Archive of Our Own

The garden of the manor is unimaginably large, and labyrinth-like. A date had told Bruce once — an exchange student he’d brought over one summer when he was still in school — that it reminded her of an old movie set, or something out of a fairytale. What with its numerous pathways, shrubbery and ornate sculptures. Bruce had hummed and said it was more to his parents’ taste.

Before it had been just him and Alfred, there had been a gardener who would work the grounds once a week. Bruce would scarcely run into her — he was a small child in a very large manor — but he would often see his mother entertaining her with conversation.

Since his parents’ death, however, the garden has been left mostly to be reclaimed by nature, the once-running fountain now only outpouring flowery vines and moss. Some days, the partly abandoned site seems haunting, but on a hot summer’s day like this it inspires a kind of wistful romance.

He wonders if his father had ever envisioned the Wayne Manor gardens being used for an occasion as simple as a barbecue.

He supposes he should feel a little ashamed about it. Then again, he reasons, his father was a snob about a lot of meaningless things.

Clark stokes the coal inside the grill with a poker, his face relaxed in a rare moment of contentment.

“Are you really going to trust a Midwesterner with a grill?” Lois says to Bruce, teasing.

Clark snaps his head so he can feign pouting at his wife.

“I’ve been to Kansas city,” Bruce replies coyly, “The food isn’t all bad.”

Lois cackles and drapes herself across the outdoor loveseat. She slides her sunglasses back over her eyes and remarks, “No pressure, Smallville.”

It’s early afternoon, and the guests have only just begun to crawl in. The Kents, in the very embodiment of country hospitality, arrived early to help Bruce prepare for the onslaught. The guest list for this event is extensive, and people he actually sincerely cares about. Although Bruce isn’t sure who will be in attendance given it’s a semi-important holiday, he wants his home to look the best it can for those who do arrive.

Alfred has made himself comfortable on the porch, having an uncommon day off at Bruce and the kids’ insistence. He’s enjoying a lengthy arrangement of afternoon tea. Bruce had spent the early morning manically pacing around the kitchen trying to throw the perfect meal for Alfred together before Damian had taken one look at him, scoffed, and seized the pan right out of his hands.

(He had fed the remains to the dogs. Bruce was too relieved to be offended.)

But Bruce was not so irresponsible a parent that he wanted his thirteen year old to toil around a stove for him. Which is how he resorted to having Barry Allen zip around his kitchen at eight in the morning, meticulously arranging miniature sandwiches. Bruce still couldn’t decide if he was shocked at how good of a cook the man was.

“Somebody’s gotta feed me,” Barry had explained with a shrug when Bruce had gone digging for a reason why.

He remains at the manor after, still dressed in his ‘(you wish you could) kiss the cook’ apron that he had definitely not found in the manor’s kitchen, though he is now relaxing on the grass entertaining some of the younger children. Wally’s son Wade bounces up and down in his lap, and the twins are unrelentingly vicious in their scuffling with one another, both covered in dirt.

“So much for Father’s Day,” Wally sighs, thumbing at his new necklace. A simple piece of clay embedded with the flash symbol, attached to a string.

Dick looks at his friend and raises an eyebrow, “You don’t have to keep it on,” he argues.

“I’ll die before I take this off,” comes Wally’s immediate response.

Bruce, who has many paintings and mugs and bracelets and other poorly made trinkets scattered throughout his bedroom, can relate.

Satisfied with his surveillance of the group around him, he glances over his shoulder. On the other side of the broad stretch of grass he spies Diana and her friends relaxing in the shade of a tree. Thinking Dick and Wally responsible enough to keep extra eyes on the grill, he approaches.

Diana and her guests — a short-statured woman wearing a very sixties reminiscent one-piece suit and a slender blonde man — have organised a large picnic arrangement to enjoy the barbecue on. Despite all his worries over appearances, Bruce is quite fond of this decision. It’s a casual recluse from the haphazard organisation for the party.

Diana always appears angelic, but in casual wear, her otherworldly beauty stands out even more so. She sits as regally on the grassy floor as one possibly can. When she sees Bruce, her smile widens.

“Bruce,” she greets, gesturing to present company, “I haven’t introduced you to Etta and Steve before, have I?”

The woman named Etta smiles at him very cordially, but there’s a slight tenseness in her face that Bruce is remiss to notice. Of course Bruce can deduct the reason; Diana probably hadn’t let her friends know her friend Bruce was Bruce Wayne, because of that persona Diana doesn’t care.

Bruce is not in a mood to put up a front today, however, not when it’s spent with so many people he’s arduously learned to trust.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” He tells them from a respectful distance, not inviting himself closer to kiss anyone’s hand, or flirt, or whatever would be expected on him at any other social event, “Diana’s told me a lot about you.”

And truthfully, Diana has. Bruce knows they are good people. If his leniency leads them to decode his other identity, he can excuse it. He doubts it’d be used against him.

“Etta was the first woman I ever got to know from Man’s World,” Diana had explained to him once, “When I left home, I’d been afraid of losing the sisterhood that came easily when with any of my people. I had been worried the women of Man’s World would be distrusting and divided. Etta showed me I’d thought wrong. She hadn’t understood me, and yet she’d been kind to me all the same.”

And the blonde man, who was surely the same Steve Diana often included as present in many anecdotes, Bruce knew to be the subversion of a typical serviceman. Sensitive and at times defiant. Sat beneath the manor’s magnolia tree, the two traded many subtle looks of almost giddy affection with one another.

If Bruce could picture Diana with any man, it’d be that one, he muses.

