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Chapter Text

The front doors of the manor slammed open with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. Pennyworth’s eyebrows twitched, barely, but years of living with Wayne children had long ago tempered him against dramatics.

“This is absurd,” Damian announced as he stormed across the foyer like a very small, very angry storm cloud. His school bag thudded against the marble floor as he dropped it, unzipping it with the same energy most people reserved for tearing off a bandage.

“Good afternoon, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted smoothly, as though the thirteen-year-old wasn’t glaring at the world like it personally offended him.

“It is not a good afternoon,” Damian shot back, shrugging off his uniform blazer and tossing it onto the nearest chair. Pennyworth silently plucked it back up to hang properly.

Dick poked his head out from the living room doorway, hair messy from what was clearly a failed attempt at fixing it after a nap on the couch. “Why do you sound like you’re about to declare war?”

“Because I am,” Damian huffed. He stomped into the living room and threw himself dramatically onto the armchair, expression locked somewhere between outrage and disgust.

Jason, sprawled on the couch with his boots propped up on the coffee table, raised a brow over the edge of his book. “Who pissed in your lunchbox, kid?”

“An assignment,” Damian snapped. “A book report.” He said the words like they were the ultimate betrayal. “We have been instructed to read a book, an infantile book, for the purpose of… of ‘understanding character growth.’” He actually did air quotes, which meant this was serious.

“...Oh no,” Tim muttered from the corner, where he’d been curled up with his laptop. He didn’t even look up, just smiled into his mug. “Not reading. Anything but that.”

“I read plenty,” Damian shot back immediately, sitting up straight like his pride had been stabbed. “I am not opposed to literature. I am opposed to literature that insults my intelligence.”

Dick flopped into the chair across from him, grinning. “What’s the book?”

Damian scowled. “Charlotte’s Web.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Jason snorted so hard he nearly dropped his book.

Dick pressed his hand to his mouth, fighting laughter, while Tim finally looked up from his laptop, eyes lighting with the kind of quiet joy that came from witnessing good, old-fashioned sibling chaos.

Damian glared at them all like they were traitors. “It is a children’s book about a pig,” he said, voice flat. “And a spider.”

“Technically, it’s a classic,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair.

“Technically,” Jason added, grinning, “it’s about friendship and death, which seems like something you’d be into.”

Damian ignored him. “Why am I forced to write about a sentimental story where farm animals discuss their feelings? This is what they expect of me? I have read the works of Sun Tzu in their original language. I have studied Shakespeare. And now they want me to reflect on the ‘emotional journey of Wilbur the pig.’”

Jason cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Dick had the decency to at least try to look sympathetic. “You could… I don’t know, write about the symbolism of mortality? There’s a lot in there.”

Damian turned the full force of his unimpressed stare on him. “Grayson, do you truly expect me to waste an hour of my life dissecting the ‘symbolism’ of a barnyard friendship?”

“Yes,” Dick said cheerfully. “That’s literally what school is. Welcome to the system.”

“Can’t you just pick another book?” Tim asked, knowing full well the answer.

“They have assigned it to the entire class. No substitutions allowed,” Damian recited like it was a war crime.

Jason leaned back, hands behind his head. “So what you’re saying is… you’re stuck with Wilbur.”

“Do not say his name,” Damian growled.

“Wilbur,” Jason repeated with delight.

Damian threw a pillow at his face. Jason caught it one-handed, laughing so hard he wheezed.

Alfred entered then, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits because Alfred always had impeccable comedic timing. “Might I suggest, Master Damian,” he said as he set the tray down, “that you treat the assignment not as an insult, but as an opportunity to demonstrate your… unique perspective.”

Damian frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I believe,” Alfred said delicately, “that no one else in your class will be writing a literary analysis comparing the pig’s worldview to the strategic failures of ancient generals.”

The corner of Damian’s mouth twitched. “...Hmph.”

Dick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There you go. Turn your suffering into an academic beatdown.”

Tim sipped his coffee. “Weaponize the pig.”

Jason threw an arm over the back of the couch, grinning like the devil. “Make Wilbur fear you.”

“Excellent suggestions,” Damian said dryly, but the glint in his eyes was pure, petty determination now. “Very well. If I must endure this, then my paper shall be the best. I will destroy this assignment.”

“You’re talking about a children’s book,” Dick said.

“And I will crush it.”

Damian sat at the long dining table like a surgeon preparing for an operation. His laptop was open, notebook and pen lined up like he was about to perform surgery, and the offending book lay in front of him like a patient to be dissected.

He stared at the cover for a long, quiet moment. Wilbur the pig looked back at him with an expression that was probably supposed to be sweet and innocent. 

Jason leaned against the doorframe, munching on an apple, he’d come specifically to witness the carnage. Tim was perched at the far end of the table with his laptop, pretending to work on something else but clearly eavesdropping.

Dick was sprawled on the couch nearby, upside down and useless, but enjoying himself.

Damian opened the book with the force of someone cracking open an ancient tomb. “Chapter One,” he muttered. “‘Before Breakfast.’”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Riveting title.”

“I have read autopsy reports with more compelling names,” Damian muttered, and began to read.

Two pages in, his expression had shifted from irritation to outright disgust. Five pages in, he dropped his pen with a clatter and leaned back in his chair like someone who’d been personally wronged.

