Chapter Text
Intervention, Bat-Style
♡︎ Bruce Wayne
Bruce Wayne had stared down death more times than he could count.
But nothing—not Joker, not Parademons, not even the IRS—could prepare him for this.
An ambush.
In his own cave.
By his own children.
“This is an intervention,” Dick had said, arms crossed and painfully cheerful. That was never a good sign. “We need to talk about your… people skills.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, sipping his coffee like it might protect him. “I have people skills.”
“Name one friend in the Justice League,” Jason challenged, smirking like he already knew the answer.
Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it.
Duke helpfully supplied, “Uncle Ollie doesn’t count.”
“Clark,” Bruce grunted.
Cass tilted her head, silently judging.
“Clark pities you,” Tim said. “That’s not the same as friendship.”
Bruce blinked. “That’s rich coming from the kid who’s ghosted four of his classmates.”
“Diversion!” Damian shouted. “Father is changing the subject!”
“You’re impossible,” Jason said, sprawled across the Batcomputer desk. “All we’re asking is that you stop being emotionally constipated for five seconds and talk to your coworkers.”
“They are not coworkers,” Bruce grunted.
“Oh my god,” Steph said. “You’re worse than I thought.”
“They’re teammates,” Damian cut in, arms folded, eyes sharp. “Allies. Fellow warriors in a never-ending crusade—”
“Coworkers,” Duke said. “You’re still avoiding them, B.”
Bruce looked away.
Dick pounced. “You’re literally in the Justice League and you still eat lunch alone.”
“Because it’s efficient.”
“Bruce. You’re lonely.”
Bruce froze.
The room was silent.
Then, in typical Gotham chaos, the silence exploded into a dozen overlapping arguments and taunts, a few death threats (mostly from Damian), and one group hug attempt (Dick, obviously).
Bruce held up a hand, his jaw tightened.
He wasn’t lonely. He just… preferred solitude. Solitude didn’t judge. Solitude didn’t ask why he kept a Kryptonite stash or how many contingency plans he had for Clark having a bad day.
He stood, brushing off his cape. “I have work.”
“Yeah,” Jason drawled, “running from your emotions.”
“Master Bruce,” came a quiet voice behind him. Alfred, ever the ghost in the machine, holding a silver tray of tea and absolute truth. “If I may—”
“You’re on their side?”
Alfred raised one elegant brow. “My boy. I’ve been on your side since your parents were laid to rest. That includes telling you when you’re acting like a complete imbecile.”
Bruce blinked.
“I say this with all the love and care of a man who watched you build a crime-fighting empire out of guilt and caffeine,” Alfred continued calmly. “Make some friends. Or, at the very least, stop terrifying your existing ones.”
“...I’m not terrifying.”
“Master Kent flinched last week when you entered the room.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Fine. I’ll try.”
♡︎ Bruce Wayne
“Trying” turned out to be the emotional equivalent of stepping on Legos barefoot.
He tried starting a conversation with Aquaman. Arthur stared into the distance and muttered something about fish being less judgmental.
He offered a compliment to Diana during a tactical meeting, something about her sword technique and she thanked him, then immediately whispered to Clark, “Do you think he’s dying?”
Even J’onn didn’t read his mind anymore. Probably because whatever was in there stressed the Martian out.
They avoided him. They gave him the side-eye. Even Barry skipped break room snacks when Bruce entered.
And worst of all?
He didn’t know why.
He had saved their lives. Multiple times. He had died for them once. He had offered Clark emotional support that one time in 2011. What more did they want?
So, he decided to do what any emotionally repressed man dressed as a bat would do:
Secretly bake treats and leave them in the Watchtower break room.
He wore gloves. Cleaned the crime scene. Used biodegradable containers. No fingerprints, no name, just a sticky note that said:
Every Friday.
Without a word.
He left them in the Watchtower break room, labeled only with a note:
“Eat. Or don’t.”
Which, in retrospect, may have been too on-brand.
Still, they ate them. Even when he left banana bread or those soft red velvet crinkle cookies with powdered sugar on top.
He saw Diana hum in approval. Barry took five and ran off in a sugar blur. Clark sighed like he’d just seen his home planet restored.
No one knew it was him.
He kept it that way.
It wasn’t friendship. But it was… something.
♡︎ Batfam Groupchat: “Operation: Friend the Bat” 🦇💔
Dick:
Status update on Dad-Bat's social life?
Tim:
Negative progress. He said “good morning” and Green Lantern nearly drew his ring.
Jason:
Did he growl it or actually say it like a human?
Duke:
Growled. But like, friendly growl.
Steph:
Maybe he’s baking them cookies or something. Like a passive-aggressive mom move.
Cass:
...He is.
Damian:
HE IS WHAT.
Cass:
Baking. Friday. Chocolate. Peanut butter. Banana bread. Labeled “Eat. Or don’t.”
Jason:
LMFAO WHAT.
Damian:
HE IS WASTING VALUABLE MISSION TIME MAKING DESSERTS FOR IMBECILES???
Tim:
This is like… his weird little love language.
Jason:
Batsnacks = Batfeels.
Dick:
HE’S SECRETLY MOMMING THE JL AAAAA
Tim:
He’s gonna die before admitting it. Classic Bruce.
Duke:
I knew it. I knew I saw flour on his collar last Friday.
Dick:
Guys. We need to escalate Operation: Friend the Bat.
Steph:
You mean like “accidentally” tell the League it’s him?
Duke:
Or trap the League in a room and force them to compliment him.
Damian:
Or poison the snacks and see who gets spared.
Everyone:
DAMIAN NO.
Alfred has entered the chat.