Diana takes a sip of soda she must’ve scavenged from one of the many coolers Bruce has left scattered across the garden and turns to Etta to remark, “This is the friend I’ve told you about. The one who has the modified BMW R1300GS.”

Etta nearly chokes on her soda hearing the words, turning Bruce with a reignited enthusiasm in her eyes, “You modified a bike like that?!”

Bruce stifles a laugh, smiling, “Are you too much of a purist to seek improvements, Commander?”

She dismisses the title with a wave of the hand, “Call me Etta, please. And yes. God knows only a Wayne would spend thirty grand on a bike just to rip it apart — if you’ll excuse me saying so.”

The conversation continues in much of the same light-hearted vein. Bruce takes joy in seeing Diana so at ease, being able to acquaint himself with those who are the most important to his friend.

New arrivals begin to pour in around them in waves, but the most disruptive of them all arrives at the very end of the foreseeable estate, some of them descending from the sky. Bruce politely excuses himself and putters off to meet them at the foot of the garden.

“I bought everybody,” Hal says as soon as he takes note of Bruce’s presence, “You’re welcome.”

Behind him, John is attempting to corral the group into some semblance of stability. At John’s side, Guy is having more success in doing so. Though maybe only because of slightly more forceful means.

(Bruce watches one of the other lanterns — a young man with cropped black hair — summon the glowing construct of a huge cartoon hammer to bonk Guy on the head. He struggles to fight off his grin.)

Bruce averts his eyes back to Hal, “You bought Kyle too, I hope?” Then he brazenly adds, “It is Father’s Day, after all.”

“And I bought my father with me,” Hal retorts, pointedly tugging on the ‘JORDAN’ label of his weathered flight jacket, “Yeah, the kid’s here. All of ‘em, I mean. Seems like the recruits get younger every year.”

“Or maybe you’re getting older.”

Hal’s face curls up into an ugly snarl, “Oh, har har. I know for a fact you’re older than me, Brucie. Your birthday is public information.”

Bruce very carefully avoids the revelation that Hal apparently researched when his birthday was and diverts his attention to the net-like construct floating a few inches away from them, carrying un-orderly rows of containers.

“I told them it wasn’t a potluck,” Hal explains when he notices Bruce’s stare, “but Jess said it felt rude to show up without food, and then they all started copying her.”

“I see,” Bruce says, humming. The sight of it is perhaps the final cog in the wheel that makes Bruce’s head start to turn.

With a polite farewell and greeting to the other now-scattering lanterns, he briskly walks back over to what’s arguably the main attraction of the party — the grill. Bruce takes note of more and more guests and plus ones as he drifts across the long stretch between the foot of the garden and the outdoor cooking area.

As soon as he’s within the shadow of the outdoor kitchen’s ivy-coated gazebo, he calls out to Clark.

His Kryptonian friend is sat atop a bar stool, drinking out of a cocktail glass topped with a tiny umbrella that’s dwarfed in his hands. Bruce sees his brows shoot to his hairline at his own fast approach.

“We don’t have enough chairs,” Bruce tells him as soon as he’s at his side, worrying.

Clark blinks at him a few times before the smile reappears on his face, “Oh! Is that all? I could fly to the farm and fetch some. I’m sure we have an old bench or something…”

“We don’t need chairs,” Lois says dismissively, using her free hand to wave the idea away.

She’s since started on the grill herself, and is repeatedly poking Jon with the butt-end of the spatula whenever he tries to swipe one of the burgers.

(“Moooom!” He whines, frowning. Bruce wants to commend Lois’ resistance against her son’s puppy eyes. When Jason was little, Bruce had been too weak to deny him anything.)

Lois rolls her eyes at her son’s antics and elaborates, “Diana’s put out picnic blankets, there’s seats on the porch… hell, some of them have chose to sit on the grass instead.”

Bruce casts his eyes over the garden to see that Lois’ words ring true, and yet he can’t help but feel some sort of worry climbing up his throat. He was hoping the party would look better than this. More put together.

“Hey,” Clark places a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts, “Lois is right. It’s no big deal. As long as everybody’s happy, right?”

Bruce nods. At the back of his mind, he wonders if this’ll be the one day where everybody is happy.

“Master Bruce,” a voice calls out.

Alfred suddenly appears to the left of Bruce’s — and subsequently Clark’s — side. He’s wearing a thatched hat on his head that Bruce doesn’t remember anyone in the family owning. Which isn’t really to his taste. If Bruce cared about what his butler wore off-the-clock, he’d be suspicious.

“Alfred,” He starts with a frown, “You should be relaxing.”

Bruce doesn’t think any of his guest would be so callous to disturb such a hardworking man on his rare day off. Unless of course, he speculates, that Alfred is still enjoying a rare day off, and this I s simply part of some elaborate distraction…

He shuts down his skewering train of thought when Alfred tells him about something he should really be concerned about; “It’s no trouble, my boy. I’m only afraid there’s been a sudden departure from the party.”

It appears someone has stolen the airfryer from the manor kitchen.

Alfred explains this to him wearing a very grave expression, as is in line with the man’s dry sense of humor. Bruce can’t be amused or bothered by these minor antics, as the news has made a small spark of excitement kindle within him.

A mystery, Bruce thinks, his eyes lighting up at the very thought. As much as he would love to indulge in so rare an occasion such as all his loved ones gathered in the most special place in his life, he has the unfortunate ailment of not being able to let a mystery go unsolved. It’s the way he’s always been, since he was only six years old and searching for a missing puzzle piece in the library with his mother.