“This pig is insufferable,” he declared. “He cries because he is going to be killed. Then someone saves him, and what does he do? He behaves like a fool. No awareness of his surroundings, no strategy, no-” he gestured wildly at the page “dignity.”

Tim didn’t even look up. “He’s a pig.”

“That is no excuse,” Damian snapped. “If one is to survive in the world, one must have tactical awareness. Not squeal at the top of one’s lungs like an idiot.”

Jason was wheezing with laughter. “You’re yelling at a fictional pig.”

“I am critiquing his lack of survival instinct,” Damian corrected sharply. He scribbled something in his notebook. “‘Wilbur displays no qualities befitting a protagonist.’”

Dick twisted himself around on the couch. “What about Charlotte?”

“She is tolerable,” Damian admitted grudgingly. “At least she demonstrates planning skills. She manipulates the humans with impressive efficiency. But she associates herself with a pig who cannot even comprehend basic self-preservation.”

Tim’s shoulders shook. “God, I wish your teacher could hear this.”

Jason leaned over his shoulder to peek at the page. Damian smacked his hand away without looking. “Back off, Todd.”

“Whatcha writing?”

“A report,” Damian said, scribbling in sharp, precise handwriting. “‘Chapter One sets the tone for an entire story centered on misplaced sentimentality and the glorification of mediocrity.’”

Jason howled. “Oh my god.”

Dick rolled onto his stomach, grinning into a pillow. “You sound like a movie critic who got forced to review a kid’s cartoon.”

“I am merely being honest,” Damian said, flipping to the next chapter like he was turning over evidence in court. “Chapter Two. ‘Wilbur.’ The fact they named a chapter after him implies he is worthy of the attention. He is not.”

Tim finally looked up, chin resting in his hand. “Are you gonna write anything positive?”

“I said Charlotte was tolerable,” Damian deadpanned.

Jason threw himself into a chair, laughing so hard he nearly fell off. “Kid, you’re gonna get an A on this just because your teacher won’t know what to do with it.”

“Or fail him for emotional trauma,” Tim countered.

Damian ignored them both. He continued reading aloud under his breath, pausing every so often to mutter things like, “Weak moral backbone,” “unrealistic portrayal of farm dynamics,” or “this goose is an imbecile.”

At one point, he slammed his hand down on the table. “Who talks like this?” he demanded. “‘Salutations’?! What pig understands ‘salutations’?!”

“That’s… kind of the point,” Dick said, biting back laughter. “It’s supposed to be whimsical.”

“It’s nonsensical,” Damian snapped. He jotted down another note. “‘Dialogue lacks realism. Target audience clearly possesses limited vocabulary.’”

Jason wheezed into his hand. “Jesus Christ, Damian.”

Two hours later, the notebook was covered in sharp, precise handwriting that read less like a book report and more like a full-blown character assassination. Wilbur had been called “emotionally fragile,” “a liability,” and “an unfit protagonist.” Charlotte was given a reluctant “acceptable strategist,” and the goose had received a paragraph-long rant titled Why Intelligence Is Not Contagious.

Tim peeked at the page. “...This is like if Gordon Ramsay wrote book reports.”

“I am not rewriting it,” Damian said firmly when Dick finally suggested toning it down. “If the school insists on assigning nonsense, then they must face the consequences.”

Jason leaned back, hands behind his head, still grinning like a fool. “I can’t wait for your Parent-Teacher Conference.”

Damian’s scowl was pure defiance. “Wilbur may be weak. But my essay will not be.”

Alfred appeared in the doorway, impeccably timed as always. “I trust the report is going well, Master Damian?”

Jason snorted. Tim nearly fell off his chair. Dick buried his face in a pillow to muffle his laugh.

Damian looked up, dead serious. “I am destroying a pig, Pennyworth.”

And Alfred, bless him, simply nodded like that made perfect sense. “Very good, sir.”

The low sound of the front door shutting signaled Bruce’s return before he even stepped into the living room. Damian, still sitting at the table surrounded by notebooks, loose papers, and one very slandered children’s book, didn’t look up.

Jason, on the other hand, perked up like a cat that just heard the treat bag crinkle.

“Showtime,” he muttered around a mouthful of popcorn.

Bruce walked into the room. The moment he took in the scene, Damian at the table with murder in his eyes, Jason and Steph sitting side by side with a bowl of popcorn like they were watching a movie, Tim typing away at his laptop unfazed, and Dick stretching in the corner while laughing into his sleeve, he paused.

“…What happened,” Bruce said flatly.

“Your son,” Jason began, grinning like the devil, “is currently committing war crimes against a pig.”

Damian didn’t look up. “The pig deserved it.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m not even going to ask.” He loosened his tie and crossed the room, stopping behind Damian’s chair. “What assignment?”

“A book report,” Damian replied, voice heavy with disdain. “On Charlotte’s Web.”

Steph giggled around a handful of popcorn. “And he wrote a thesis on why Wilbur’s an embarrassment to all pigs.”

“I was factual,” Damian snapped.

Jason patted him on the shoulder. “You were brutal.”

“Semantics.”

Bruce reached for the paper. “Let me see.”

Damian hesitated. “You’ll side with the pig.”

“I’ll side with your teacher,” Bruce corrected.

Jason made an ooooh noise, and Steph smacked his arm lightly with the back of her hand.

Damian reluctantly handed the pages over. Bruce adjusted his none existent glasses and began to read.

