paper towel for five solid minutes.