Alfred has known him longer than that, which is why though mid-way through his sentence about how ‘the children will be devastated, I’m sure,’ he knows there is no further point in talking.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred raises his voice slightly, capturing a small amount of the other’s attention, “I trust you have this handled from here on?” In an uncharacteristic show of liveliness, he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, “I have a margarita I must attend to.”

“Yes Alfred. You may leave me,” Bruce replies, wringing his hands in front of his face and ducking into the darkest corner of the room to deliberate.

Bruce does this every time he has a new case to chew on. Alfred, who has endured his friend and surrogate son’s peculiarities for longer than anyone else in their household has been alive, grabs a curly straw from the cabinet and leaves.

Outside, the party proceeds with a lively but sensible fervour. Bruce broods by the counter next to the kitchen window and puzzles over this. Who will help him investigate this case?

Duke still has a party hat tied around his head when Bruce leads him to the crime scene.

He stands with his hands on his hips, face incredulous, “I am not using my ghost vision just because someone stole your airfryer, B. You’re worth like a million bucks. You’re a literal Mister Warbucks.”

(Duke has taken to calling Bruce this quite frequently. He made Damian watch Annie with him a few nights ago.)

“A mystery is afoot,” Bruce insists, and Duke groans and throws his hands up in the air.

Still, he remains stubbornly in place, and so Bruce does another routine inspection. If the other refuses to use his powers, then Bruce will analyse the crime scene the old-fashioned way.

The countertop on which the airfryer had sat is a cut of thick, grainy marble. The now-empty spot perturbs awkwardly in Bruce’s view, a signal of something missing from the arrangement of the kitchen utensils. The window beside it is ajar, he notes. Bruce peers over the countertop, dusts a finger over it to see where a thin layer of dust has dispersed.

The analysis does not need to be so thorough, though, because in his search Bruce finds another clue.

He draws Duke’s attention to him with a gasp.

“Look!” He urges, pointing to the scuff left on the marble counter, “The bandit left a clue.”

Duke, with a heavy air of weariness, slowly approaches Bruce’s side.

“Perhaps a shoe left this mark?” He provokes.

Duke, to Bruce’s glee, rises to the bait.

“No,” he shakes his head and points to the offending clue, “The cut is too deep to be a shoe mark, it would’ve had to be an object sharp enough to cut into marble — NO! Nope!”

Duke then pulls back, waving his arms in front of his torso in an ‘x’ pattern, “I am not investigating this case with you! You can’t make me!”

“But son,” Bruce turns to him, frowning.

Duke wags a finger at him, “Not. Investigating,” he repeats stubbornly, and then waltzes out the kitchen.

The detective in Bruce is hungry enough that Duke’s rejection doesn’t immobilise him. The case still needs to be solved, and with this newfound clue, the list of suspects has been whittled down significantly.

(Bruce has a healthy amount of respect for his friends and colleagues, but he doesn’t think the majority of them above stealing his kitchen appliances. Except for Clark and Diana. They are too polite for that.

And J’onn, perhaps. What would J’onn even do with an airfryer?

Bruce mentally straightens himself. He must focus on the task.)

Now the search for suspects has been amended to two things; people currently in attendance of this gathering, and those who have sharp objects on their person.

But almost all of them are out of costume. Perhaps the Lanterns would be the most applicable, given they have the power to summon whatever construct they’d like.

Then it comes to him.

On the other end of the estate, target practice has devolved into an arrow-measuring contest (if you’ll excuse the crude metaphor).

The airfryer was declared missing approximately thirty minutes ago. Most guests arrived around fifty minutes ago, which Bruce assumes would mean Oliver and his entourage appeared around that same time. If he can conclude how long target practice has been going on, Bruce reasons, he can see if any of the Arrow-themed party have a flimsy alibi.

Bruce decides to ask rather pointedly, strutting straight over to Oliver’s side,“When did you arrive?”

Oliver jumps and prods his own torso with his elbow, glaring at Bruce venomously and lowering his bow. Behind him, his sister Emiko snickers.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be such a creepy fucker without the suit on,” he complains.

“Pardon me,” Bruce apologises. It is clear to either men that he doesn’t wholly mean it, but they move past it anyway, “You didn’t answer the question?”

Oliver lets out a long sigh of relenting and hands his bow over to his son, Connor, before leading Bruce away from the archery stands by the shoulder. Bruce lets himself be led, but he spares a glance at the resuming competition over his shoulder. Connor hits the eye of the target and splits another arrow right down the middle. At this point it resembles more of a feathery pincushion than a canvas, which is a good contribution towards the group’s collective alibi.

“Why do you wanna know?” Oliver asks him when he’s pulled him within safe distance of the long-range weapons.

“You’re still avoiding answering,” Bruce points out.

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose and grunts, “If I tell you, will you tell me why you’re asking so insistently?”

Bruce stares at him. Ollie seems to take that as his agreement.

“We got here at 5:20. We were late,” he squints his eyes and tries to read Bruce with incredibly difficulty, cringing as he plows on, “I’m… sorry? I didn’t know that was important to you?”

“Your punctuality only matters to me in a professional setting,” Bruce rattles out instinctively.

“Oh,” Oliver blinks, “Okay, then. So what’s bothering you?”

“The airfryer has been stolen.”

A beat passes. Ahead of them, Mia’s arrow beats Connor’s landing by half a second, and she jumps up from the grass and loudly whoops. Bruce hears a familiar cat screeching from atop a nearby tree.

(He makes a mental note to let Damian know that Alfred the Cat is somehow stuck up there again.)

“You’re serious,” Oliver gapes.