At first, his expression didn’t move. Typical Batface.
Then his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched downward like someone was slowly stabbing him with a spork.

“‘Wilbur demonstrates the emotional resilience of wet cardboard,’” Bruce read out loud. “Damian.”

“It’s accurate,” Damian said, dead serious.

“‘The goose represents everything wrong with society’s tolerance for incompetence.’” Bruce lowered the page. “You didn’t analyze the book. You insulted its characters.”

“I critiqued them,” Damian corrected.

“Damian.”

Jason was shaking with laughter now. Steph leaned into him, practically crying from holding it in.

Dick, who’d been doing half-hearted leg stretches in the corner, was clutching his stomach, gasping for air between laugh fits.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t hand this in.”

“I will not lie for the sake of some pig,” Damian said, affronted.

“I’m not saying lie,” Bruce said with the patience of someone who had done this a hundred times. “I’m saying, write it in a way your teacher expects. Talk about themes. Tone. Message. Emotional arcs.”

Jason stage-whispered to Steph, “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Bruce pulled a chair closer, sitting beside Damian. “Okay. Start again. Just give me one line the way a teacher wants to hear it.”

Damian exhaled through his nose like an offended dragon. He picked up his pen again and thought for a long moment, then wrote agressively.

“Wilbur represents the naive innocence of youth and the fragility of life.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. “…Okay. That’s a good start.”

Damian scowled at the sentence like it personally betrayed him.

Then he added: “which, frankly, is pitiful, because any competent creature would have developed basic survival instincts instead of relying on a spider to fix its problems.”

Jason howled. Steph nearly dropped the popcorn.

“Damian,” Bruce said tiredly.

“What? It’s true.”

“No, this time you have to stop there,” Bruce said. “Just… no commentary.”

Damian grimaced like Bruce had asked him to eat expired tofu. He scribbled out the second half, then tried again.

“Charlotte demonstrates a calculated intelligence that allows her to manipulate her surroundings effectively, serving as a mentor figure to Wilbur.”

Bruce nodded. “Better.”

Then Damian added: “It is a miracle she tolerated his incompetence long enough to help him survive. If I were Charlotte, I would have eaten him.”

Tim snorted loudly from his end of the table, not even trying to hide the fact that he was paying attention anymore. “Please turn that in as-is.”

Jason grabbed another fistful of popcorn. “This is the best project I’ve ever watched.”

“Not a project,” Bruce muttered. “This is me trying to keep him from traumatizing his English teacher.”

Steph elbowed Jason. “Imagine the teacher reading ‘I would have eaten him’ in a deadpan.”

Dick, who had given up on stretches entirely, was lying on the floor now, laughing into the carpet.

Damian glared around the room, betrayed on all fronts. “You’re all fools.”

“True,” Jason said with zero shame.

Bruce leaned closer to the paper. “Damian, try saying something nice. Just once. No insults. No bloodthirsty thoughts.”

Damian’s jaw tensed like Bruce had asked him to hand over his sword. He took a breath, raised his pen, and wrote:

“Wilbur has some redeeming qualities-”

Then he paused. His hand twitched.

“such as his ability to… make friends. Even if those friends have very poor taste.”

Jason fell out of his chair. Steph choked on popcorn. Tim nearly smacked his laptop from laughing. Dick wheezed into the floor.

Bruce closed his eyes for a long, silent moment. “…You’re doing the assignment again tomorrow.”

Damian slammed the pen down. “This is censorship.”

“It’s not censorship,” Bruce said. “It’s English class.”

Damian crossed his arms and scowled at the paper like it had ruined his life. “I refuse to glorify mediocrity.”

Jason, still on the floor, raised his hand. “I will personally pay you to turn it in exactly like this.”

Tim didn’t even look up. “Same.”

Steph nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring snacks for the aftermath.”

Bruce looked like he regretted everything. Damian looked like he was about to declare war. Dick was still laughing too hard to stand.

Please read the author's note at the top if you havent already.

Chapter Text

The next day after school, Damian retreated to his room like a soldier returning to the battlefield. The cursed book sat on his desk, next to his laptop and a blank Word document titled simply: “Book Report.”

He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and glared at the screen.
The blinking cursor mocked him.

Bruce had made it very clear over breakfast, no insults, no threats of violence toward fictional pigs, no language that would terrify his teacher.

Which, unfortunately, meant he couldn’t write what he wanted to.

He picked up his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and tapped the one name he knew could help him without judgment.

Jon picked up on the second ring, his voice warm and bright. “Hey, Dami! What’s up?”

“I require assistance,” Damian said briskly.

“…Uh oh,” Jon said immediately. “Is this a ‘help me bury a body’ kind of assistance or a ‘my father said I have to redo my book report because I traumatized my English teacher before I even turned it in’ kind of assistance?”

There was a pause. “…The second one,” Damian admitted.

Jon laughed so hard Damian had to hold the phone away from his ear.

“Not funny,” Damian muttered.

“It’s a little funny,” Jon countered. “What book?”

“Charlotte’s Web.”

Jon snorted. “Oh my god, you probably declared war on Wilbur.”

“I was honest,” Damian said stiffly. “Apparently, ‘brutally accurate’ is unacceptable in this pathetic educational system.”

Jon was still giggling when he said, “Okay, what do you need from me?”

