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One
“How’s it looking?” Dick whispered to Jason, almost in a panic. “Was the mission a success?”
They were standing on the outskirts of the gala and finally had a moment to talk because Bruce had just disappeared into the crowd.
“No,” Jason growled, “He keeps his wallet in his jacket’s inside pocket. I may be a good thief, but I’m not that good.”
Dick let out a quiet groan. He sounded desperate.
Jason just looked at him, annoyed: “Why should I even do that? Don’t you still get an allowance?”
“First of all, it’s not allowance—it’s a sign of his support for his son, who moved out—and second, you’re going to wish right now that you’d stolen that stupid wallet yesterday, just like I told you to.”
“The book was too exciting. I forgot about it. And you would have too, if after eight hundred pages you finally found out who the killer is.”
Dick snorted: “As if I’d ever open a book without pictures.”
Jason would remember that moment if anyone ever thought the two of them were blood relatives.
He was just about to say something when Dick winced in pain. Jason followed his gaze to Bruce.
Bruce had gathered a crowd around him and pulled out his wallet. It was open, and out spilled pages that fell all the way to his hips. That wasn’t a wallet anymore—it was a photo album.
“No,” Jason whispered.
He didn’t hear what Bruce said, but he saw the pictures.
Childhood photos of Dick and recent pictures of Jason.
And they were all very embarrassing photos.
In one, Dick had cake all over his face, but that was still better than the photo of Jason on Halloween. He’d wanted to be a ghost, but Bruce had gone overboard with the makeup, and instead Jason looked like a serial killer from an old black-and-white movie.
The crowd around Bruce was growing larger and laughing at something Bruce was saying.
He took a step closer, but Dick pulled him back.
“No, Jaybird. Don’t do that to yourself. You don’t want to know what he’s saying. Your imagination can’t be worse than reality. Trust me. I speak from experience.”
Jason shuddered with disgust.
Next time, he’d ignore his book and steal that stupid wallet.
Two
Tim Drake had stumbled into one of the back rooms at Wayne Manor purely by chance.
Now he stood in the middle of the room, his jaw on the floor, looking around in shock.
He didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or run screaming out of the house.
“A new addition to the collection,” he heard a humming Bruce approach.
A humming Bruce was creepy enough, but Tim didn’t want to be found in this room.
Too late. Bruce walked in holding a newspaper and flinched.
“Tim?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
His cheeks were red.
“I was looking for the washing machines,” Tim mumbled.
Bruce cleared his throat and then raised his hands reassuringly.
“I know it looks bad, but it’s not as bad as you might think.”
Tim glanced at the wall and then back at him.
“This is serial killer stuff,” he said, summing up his impression.
Picture frames hung on the walls from top to bottom, and half of them were filled with newspaper articles about the Robins and Nightwing. The other half was filled with newspaper articles about the Wayne children and Tim himself.
“No,” Bruce protested immediately, “it’s not an obsession. Actually, I wanted to keep a photo album with all the moments when I was proud of my kids. But I was afraid I’d mess up the order or crumple the newspaper clippings while pasting them in. So instead, I started this room. Here I can see my kids’ accomplishments without having to limit myself to a specific time period. I like coming here when I miss you guys.”
Tim grimaced: “You actually visit this room?”
Bruce seemed briefly embarrassed, but then he puffed out his chest and announced proudly, “Yes, I do! Because you all make me incredibly proud.”
And with that, Tim forgot just how incredibly funny this habit was and pulled Bruce into a hug instead.
At least one parent was proud of him. Even if it was the chosen one.
Three
Damian had told his father that he didn’t have to come to the school play.
In fact, he hadn’t even told him about the play his class was putting on. But he was Batman, so he’d found out anyway.
It just wasn’t a big deal, and Damian hadn’t wanted his father to have to take time off work for such a trifling matter.
It didn't matter that Damian was playing the male lead. It didn't matter.
But after the play was over and Damian saw his father standing in the front row, clapping loudly and announcing to everyone that the boy on stage was his son, he was glad his father had come after all.
Four
“Finally, I think I speak for the entire Justice League when I say that we would never have achieved the same result without the help of the Batgirls. They are the true heroines to whom our thanks should go,” Wonder Woman summarized the events of the last great battle at the Justice League meeting.
It had been tough, but in the end, they had succeeded.
“They were truly fantastic,” Superman agreed with a smile. “I think, they didn't took even a moment’s break. And the civilians loved them.”
Everyone looked at Batman to see if he had anything else to say. A criticism, perhaps.
Instead, it almost looked as if tears were welling up in his eyes.
Everyone held their breath in panic.
“Batman?” Flash asked cautiously. “Are you okay?”
Batman cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m perfectly fine. I’m just so incredibly proud of them. My daughters are fantastic.”
And with that, the meeting came to an end, because everyone had to run away before they actually saw Batman start to cry from emotion.
Five
Signal didn't know why his other brothers and sisters had skipped this event.
It was a heroes-only event, which meant you could be yourself even under the mask. He didn't have to force a smile like he had at any Wayne Gala he ever attended.
The food, on the other hand, was just as good as at a Wayne Gala.
Duke saw no reason to avoid this event. It had everything he liked about a good party. For example, he’d been talking to Flash for the past half hour, and it was really cool.
He just wished he could relax. But judging by the others’ reactions, some kind of apocalyptic event was waiting for him.
“I can’t do this again,” Dick had said, wailing.
“Hell no,” Jason had replied emphatically.
“The horror,” Tim had gasped and run off.
“I’d rather visit my grandfather,” Damian had said dryly and seriously.
Cassandra had simply formed an X with her hands.
Stephanie had burst into a fit of laughter, and Duke was afraid she was still laughing.
None of these reactions inspired confidence.
Duke was just about to ask Flash what could be causing this when Batman stepped onto the stage.
“May I have your attention?” he asked.
Silence fell. Everyone listened to the Dark Knight.
“Just like last year, I’ve prepared a little speech.”
“Last year’s ‘little speech’ lasted an hour,” Green Lantern whispered. He clearly didn’t dare say it any louder.
“As many of you know, Gotham has seen a surge in vigilantes in recent years. I can proudly say that almost all of them are my children. So I’d like to take this opportunity to show them just how proud I am.”
And with that, the longest hour of Duke’s life began.
Batman didn’t just share stories—no, he’d also prepared a presentation with images scrolling in the background.
They weren’t good pictures, and to be honest, they were almost embarrassing.
Duke’s cheeks flushed every time he appeared in one. The worst was the picture where a milkshake was running out of his nose.
Flash patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. But Duke couldn’t imagine that even one person was actually enjoying listening to Batman. (Except maybe Superman—but it was Superman.)
Duke bravely stuck it out through the speech, but only because he imagined how he would torment his siblings afterward. A heads-up would have been nice!