“I know,” Bruce nods, agreeing, “I must admit I’m having trouble trying to identify a motive—“

But Ollie interrupts him brazenly, lifting up his hands between them, “No, no, no. I’m not saying it’s a serious crime. I wouldn’t even call it a petty crime. You’re a billionaire, Bruce. You fund more than half of the fucking city. Just buy another airfryer.”

Bruce sputters, “You wouldn’t want to know if somebody stole yours?”

“I would be thankful if someone stole mine,” Ollie refutes, “at least then I wouldn’t have to replace it every time one of the girls breaks it.”

Bruce’s brows furrow, and he’s temporarily distracted by the information, “Who’s breaking your airfryer that often?”

“Lian, mostly.”

“The fourteen-year-old?”

“What can I say?” Ollie smiles, “She has her dad’s temper.”

Ollie and his family arrived thirty-five minutes ago, Bruce thinks, the pull of the mystery regaining its power over him now that his other curiosity has been satiated. That gives them very little time between arrival and the disappearance of the airfryer. Unless, of course, the theft was pre-meditated, and they acted upon it immediately…

Well, Bruce would have to interview another party to discern what time they began to set up the targets, and how many of them were present.

“Listen, how can you even be sure someone stole it?” Oliver presses, reading his mind (which is mighty suspicious and should be noted), “Maybe one of the kids broke it and threw it away.”

Bruce scratches his chin and hums, “Airfrying food during a barbecue? Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver shrugs, “Picky eater, maybe?”

This only makes Bruce more certain Oliver is trying to throw the scent off of himself and his affiliates.

After talking to witness of the informal and ongoing archery competition and searching through the two cars Oliver and his party arrived in, Bruce comes to the disappointing conclusion that their alibi is incredibly sound. He moves them to the bottom of the list of suspects.

(He doesn’t remove them completely. Apparently Roy disappeared for ‘like five minutes’ during setup. A toilet break, or a burglary?)

He does a patrol around the outside portion of the estate in as unassuming a manner as possible. It’s significantly easier to avoid scrutiny without the mask or cape, but then also scarcely anybody else is aware he’s working on a case at the moment.

It’s only when he stands near the shade of the gazebo again he realises, his eyes sweeping over the long stretch of grass covering his family’s land, that the thief could be someone who wasn’t even on the guest list at all.

After all, the majority of his invitees have taken liberties with Bruce’s recommendations for a plus-one, some bringing along plus-fives or, god forbid, plus-twenties. Bruce then wonders if it’s hypocritical of him to begrudge them of it. He himself has an unusual amount of children.

Arthur stands at one of the setup buffet tables nearest to Bruce, undisturbed by his fellow Leaguer’s quiet scheming.

He pops a small garnished slab of meat staked with a cocktail stick into his mouth, and tosses the stick into the bin with a tut.

“Needs more salt,” he mutters.

Bruce can hear Clark’s wail from a dozen feet away.

The young man stood at Arthur’s side rolls his eyes — judging from his blonde locs of hair and proximity to the older man, Bruce safely assumes he is the Jackson Hyde Arthur has told him so much about.

“You’ve said that about everything,” he points out. He has two plates balancing in his hands, and they are both stacked incredibly tall, “Didn’t anyone teach you to be grateful for free food?”

Arthur guffaws at him. His voice gets all haughty like it does when he gets offended, “Have I not taken you to copious amounts of royal banquets?”

“You have,” Jackson says. There’s a long pause, and he tosses a potato slice in his mouth and stares at Arthur like he’s trying to make a point out of it, “And I never complained about the food. Even when I wanted to.”

Arthur rather dramatically gasps. But the sound grows distant to Bruce as J’onn approaches him. Appearance wise, the Martian seems to be stuck at a weird crossroads between not altering his form to a human one and wearing human garments over it. Bruce briefly wonders if he has ever seen J’onn in this combination before, but once the other starts speaking he casts it out of his mind.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, eyes sweeping across the scene with blank worry, the way his concern often shows.

Bruce dismisses it, “I think their argument is fairly light-hearted.”

“Ah,” J’onn nods, and then repositions himself closer to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce, “And what about you?”

After being unnoticed for so long, Bruce almost squirms under the attention.

“What about me?”

“You have been moving around the premises quite erratically. I have noticed.”

Ah. Bruce inwardly winces. He had thought he’d been using discretion.

“Did anybody else notice?”

Bruce hopes whomever else is someone fairly reasonable, but thankfully J’onn answers, “No.”

The words cease, and Bruce feels a prodding in the side of his head. Like a cat pawing at the door of his mind. He doesn’t have the courage to look J’onn in the eye, but he lets him in anyway.

His voice rings around his skull like wind chimes, ‘I am aware this celebrated day is prone to bringing up some unresolved feelings within you. Would you want to discuss it privately?’

Bruce can’t look J’onn in the eye, but he can’t help but smile at the thoughtfulness.

‘No’, he projects his thoughts in response, ‘I am handling it well. But thank you for your offer.’

He feels the warmth of his friend’s presence wash over him, a mental embrace of sorts, before the influence of another in his head subsides.

(Bruce has been told a few times before that his mind is an unpleasant one to be in. The issue is so small and situational that it would be ridiculous to feel insecure over it, so he doesn’t, and yet… he feels a small sense of gratitude towards J’onn, for treating him it with so much normalcy and courtesy besides.

But these feelings are overly sentimental, and Bruce is not in the mood to share sentiment today.)

“So there is nothing puzzling you?” J’onn checks one final time. He has stepped further away, supposedly to join another cluster of acquaintances hanging nearby.

Bruce could tell J’onn about the mystery that’s giving him a bit of thought exercise, but that would put the other at risk of dropping everything else to help him, so he doesn’t.