“You are an infuriating optimist,” Damian said. “You know how to talk in the way teachers like. Say something about the book.”

“You want me to… what, write it for you?”

“No,” Damian said, too quickly. “…Yes. I will type. You will provide the phrasing.”

Jon chuckled. “Alright. Let’s make this sound normal.”

Damian opened the blank document. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Begin.”

Jon thought for a moment. “Start with something simple. Like: ‘Charlotte’s Web is a story about friendship, loyalty, and the power of kindness.’”

Damian made a noise like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “That is disgustingly sentimental.”

“Yes,” Jon said cheerfully. “But it’ll make your teacher happy.”

Damian typed it anyway, grimacing with every keystroke.

Jon continued, voice easy and steady. “You could say something like: ‘Wilbur’s journey reflects how support from friends can help someone grow and face challenges.’”

Damian froze halfway through typing, squinting at the screen like the words personally offended him. “…‘Grow and face challenges’?”

“Yeah, it’s like… nice and generic. Teacher candy.”

“I feel ill.”

“Good. That means we’re doing it right,” Jon said with a laugh.

Damian forced his hands to keep moving. The words did not feel natural under his fingers, like trying to speak in a language invented by dolphins. But slowly, a very boring, teacher-approved essay began to take shape.

Jon kept talking. “You can mention how Charlotte’s actions show selflessness, and how her friendship makes Wilbur stronger. Say she’s a mentor figure.”

“She’s a manipulative strategist,” Damian muttered under his breath.

“Damian.”

“Fine,” Damian hissed, and typed: ‘Charlotte acts as a mentor to Wilbur, showing kindness and wisdom throughout the story.’ Then paused, added quietly: ‘despite his lack of useful skills.’

“Delete that last part.”

“I refuse.”

“Damian.”

Damian grumbled but hit backspace anyway. The betrayal burned.

After a while, Jon’s voice softened. “Hey, you’re actually doing good. It sounds… surprisingly sweet.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“I’m serious!” Jon laughed. “Your teacher’s gonna cry happy tears reading this.”

“That would be preferable to the screaming fit my father will have if I don’t,” Damian muttered.

Jon hummed. “Throw in something about themes at the end. Like: ‘The story reminds us that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a difference.’”

Damian typed it with the flat expression of someone slowly losing a piece of their soul. “I hope this pig appreciates my sacrifice.”

Jon was still laughing. “He’s fictional.”

“He’s an idiot,” Damian corrected.

When the last sentence was typed, Damian leaned back in his chair, staring at the document like it was radioactive.

A perfectly clean, emotionally manipulative, teacher-friendly book report stared back at him.

No slander. No insults. No threats of spider cannibalism.
It was everything Bruce had wanted.
It was everything Damian hated.

Jon’s voice came through the speaker again. “Proud of you, Dami.”

“Do not say that.”

“You did something nice.”

“I committed forgery,” Damian muttered. “This is not my voice.”

“It’s a book report, not a testimony,” Jon said lightly. “Hit save.”

Damian sighed dramatically but clicked save anyway.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Jon added. “And… maybe don’t insult the pig out loud during class?”

“No promises.”

Later that evening, Wayne Manor was unusually quiet.
Tim was holed up in his office corner with six screens on, Jason and Steph had vanished on a snack run, and Dick had gone upstairs to “do stretches,” which everyone knew was code for “nap.”

Bruce, however, was sitting in the study, catching up on paperwork when a soft, very precise knock came from the doorway.

“Enter,” he said, not looking up.

Damian stepped inside, chin high, laptop tucked under his arm like an offering. “I have completed my report.”

Bruce set his pen down and leaned back slightly. “…You finished it.”

“Yes.” Damian walked over, placed the laptop on the desk, and opened it with the solemnity of someone revealing a masterpiece. “I took your advice.”

Bruce raised a brow, clearly skeptical, but turned the screen toward himself and began reading.

Silence.
A deep, careful silence.
The kind that usually preceded either approval or disaster.

“‘Charlotte’s Web is a timeless story about friendship, loyalty, and kindness…’” Bruce read quietly. He continued scanning the page, eyes narrowing slightly with each passing sentence. “‘Charlotte demonstrates wisdom and selflessness as she helps Wilbur discover his own strength…’”

Damian stood there stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, looking somewhere between proud and deeply uncomfortable.

Bruce’s eyes flicked up from the screen. He didn’t say a word for several long seconds.

“…Interesting phrasing,” he finally said.

“It fulfills the assignment requirements,” Damian said quickly.

“Yes,” Bruce agreed slowly, lips twitching at the corners. “It does.”

There was something in his tone, the kind of quiet amusement only a parent gets when they know exactly what their kid did but choose to let it go.

Bruce scrolled to the bottom of the page, reading the closing paragraph out loud: “‘The story reminds us that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a difference in the world.’”

Then he looked up, expression unreadable. “You wrote this?”

Damian hesitated just long enough to be guilty. “It bears my name.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Mhm.”

He studied Damian’s face for a moment, and Damian, to his credit, held the stare like a soldier under interrogation. But Bruce’s years of experience as a detective weren’t so easily fooled.

The sentences were too… warm. Too rounded. Too human.
There were no sharp edges, no meticulously precise word choices.
It didn’t sound like Damian, it sounded like someone who used smiley faces in text messages.

“…You called Jon, didn’t you,” Bruce said finally.