Alfred:
I advise you all to tread lightly. Your father is doing his best. As strange and emotionally stunted as that “best” may appear.
Alfred:
Also, please do not poison anyone.
Cass:
We won’t. Probably.
Duke:
Should we tell him we know?
Everyone:
No.
Cracks in the Cape
♡︎ Hal Jordan
Hal wasn’t proud of how quickly Batman got under his skin.
But dammit, the guy just had a knack for it.
He could be giving a report on off-world criminal activity and somehow Batman would still find a way to interrupt with a grunt that felt like a dissertation on “How You’re Doing It Wrong.”
Hal tossed his ring-generated files onto the Watchtower table with a flick of green energy, muttering under his breath. “You know, it is possible to say ‘good job’ without it physically killing you.”
Batman, from the shadows—because of course he was in the shadows—tilted his head. “Your surveillance window was open. That’s why Sector 2814 was compromised for three minutes.”
Clark looked between them, half-pleading, half-exhausted. “Guys—”
“I had it under control.”
“You almost didn’t.”
Hal stood straighter, his voice rising. “Maybe if you weren’t busy brooding in corners like it’s a full-time job, you’d realize not everyone runs their missions with twelve backup plans and a moral superiority complex.”
“Maybe if you had twelve backup plans, you’d stop losing units.”
A beat of silence.
Then Hal laughed. Sharp. Angry. “There it is. Classic Batman. Always knows better. Always judging.”
Diana stepped in, calm but firm. “That’s enough—”
“No, it’s not enough,” Hal snapped. “Because we all walk on eggshells around him, and for what? So he can look at us like we’re incompetent every time something doesn’t go exactly how he wants?”
Batman didn’t reply.
He just stared at Hal. Like something inside him had gone quiet.
Hal scoffed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
And then he walked out.
The meeting dissolved into tense silence.
Clark rubbed his temples. J’onn quietly slipped into another form and disappeared. Barry opened his mouth, then closed it again.
And Batman?
Batman left without a word.
♡︎ Bruce Wayne
He didn't go back to the Watchtower for two days.
Technically, he could. It was fine. Professionalism dictated that he had a duty, and he would fulfill it. But professionalism didn’t cover whatever the hell that was.
Hal was right.
They all thought it.
Bruce had seen it. Heard it in the silence after he spoke. Felt it in the tension whenever he entered a room. The way the chairs shifted. The subtle glance Clark always gave Diana, as if to silently ask, “You talk to him.”
The truth was this: Bruce didn’t know how to exist among people who didn’t need him.
With the League, he wasn’t the lynchpin. He wasn’t their protector, their father figure, their last line of defense. They didn’t depend on him the way the Batkids did.
They tolerated him.
And he wasn’t sure why that hurt more than outright hatred.
Still, Friday came. And like clockwork, he climbed up into the Watchtower before anyone else arrived.
In a plain box—no note this time—he left double chocolate chip cookies and espresso brownies on the break room counter.
Then he disappeared.
♡︎ Diana of Themyscira
Diana noticed it first.
The absence of a note.
“‘Eat or don’t. I don’t care.’ It’s missing,” she muttered to Clark, who was chewing on a cookie like it was spun gold.
Clark blinked. “Maybe they ran out of sticky notes?”
“I don’t think so.”
She looked at the treat box again. Neat edges. Carefully packed. Someone had dusted the tops with powdered sugar. There was intent in every step.
But something about it felt… sad.
Almost like a goodbye.
♡︎ Hal Jordan
Guilt didn’t sit well with Hal.
He’d grown up learning how to outrun it—fast jets, faster decisions. But today, it was rooted in his gut like a bad hangover. The kind that clung to you, no matter how many times you tried to joke it away.
He hadn’t seen Batman since the argument. No one had.
And maybe—maybe—Hal didn’t mean every word he’d said. Or maybe he did, but he could’ve said it better.
The worst part? Even when they fought, Batman never fought back. Not really.
He just… took it.
Silently.
As if it was what he expected.
Hal sat at the counter, eating the mysterious brownies.
♡︎ Watchtower Internal Chat: "Justice League Ops"
[Excerpt – Internal Timestamp: Friday 17:03]
Barry:
ok but who makes the brownies tho
J’onn:
Unknown. Telepathic scans reveal no clues. And I have refrained from further probing, out of respect.
Clark:
They’re good though, right?
Diana:
Very good. But I am concerned.
Hal:
…What if they stopped leaving notes because someone said something.
Barry:
wait omg
Clark:
Hal?
Hal:
Nothing. Just. Thought.
Diana:
I agree. The note was part of the ritual. Its absence means something.
Barry:
So we gonna launch a mission to find our Secret Baker?
J’onn:
I am already analyzing handwriting samples across all Watchtower personnel.
Diana:
You’re what?
J’onn:
Respectfully. With discretion.
Hal:
…You don’t think it’s Batman, do you?
Everyone:
LOL
Clark:
Him? No way. He’d rather stab himself with a Batarang than make cookies.
Diana:
He considers soup a luxury.
Barry:
I once saw him eat a protein bar with the same expression as someone witnessing war crimes.
Hal:
Right. Yeah. Just a thought.
♡︎ Bruce Wayne
That night, Bruce stood alone in the cave.
He didn’t say anything as Alfred set a warm mug of tea beside him. Just stared at the screen. It wasn’t showing anything in particular just the Watchtower’s live feeds, looped in silence.
Alfred didn’t press.
He never did.
But he did rest a hand gently on Bruce’s shoulder.
“You are not as invisible as you feel, Master Bruce,” he said quietly. “You are simply… misunderstood.”
Bruce didn’t reply.
But he didn’t move away, either.