But another friend — he might be of help.

He walks slowly back to the outdoor kitchen. It’s relatively close to where Bruce was calculating his next move, and so he doesn’t need to rush his approach.

When he re-enters the invisible threshold that the kitchen’s panelled floors create, he sees Clark has been relegated back to the grill.  Presumably by his wonderful wife, who is — Bruce sharply turns to look — clinking glasses with Iris (the first) and gossiping about journalistic inner circles. At least that’s what Bruce assumes the two would be talking about.

Clark offers him a lazy greeting. Bruce watches him dust an amount of salt over sausages that is a significant increase to what he had done before.

“Have you heard Selina come in?”

Clark’s brows furrow in thought. And then he doubtfully answers, “No? I don’t think so? I wouldn’t be able to recognise her heartbeat anyway.”

Bruce accepts this particular venture is defeatist, and flops down onto the chair beside Clark with a sigh.

Clark keeps his eyes trained on his work (and the fire), but his head tilted in Bruce’s direction.

“Why are you looking for her?” He asks, “I thought you two were on the outs.”

“Our split was amicable,” Bruce explains, “She’s supposed to be in Budapest.”

Clark nods, apparently satisfied with this answer.

But the thought of Clark not knowing this and still suspecting a break-up gives him pause, “Why would you think we split up if you didn’t know that?”

For a second, moving at super speed, Clark takes his eyes off the grill and whirls his head around to get a good view of the garden. Then he turns back to Bruce, “Because Khoa’s here.”

“He is?” Bruce blinks. He hadn’t spotted him. Inside the manor, perhaps? Then shakes his head. Now is not the time for distractions. He needs to stay on task; “Someone stole the airfryer.”

“Your love life is a mess,” Arthur yells from a lounge chair. Bruce does the sensible thing and ignores him.

“Is that what Alfred was talking about earlier? Huh.”

A piece of bacon falls through the grate. Clark plucks it out of the coals with much fuss and sets it back in place. Bruce knows he can’t feel the heat, but he squirms a little anyway.

“Could be Khoa,” Clark proposes, half-interested.

“Perhaps,” Bruce mutters. Louder, he says, “Could you…”

He trails off. He could ask for Clark’s help. But Clark is already helping him. He is manning the grill, and making a considerable amount of the food being eaten at this party, and Bruce should leave him alone.

So he does.

“See ya, B,” Clark calls out as he stalks off.

Bruce doesn’t need to reply. His friend knows there are no hard feelings.

A couple moments later, with the kind of stealthiness Bruce has honed for most of his lifetime, he appears at Duke’s side.

Duke spits out the straw of his lemonade (it better be lemonade) and pouts, “I already told you, B! I’m not helping.”

“I will not take another investigative partner for this case,” Bruce insists.

“Look — that’s sweet of you and all, but some of us are trying to enjoy a party here…”

Helplessly, Duke gestures to the small crowd around him. His point becomes kind of moot when the rest of the crowd is other detectives trained specially by Bruce’s same mentality.

“Case?” Tim echoes, “What case?”

“Did you guys run off to investigate something without us?” Steph whines, “Not cool.”

“Agreed,” Cass nods, taking a sip of her Bloody Mary (Bruce had stocked up on them only for her. Everyone else in the family detests that drink). Her eyes flit over Bruce. She lets him see it, lets him know she’s reading him, “You should be relaxing.” She says.

“I am relaxed,” Bruce argues.

Dick, who has had his arms folded across his torso and been staring at Bruce semi-incredulously since he appeared beside him, scoffs, “When are you ever?”

“You don’t understand,” Bruce ducks his head and beckons them further into the circle to debrief them.

Distantly, his mind makes the comparison between this action and an overly passionate little league coach telling his team to huddle in.

“This is an informal case. I am investigating for personal reasons. I do not need assistance further than Duke.”

“Feel like I should be offended,” Duke quips. He puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, lightly pushing him away. The group huddle loosens. “Someone stole the airfryer.”

Steph frowns and lets out a little “aw,” but beyond that, none of them seem particularly interested.

“That’s it?” Dick’s voice is weighty with judgement, “Why don’t you just buy a new one?”

“Because I want to deduce who stole it.”

Duke looks over at Dick and shrugs, “A mystery is afoot, or whatever.”

Dick stares longingly into the distance and sighs, like he’s remembering an old flame, “Isn’t one always?”

Through a revealing conversation with Dinah and Barbara (during which they would repeatedly forget he was there), Bruce discovers that there may be other witnesses closer to the scene of the crime inside the manor.

He finds an offshoot of Justice League members who all possess a rather specific  resume scattered around the library. It’s Zatanna’s melodic chatter that beckons him to gently pry open the door to the room, and as soon as she turns her head to spot him, her smile broadens.

The jacketed blonde sat on the arm of her chair huffs. He is less delighted at Bruce’s appearance.

“His majesty finally decides to grace us with his presence then, eh?” Constantine’s grin is crooked, like his tie.

Zatanna swats him on the arm, “Shush,” to Bruce, she says, “He’s right, though. I thought you’d come say hi.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Bruce confesses, feeling a sudden awkwardness surge within him.

Zatanna frowns. Cataloguing more of the room — which includes Zachary napping on the opposite-facing armchair as well as Doctor Nelson and Madame Xanadu chatting in front of the window — he takes notice of an old picture frame clutched in her manicured hands.

“Of course I did,” She holds up the frame to show him.

Not that she needs to, because he’s looked at it enough times to identity it by location alone, but it is nice to see them again. Both of their fathers; Zatanna’s dressed in his very best show garb and Bruce’s as casual as he could possibly get, which is in a sweater-vest and slacks. It would’ve been taken in the aftermath of Zatara’s show, then.