Damian blinked, his expression perfectly blank. “You have no proof.”

Bruce’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk. “I don’t need proof.”

He leaned forward, scrolling through another paragraph. “This has… a distinctly Kent tone. Very optimistic. Borderline sentimental.”

Damian grimaced. “I know.”

“Did he write it?”

“He… assisted.” Damian straightened, defensive now. “You said I needed to make it sound the way the teacher wanted. You did not specify that assistance was prohibited.”

Bruce actually chuckled under his breath. “Technically, you’re right.”

“I always am,” Damian said without hesitation.

Bruce turned the screen toward him. “And, for the record… this is better than anything you would have produced alone.”

Damian blinked, surprised. “…Truly?”

“Yes.” Bruce’s smirk softened into something more fatherly. “You didn’t threaten any fictional animals this time. That’s progress.”

“I did think about it,” Damian admitted.

“I assumed.”

There was a pause. Damian stood there awkwardly for a moment, clearly waiting for further critique, but Bruce only turned the laptop back toward him and said, “Print it. You’ll be just fine.”

Damian tilted his chin proudly. “As I should.”

Bruce added, “And next time you want help phrasing something nicely… maybe ask your brothers before calling the son of Superman.”

Damian’s nose wrinkled. “Grayson would have filled it with emojis. Todd can barely spell, and Drake would have turned it into a dissertation.”

“…Fair,” Bruce said.

Damian closed the laptop, clearly satisfied that the interrogation was over, and turned toward the door.

“Damian,” Bruce said just as he reached it.

He stopped. “…Yes?”

“Good work.”

Damian blinked again, then gave the smallest, most reluctant smile imaginable. “…Thank you, Father.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Damian stepped through the manor doors with all the dignity of a soldier who had seen too much. His backpack hung off one shoulder slightly uneven, which was the first red flag that something was very wrong. Titus padded after him from the yard, tail wagging hopefully, but Damian didn’t even acknowledge him. Not a single “hello,” not a scratch behind the ear. Just one word, low and full of venom-

“Tt.”

Alfred raised a brow from where he was arranging fresh flowers in a vase on the entryway table. “Rough day, Master Damian?”

“You have no idea,” Damian muttered, pulling off his shoes with far more force than necessary. One of them actually bounced off the wall with a soft thud.

Tim glanced up from the couch in the living room, where he’d clearly set up camp for a long work session. Laptop open. Two coffee mugs. Three half-written notes scattered around him. “Oh boy,” he said dryly. “Someone’s got big feelings today.”

“Silence, Drake.” Damian practically stomped his way toward the living room, yanking his backpack open as he went. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and waved it around like evidence in a trial. “B minus.”

Jason snorted from the armchair where he was balancing a bowl of cereal like it was dinner. “That’s not even bad, kid. That’s what most of us hoped for back in the day.”

“It is an insult,” Damian snapped, as if Jason had just suggested he go eat dirt. “I produced a well-structured, concise, and informative report on that ridiculous excuse of a children’s novel. I deserve at least an A.”

“Uh huh,” Tim said, closing his laptop with a quiet click and turning toward him fully. “What exactly did she say?”

Damian threw the paper onto the coffee table. Dick, who was upside down on the floor attempting some weird shoulder stretch, flipped back onto his feet just in time to read over Tim’s shoulder.

In bright red pen, at the bottom of the page:

“Good grammar and structure! But it sounds… stiff. Like someone else helped you write this. Try to make it sound more like you! :)”

The little smiley face at the end made Damian look like he might actually commit a crime.

“‘Sounds like someone else helped me write it,’” Damian repeated, voice dripping with disdain. “I followed every single idiotic instruction she gave us. I simplified my vocabulary. I used ‘feeling’ words. I even included that nonsensical thing about ‘themes.’ And for what? A B minus.”

Jason was full-on laughing now. “Oh man. You got busted.”

“She has no proof,” Damian snapped. “And yet she dares accuse me of not doing my own work.”

“She didn’t accuse you,” Dick said between snorts of laughter. “She just said it sounded like someone helped you. Which… you know. Jon totally did.”

“Tt. He did not write it,” Damian corrected sharply. “He merely… phrased things in a way that would not offend her fragile intellect.”

Tim leaned back on the couch, smirking. “You mean he made it sound like an actual thirteen-year-old wrote it.”

Damian crossed his arms and slumped against the arm of the couch with all the bitterness of a tiny Victorian ghost who’d been wronged by the world. “I will never understand the educational system in this country. Punished for competence. Rewarded for mediocrity.”

“You’re not punished,” Jason said between bites of cereal. “You just can’t sound like a 50-year-old academic when your classmates still mix up ‘their’ and ‘there.’”

“Perhaps they should learn faster.”

Tim snorted into his coffee.

Dick plopped down next to Damian, ruffling his hair despite the immediate glare of death he got in return. “Hey, B minus isn’t the end of the world, kiddo. You’ll live.”

Damian pulled away from him like he’d been burned. “You don’t understand. I lowered my standards for this assignment. And it still wasn’t good enough. I will never do this again.”

Jason grinned. “Oh, you’re definitely gonna have to do it again. That’s the best part.”

Damian looked like he was strongly considering faking his own death to avoid the next book report.

From the kitchen, Alfred cleared his throat. “Would Master Damian like some tea to soothe his… academic rage?”