“I didn’t know you had this,” She sets the picture down on the side table and smiles as she puts it there, mind drawn into the memory, “The amount of shows you were backstage for… normal people would probably kill for that kind of treatment.”

“You liked spoiling all the tricks your father would do before he did them,” Bruce remembers.

Zatanna snickers at his reminder, “I showed you the old rabbit in the hat and you freaked out and bit my hand.”

“So he’s always been a bit of a creeper, then?” Constantine remarks.

“We were both weird children,” Zatanna answers. Her tone is light, but her face seems a little more defensive.

Bruce wonders why he doesn’t reach out to her as often anymore.

It’s no matter. There’s a mystery to solve.

“I came to ask you something,” he tepidly begins.

Zatanna and Constantine’s faces both light up like dogs when you offer them treat — a slightly offensive analogy if not accurate. Clearly they both smell a mystery cooking.

Bruce continues, “Have you seen or heard anything suspicions since your arrival? From other parts of the manor? … Specifically the west wing?”

Zatanna’s face mires with confusion, “What exactly do you mean?”

“I have to agree with the missus—“ Zatanna swats his thigh this time for that name, “what exactly should we be looking for? Spirits? Demons? Pesky goblins?”

“Goblins?” Bruce echoes, disgusted, “In my family’s manor?”

Constantine shrugs.

But Zatanna is here and she brought him along and so, Bruce will not punch him in his annoying little face. That would be incredibly unprofessional.

He re-postures himself again.

“Nothing like that — I don’t think — just strange human behaviours.”

For a moment, the two share an undecipherable look. Then Zatanna turns back to Bruce; “Nothing like that, no.”

“And you’ve been here a couple hours?”

“Yes.”

A disappointing outcome, then. Without an excuse, Bruce can’t help but feel a tenseness settle in between his shoulders.

(It should be unfounded. Zatanna should be easy to talk to.)

He forces himself to stay a little longer. Look her in the eyes again. He says, “You should come to the gardens, as well. They are.. better prepared. And it’s hot out.”

He looses his resolve and relents. His gaze averts to the two magicians stood by the closed panelled window.

“… And I am shocked you kept the windows shut on a day like this.”

Zatanna shrugs, dismissive, “There’s kind of a draft in here,” she says. Then she smiles again, “But I’ll talk to you later, Bruce?”

She will, If he’s any good at keeping his own promises.

The next time Bruce meets up with his investigative partner for this case, it’s on the manor’s rooftop.

Bruce nearly falls because the hem of his dress pants catches on a janky roof tile. With a grunt, he heaves himself upward. He’s not exactly in mission gear.

Duke sits a little ways ahead of him. He taps at his phone with a sullen expression. Bruce has retained enough information about teenagers and privacy to know to approach a safe distance from the phone screen.

“Everything alright?” He asks.

Duke’s body shifts slightly. His answer isn’t immediate, and that’s how Bruce knows something is wrong.

He takes a seat beside him and waits. Gotham city bridge lies in the distance ahead of them.

“Just cousin Jay texting me,” Duke says, turning off his phone with the click of a thumb.

It’s not unusual, but his change in demeanour is.

“Is there a problem?” Bruce prods.

Duke chews on the inside of his cheek. His eyes, previously on the expansive view in front of them, shift to his sneakers. Bruce waits patiently.

“I’m avoiding seeing my parents.” He confesses.

Bruce hums.

“It’s just…” Duke continues, “When I was a kid, we didn’t have much money, y’know? My dad always said it didn’t bother him as long as I got him something, but I thought… once I got old enough, and I had a little of my own money, I could treat him to a Father’s Day meal or something.”

His mouth quirks into a smile, only for a second, before it slips away. Bruce knows the feeling. Nostalgia you could drown in. A present comparably disappointing.

“But now I’m older, and I got a little of my own money, and I still can’t take him out.”

Bruce swallows. His eyes are drawn back to the horizon. The city lies ahead, and Bruce lies atop his mansion on a distant isolated precipice. This city’s made orphans of so many innocent children. Bruce has always mourned that sort of predicament, but Duke’s is the only one that might actually be his fault.

“Does it get any better?” The kid asks.

He looks smaller out of costume, Bruce muses. Or maybe the tugging strings of the party hat make his ears look bigger.

“It can,” Bruce answers. Honestly, because that’s the least he owes him, “with the right people.”

Duke’s eyes finally drift from the laces of his shoes, rising to meet his own. There’s a quiet, drawn out moment, but it’s scarcely recognisable in the small silent world the santicty of the rooftop creates. Duke’s nose scrunches in a snort.

“That’s a little corny. But thanks anyway, B.”

Bruce’s lips curl into a smile, “You write poetry,” he says in response.

Duke’s mouth falls open, and he squeaks, flustered, “So what?”

Bruce didn’t want to do this, but the ongoing pattern of the narrowing list of suspects leaves him no choice. A confrontation between the two of them must be had, and before this suspect flees.

Which he is inclined to do. Especially at family events.

Bruce can only imagine how awkward this interaction will be, given that it is taking place on Father’s Day, but he must continue his pursuit of justice nonetheless.

The westernmost part of the garden located closest to the gate (an ideal escape route, Bruce notes) sits comfortably in the shade that the manor provides, and has been claimed by a particular subsection of Titans affiliates. They appear to preventatively have scared off any potential unwanted interactions by blasting jarring music from a jaunty boombox.

Of the many faces in the crowd, Bruce is able to pick out only a few. As he passes through and his shoulder grazes a curiously blue-coloured individual with striking teeth, he wonders how it is that Titans seem to multiply from one another when any one is invited to an event. He spies Rose Wilson sat crossed-legged on the grass, a red-coloured boy hanging over her shoulder as she tries to… meditate, or something else Bruce is unfamiliar with. In the most shadowy corner Dick’s teammates Rachel and Kori’andr quietly converse, and Zachary seems to have reassigned himself to uncomfortably sit in the very crux of the crowd.

Bruce spots Jason sat a few mere feet away from the boombox, sitting atop an old stone-carved bench. He has his cheek resting on his fist, absently staring into the distance. Bruce first assumes the young man trying to fast-talk him is Clark’s Conner, but as he approaches closer, he resolves the man doesn’t bear any of Conner’s resemblance to Luthor at all.

As soon as his second eldest (first? Third? Semantics) spots him walking towards him, he shifts himself upright. Bruce doesn’t have time to deduce who exactly the company Jason’s keeping is before the young man flies off.

So definitely a Kryptonian, Bruce notes. His family has always had an affinity for them.

He refocuses his attention on his adopted son. To the task at hand.

“Jaylad,” Bruce begins softly, living up to a once comparison that he often treats an angry child like a scared cat.

Jason, who has built an immunity to his pseudo-father’s grovelling, immediately explodes, “Oh my god. I cannot believe you, Bruce — no, I didn’t steal your fucking airfryer. Seriously? What, just because of my upbringing—“

“You have threatened to steal it several times in the last few months,” Bruce intercepts calmly.

Jason’s rampage is cut short, and his face twists awkwardly, “Mine is broken.”

“So you took mine?”

“No. I actually didn’t steal it this time,” he makes a show of crossing his fingers over his chest, “Cross my heart.”

Bruce loves his son, but his promises mean nothing.

He files him away as a possible suspect and continues on. As the exits the crowded clearing, Jason’s voice follows his retreat.

“Yeah. Happy Father’s Day, B.”

The sun is just beginning to set. Bruce is tired. He is frustrated. He is supposedly the World’s Greatest Detective, and yet today he proves so insufficient that he can’t even solve the mystery of a stolen kitchen appliance.

He sits on the rim of the fountain and ruminates on this. He dips a hand into the basin, but water no longer flows through the structure. It dried out after Bruce stopped maintaining the garden. He was only a boy, but he could’ve gotten someone to look after it. He knew it needed taken care of.

Grief has a way of stunting everything’s growth, he supposes.

The thought is bitter, and despite all logic regretful. It makes a sudden anger rise within Bruce that traps itself inside his chest. It makes his ribs ache. His thoughts can’t help but return to that stupid airfryer.

Why did it matter so much, who stole it? He’d just buy another. Maybe two — it’d stop Tim and Steph constantly fighting over it.

Before this day came, Bruce had truly believed he’d grown to the point of trusting these people, the ones Bruce had finally been able to find kinship with. So why couldn’t he grant one of them a meaningless kitchen appliance? Didn’t they deserve more than that from him, anyway?

Perhaps that was never the mystery that he’d been trying to solve. But what then? Had he needed a shield to carry with him through every interaction with his loved ones?

Perhaps he had pushed himself too far. In his head, he retraced his steps. The gardens, rooftop, the library, the stupid archery contest, the gazebo. Looking at Hal’s stupid net-construct and worrying he hadn’t had enough chairs. He should envy the Lanterns’ ability to construct whatever they wanted out of light, he bitterly mused, maybe then he’d had enough chairs. And this silly non-mystery wouldn’t have implanted itself in his head in the first place.

But then — maybe that was it.

“Hal,” Bruce grits his teeth, his voice a low growl. He’s reached a stalemate of his patience, and it’s beginning to show, “I know it was one of your Lanterns. Just tell me which — I know I’m right.”

Hal continues to gape at him stupidly with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open like a fish, “We didn’t take it.”

“Don’t play coy with me.”

The sun is beginning to set. As the party begins to disperse and grow tired, smaller groups gathered near them are eyeing the two tensely.

“I’m not,” Hal says petulantly, “If you don’t even need it back, then why do you care who took it?”

“Because a mystery needs to be solved!“ Bruce yelps.

He ignores the others near them breaking away like birds at his volume. Hal continues to look at him, stony faced.

“Yeah. I get that. Why?”

“Oh-kay,” John approaches. Though his hands are gestured outwards, he very wisely does not place them on either mans’ shoulder, “You two need to stop overreacting. This is—“

“I’m not overreacting, man, he is!”

Barry appears between them is a flash of light and gust of wind so strong it leaves Bruce completely disoriented for a full second. When his mind begins to quicken to its usual pace, he sees the speedster’s apologetic face.

“The airfryer is back in the kitchen,” he rattles, almost too fast for anyone to hear it.

Hal gapes again. And then he explodes, “Are you fucking serious?”

Bruce looks at him severely, “What do you mean. It’s back in the kitchen?”

For an extremely tense moment, nothing happens. Three men stand in the empty clearing and wait as the other’s face awkwardly twists.

Barry drags his hands through his hair and sighs, “Look, it wasn’t originally my idea. I was texting, y’know, my family and stuff and it kind of just came up—“

“Barry.” Bruce says.

“I just thought you could use a bit of a distraction.”

“Barry.“ Bruce says, higher.

“Bruce!” Barry echoes. He groans and rubs a hand over his face, “I admit it was a dumb idea. I had good intentions.”

“Sorry,” Hal raises his hand like he’s in class. Bruce turns to look at him for the first time since he’s yelled at him, “Your idea for an elaborate prank just kind of ‘came up?’”