Damian grumbled something unintelligible, but he did stalk into the kitchen a second later, Titus padding loyally behind him.

Jason leaned over toward Tim. “I give it three days before he calls Jon again and makes him ghostwrite.”

“Please,” Tim said. “Three days? Try tomorrow.”

And sure enough, from the kitchen came a single, dramatic: “Tt.”

Chapter Text

The night was going fine. Almost too fine. Which, naturally, meant the universe decided to screw them over.

The team had just finished sweeping a couple blocks in the Narrows, quiet night, no gunfire, no explosions, no idiots trying to rob jewelry stores in clown masks. Bruce was at the wheel of the Batmobile, Tim riding shotgun, with Jason and Damian in the back. Cass was up on the rooftops, tailing them in case something went sideways.

Jason was half-way through a snarky comment about how Gotham’s criminals must’ve gone on vacation when the Batmobile gave a sound no Batmobile should ever give.

A weak, sad “krrr–hhhrrr” followed by a coughing noise from the engine.

Tim blinked. “…what the hell was that?”

Bruce’s hands tightened on the wheel. “No.”

The car sputtered again, slower this time, like it was dying in slow motion. Jason leaned forward between the seats. “Oh no. Don’t tell me-”

The Batmobile stopped. Completely.

“…you’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim muttered.

For a second, there was complete silence inside the car. Then Jason burst out laughing. “You ran out of gas.”

“I did not ‘run out of gas,’” Bruce said, already pulling up diagnostic readings on the dashboard with the kind of focus that meant he knew exactly what had happened but wasn’t ready to admit it.

Jason smacked the dashboard. “Oh, this is rich. Batman. World’s Greatest Detective. Billionaire. Genius. Forgot to fill up the tank.”

“I did not forget,” Bruce growled.

From the back seat, Damian crossed his arms. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Bruce said through gritted teeth.

“It is,” Damian deadpanned. “Father. You lecture us about preparedness. You make us check our gear. You make me carry three extra grappling hooks. And you did not fill the tank.”

Jason was laughing so hard he actually smacked the back of Tim’s seat. “Oh my god. This is the best night of my life.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so… Plan?”

Cass dropped down from the roof and landed next to the Batmobile, leaning in through the open window. “Problem?”

Jason grinned. “Big bad Bat forgot to gas up the car.”

Cass tilted her head, dead serious. “…idiot.”

Bruce’s eye twitched.

But then Tim noticed something else on the diagnostics. “…uh. We might have a bigger problem than just running out.”

Jason leaned over his shoulder. “What?”

Tim pointed at the display. “Fuel pressure dropped gradually over the last couple hours. Meaning… it’s been leaking.”

“Something must’ve scraped through the tank,” Bruce said shortly, crouching beside the car to check. Sure enough, when they all climbed out and shined flashlights underneath, there was a thin line running across the bottom of the tank. Not huge, but just enough to let the fuel drip away all night.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Yeah, no gas station’s fixing that.”

“Not that we’d stop at one anyway,” Bruce muttered, already looking like the concept alone offended him.

“Why not?” Tim asked.

“Because the Batmobile is not sitting in a public parking lot, Drake,” Damian said flatly. “We’d be surrounded by civilians with cell phones before the tires cooled.”

Tim threw his hands up. “Then what? Push it?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jason’s grin widened. “Oh my god. We’re gonna push the Batmobile.”

Bruce glared at him. “We have to get it somewhere secure before daylight.”

“Push it is then,” Tim said dryly.

Damian immediately pointed at the driver’s seat. “I should steer. I weigh the least.”

“No,” Bruce said, shutting that down before Damian could even blink.

“Father-”

“No.”

Damian crossed his arms, muttering under his breath about “illogical decisions.”

Bruce turned to Tim instead. “You steer.”

Jason let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Wow. Not me?”

“You’re the least likely to behave,” Bruce said flatly.

Jason clutched his chest. “I’m offended.”

Cass smirked faintly. “He’s right.”

“Traitor,” Jason whispered dramatically.

Tim sighed but climbed into the driver’s seat anyway. “Okay, so I’m steering. The rest of you push.”

Jason cracked his knuckles. “This is gonna suck.”

And it did suck. The Batmobile wasn’t exactly light. Between Jason, Bruce, Damian, and Cass, they managed to get it moving down the empty street, but every incline felt like a personal attack.

Jason groaned loudly. “How much farther is it?”

“Several miles,” Bruce said without missing a beat.

“Several- are you insane?!”

“You’re the one who lifts weights,” Damian said smugly.

Jason glared at him. “You’re lucky you’re a child.”

Damian rolled his eyes but kept pushing. Cass, silent as always, just leaned into it and matched Bruce’s pace like this was a workout.

Tim was in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, leaning out the window every so often. “Little to the left, no, Damian, left is the other way, Jason, stop kicking the bumper-”

Jason kicked it again just because.

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“What? I’m helping.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m making it fun.”

“Fun,” Damian echoed, completely deadpan. “We’re pushing a two-ton vehicle down a street at two in the morning. ‘Fun’ is not the word I would use.”

Jason grinned. “I’m having a blast.”

By the time they were halfway there, they’d argued about three different “better” plans (including Damian suggesting they call Jon to lift the car and Jason suggesting they “borrow” a tow truck). Bruce shut down every idea with the same calm, terrifying Dad Voice.

Finally, as the Batmobile inched down the street like the world’s most dramatic parade float, Tim leaned out the window again and said, “You know… we could’ve just called Dick.”

“He’s in Blüdhaven,” Bruce reminded.

“Yeah, but imagine his face if he got the text: ‘help, out of gas.’”

Jason started laughing again, half from exhaustion and half from imagining it. “You’re right. He’d never let Bruce live it down.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “…We’re not telling him.”

Jason immediately pulled out his phone. “Oh, we’re definitely telling him.”

“Jason.”

Jason grinned wider. “Too late.”

Somewhere in Blüdhaven, Dick was about to have the best night of his life.

They’d been pushing for almost half an hour.

Everyone was sweaty, irritated, and, in Jason’s case, dangerously close to throwing a rock at a streetlight just to make something happen. Tim’s voice was hoarse from shouting steering directions out the window, and Damian had started humming some classical-sounding march under his breath, which somehow made everything worse.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just call Alfred?” Jason grunted, shoving against the back bumper.

“Because Alfred is not a mechanic,” Bruce replied without even glancing back. His voice was as steady as if he wasn’t currently pushing a literal tank in full armor.

“Yeah, but Alfred knows how to drive,” Jason shot back. “Unlike someone who doesn’t believe in gas stations!”

“Enough,” Bruce said sharply.

Tim leaned halfway out the window. “Uh, we’ve got company.”

Headlights rolled slowly down the street toward them, blue and red lights flickering faintly across the wet pavement. A car door opened, and Commissioner Gordon stepped out, coat fluttering in the breeze, cigarette already half-lit between his fingers.

He squinted at the sight before him, Batman, Red Hood, Robin, and Orphan collectively pushing the Batmobile down an empty street like a bunch of very committed cosplayers.

“…what the hell am I looking at?” Gordon asked finally.

Jason, without hesitation, said, “Team exercise.”

Bruce shot him a look that could kill.

Tim coughed. “Malfunction,” he said instead, trying to sound professional. “Fuel issue.”

Gordon took a long drag on his cigarette. “You’re telling me the Batmobile ran out of gas.”

“No,” Bruce said firmly.

“Yes,” Jason said at the same time, smirking.

Cass quietly nodded.

Bruce closed his eyes. “…There was a leak in the tank.”

Gordon stared for a long moment, then sighed. “You know, I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re lucky it’s a quiet night, or I’d have twenty reporters asking why Gotham’s Dark Knight is stranded on the side of the road.”

Jason chuckled. “You wanna give us a lift, Commish?”

Gordon gave him a flat look. “In what? My sedan? You think I’ve got Batmobile towing insurance?”

Tim cleared his throat. “Actually, uh… if we could get it to your garage, just for the night, it’d be out of the open.”

Gordon exhaled, long and tired, like he was too old for this nonsense. “Fine. You can bring it to the precinct. We’ll keep people away from it until… whatever this is gets fixed.”

Jason grinned. “You’re a real one, Gordon.”

“Don’t push it, Hood.”

With that, Gordon climbed back into his car and slowly drove ahead, lights flashing low to clear the way.

It took another grueling twenty minutes of pushing before they finally made it to the Gotham City Police Department. A few late-night officers stood slack-jawed at the sight of the legendary Batmobile being manually wheeled into the garage, powered entirely by pure Bat-family suffering.

Jason waved at them cheerfully. “Evenin’, officers. Don’t mind us, just doing Batman’s cardio.”

“Shut up,” Bruce said automatically, but the damage was done, half the garage was already snickering.

When they finally stopped, Gordon gestured to an open space in the corner. “You can park it here. I’ll make sure nobody touches it.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, still standing by the car with his cape pulled tight like he was guarding a wounded animal.

“Batman?” Gordon asked.

“I’m not leaving it,” Bruce said.

Tim blinked. “What?”

Bruce’s tone left no room for argument. “Someone has to guard it at all times. We don’t know who might have tampered with the tank in the first place.”

Jason threw his hands up. “You think someone’s gonna break into the police station to mess with your car?”

“Possible,” Bruce said.

“Paranoid,” Jason muttered.

Bruce turned to face them all, voice calm but commanding. “Robin, you’re dismissed. You have school tomorrow.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to argue. “Tt. Fine.” He gave a sharp nod and disappeared up into the shadows, grappling away toward the rooftops.

Then Bruce looked at the rest. “The rest of you, take shifts. One of you stays with the car at all times.”

Tim groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ll return to the Cave and retrieve tools to repair the damage. Until then, you guard it.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You’re walking?”

“It’s faster than waiting for extraction,” Bruce said, already heading for the exit.

Jason watched him go, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. World’s greatest detective, my ass.”

Gordon watched the whole exchange with the patience of a man who’d been dealing with this circus for too many years. “So you’re really gonna stand guard over a car all night?”

Tim sighed, dragging a chair over. “Apparently.”

Cass sat cross-legged on the hood, perfectly at ease.

Jason sprawled across the driver’s seat, boots hanging out the open door. “If I find even one pigeon landing on this thing, I’m taking it as a personal insult.”

Gordon shook his head and muttered as he walked off, “You people need therapy.”

Tim leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe we’re babysitting a car.”

Jason grinned, leaning out the window. “Not just any car, Red. The car.”

Cass looked over at the far end of the garage, where a couple of night-shift cops were whispering and pointing. “They’re staring.”