Barry’s face spasms again. “No,” he relents. His voice gets a little tighter, “I—“ He sighs, “Bruce, I’m sorry. I should’ve just talked to you about it.”

The sun is setting. The four of them stand at the longest end of the manor’s garden. North of them is an old greenhouse. It’s been poorly maintained; the roof has shattered and the inside has turning into a hot jar of dead plants.

Bruce thinks of the gardener and his mother’s talks. Something sharp climbs up his throat.

“Talked about what?” He asks Barry.

His voice is low. He’s getting tired. Now that the light is at the end of the tunnel, the embarrassing realisation comes that he’s spent this entire day on a meaningless goose chase.

Barry frowns and looks at his shoes. He isn’t even wearing that gauche apron anymore, “This morning, in the kitchen,” he explains, “Well… before, actually. When you called me panicking. You were going on about planning a special day for Alfred and then you were just randomly like ‘I can’t disappoint Father.’”

That sharp pain is momentarily overshadowed by a sweeping wave of embarrassment. He shouldn’t have let his guard down, he thinks.

After sunset, it becomes remarkably cooler. And more peaceful. Many of the party wish their farewells and head on home. Only Bruce’s closest family and compatriots actually stay.

Bruce shares a polite goodbye with all appreciated company and then sits alone on an old wooden bench he used to favour as a little boy. He mopes and listens to the sound of the wind running over the grass and thinks about what a disaster he made of a valuable day.

Barry’s approach is, for once, slow and light-footed.

Bruce perks his head up at the noise and sees his friend’s pale face only illuminated by the backlight of dim hanging lights. He hands a beer can that’s still wet with condensation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He says, taking a seat beside him.

“That’s far too many to count,” Bruce says easily.

“The important ones, then.”

Where, oh, where to begin? Back in Crime Alley? No. Too many stories start there.

And all the ones of his father are before that, anyway.

“I don’t remember saying that,” Bruce admits in a rare show of weakness. He picks at the tab of the beer can, “I only recall saying ‘I can’t disappoint Alfred’, not—“

“Bruce.” Barry wags his finger just under his nose, where he can see. He takes a sip of his own drink, “I’ve still got a time-travelling treadmill. Don’t make me use it. It’s fine. Besides,” Bruce turns to look him, and Barry smiles a little sadly, “I don’t really like thinking about my dad either. Granted it’s different for you, but—“

There’s a spike in his throat again, “It’s not different for me.”

“Bruce,” Barry repeats, a little more firmly this time. “It’s fine. I met the guy, remember? Granted, he was a little different, but… the roots have got to be still the same.”

Bruce gives up. Bruce gives in. He doesn’t argue. Barry is free to believe he’s right. And he…

He doesn’t know what to believe. You can’t really know someone who died when you were young. That’s the grief of it all.

The corners of Barry’s mouth tug slightly upward. He nods his head to a small gathering of chairs a brisk walk away, directly under the lamplights.

“Come with?” He says.

He doesn’t need to ask.

Hal takes one look at him and waves him away.

“Look. I get it, alright?” He drawls, “I mean I watched my dad die in a plane crash and I still wanted to be a pilot, so… that’s probably not healthy.”

“My Pa’s great,” Clark says unhelpfully. Then he helpfully tempers it with, “Uhh.. Jor-El was a good man, I’m sure, despite what he thought of Earth. But you know Pa all considers you his kids too, now.”

To that, Diana simply hums, “I’ve never wanted for a father until now. If only because I have no stories to share.”

Oliver takes another long swig of beer and groans, “Believe me, Princess. You’re not missing out.”

Being here with them like this makes the anger in Bruce’s chest settle into something comforting and warm. It seems his trust still lays with them after all — as deserved. They are the few people in the world who he shares some understanding of pain with.

Later, when he looks over the mess of his the great Wayne manor garden and feels slightly ill with anticipation of the cleanup, he’ll find himself on the outskirts of a party of teenagers and once-teenagers who refuse to get off his damn lawn.

Kyle Rayner will pull him to the side and speak to him.

“Look,” He’ll yell, capturing Bruce’s attention suddenly, “I know you and Hal butt heads all the time, but I just wanted to say; thanks for… whatever you told him at the art show. We had a good talk after that.”

“You know you mean a lot to him?” Bruce’ll tell Kyle insistently. Because he’s far overstepped his bounds already, and if Hal and Bruce’s odd friendship is good for anything it’s good for holding eachother accountable for things neither say.

Kyle’ll duck his head and smile bashfully, “Yeah, I know.”

Dick will meet him under the shadow of an old brick wall. Not as old as him but just as tired, and too stubborn to admit it.

“You’re doing really well with Damian,” He’ll tell him. It’ll sound like forgiveness undeserved, a slightly empty comfort. He’ll scoff-laugh, and then carry on, “I mean, I know I’ve been a pretty good uncle-older-brother-substitute-mentor to him, so. Maybe it’s a group effort.”

Bruce will be slightly drunk. Alright — he’ll be very drunk. But so will Ollie and Dinah, given the three of them will be trying to pace their drinking with aliens and metahumans.

The thing is, Bruce can be a mushy drunk when he’s around the kids, so even though Dick is nearly thirty he’ll look at him and see that angry little boy. Who was orphaned and lost, just like him. But unlike Bruce, not yet beyond saving.

He’ll tell him, “I’m sorry.”

Dick will say something most likely emotionally insightful, but Bruce will miss it. Then he’ll finally look him in the eye and squeeze his shoulder, and smile at him, “Happy Father’s Day, Bruce.