Jason waved lazily. “Let ‘em. We’re legends.”

Tim groaned again. “We’re idiots.”

Cass tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Both.”

The garage was quiet by the time he came back.

Well, quiet-ish.

Tim was half-asleep in a rolling chair, hood up, head tilted back against a wall of police-issued lockers. Jason was balancing a wrench on his forehead out of sheer boredom while Cass sat cross-legged on the hood of the Batmobile, completely unbothered, flipping through a police pamphlet titled “Community Safety Week.”

Gordon had given up hours ago, muttering something about “whatever Bat nonsense this is” before heading back upstairs. A few night-shift officers occasionally peeked in, but after the third time Red Hood told one of them the car was “armed and bitey,” nobody got too close.

That was when the heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the garage.

The door creaked open, and there he was, Batman, striding in like some grim, oil-stained saint, cape trailing, a massive gas can in one hand and a metal toolbox in the other.

Jason sat up, eyebrows shooting up under his helmet. “Holy hell. He actually brought gas this time.”

Tim blinked awake, squinting. “Is that… a five-gallon tank?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just set both items down beside the Batmobile with a loud clang. “Nobody touched it?”

Cass shook her head. “No one.”

Jason smirked. “Except the cop who asked if he could take a selfie. I said no.”

Bruce gave him a look that said good.

Then, without another word, he knelt beside the Batmobile, pried open the damaged panel, and got to work. The sound of tools clinking echoed through the empty garage. Sparks flickered under the hood as he reattached a few lines, sealed the scraped-through section, and reinforced the lower plate. 

Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You know, you could’ve just called a tow truck.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “No.”

“You could’ve at least brought, I don’t know, a drone with the tools?”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

Cass tilted her head. “Why walk?”

Bruce’s reply was as gruff as ever. “Needed to make sure no one followed.”

Jason snorted. “Right, because clearly, the gas can and toolbox wouldn’t have drawn attention.”

Tim covered his mouth to hide a laugh, failing miserably.

Bruce paused, eyes flicking up. “Are you finished?”

Jason grinned. “Not even close, but I’ll take a break.”

After another twenty minutes of silence, broken only by the clinking of metal, the occasional curse when a wrench slipped, and Jason humming the Mission: Impossible theme under his breath, Bruce sat back on his heels, examining his work. The patch on the underside gleamed with fresh welding.

“Leak’s sealed,” he said finally.

Tim yawned. “Thank god.”

Jason pointed at the gas can. “Now for the part that really scares me, seeing the Bat put gas in his own car.”

Bruce ignored him and uncapped the container. The smell of gasoline filled the air instantly, sharp and heavy. He carefully poured it into the tank, every movement methodical.

Tim wrinkled his nose. “You’re gonna smell like a gas station for a week.”

Jason grinned. “Can’t wait to tell Damian. He’ll have a field day.”

Bruce replaced the cap, closed the panel, and stood. “It’s functional again.”

Cass hopped off the hood and gave a small, approving nod. “Good job.”

Jason mock-saluted. “Congratulations, boss. You fixed the Batmobile and got your steps in.”

Bruce gave him a flat look that could melt steel.

Tim stretched. “So, we heading back to the cave?”

“In a moment,” Bruce said, walking around the car one last time, checking for anything he’d missed. Then, satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life with its usual deep, powerful hum.

Jason blinked. “It works?”

Bruce shot him a side glance through the windshield. “Of course it works.”

Tim was half-laughing now. “You say that like we didn’t just push it halfway across Gotham.”

Bruce didn’t respond, just revved the engine once, the growl echoing off the concrete walls, making the fluorescent lights buzz.

Cass smiled faintly behind her mask. “Better.”

Bruce gestured toward the car doors. “Get in.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Wouldn’t want us to weigh it down or anything.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

Jason snorted, but climbed in anyway.

As they pulled out of the garage, Gordon appeared again at the entrance, coffee in hand, looking done with life. “You fixed it?” he called.

Bruce gave a single nod.

Gordon sighed. “I don’t even want to know how.”

“Good,” Bruce said simply, before the Batmobile roared off into the night, engine purring, no leaks, and a faint scent of gasoline lingering like the ghost of their humiliation.

Jason leaned back in his seat, smirking. “So, moral of the story, check your fuel before patrol, huh?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Noted.”

Tim snorted quietly from the passenger seat. “I’m printing that on a sticker.”

Cass, leaning against the window, murmured, “Or a mug.”

Jason grinned. “Oh, I’m definitely getting Damian to make one.”

Chapter Text

The next day started with the kind of mood that could sour milk. Damian woke up already irritated, the kind of deep, simmering irritation that had been building for days. First, his grade had dropped (an absolute disgrace, if you asked him). Then there’d been the humiliating group assignment that required “teamwork” (as if he needed help from anyone). And, of course, the Batmobile incident, which had resulted in him being sent home like a misbehaving child and told, yet again, that he was “too young” to drive the car.

It was, in his mind, an ongoing string of injustices.
And by the time Alfred called him down for breakfast, Damian had already decided: he’d had enough.

He was done.

Bruce was downstairs in the cave, analyzing some chemical sample or something equally uninteresting, when Damian stomped in, cape swishing dramatically behind him.

“Father,” he announced, crossing his arms. “I’ve made a decision.”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “You’re not getting a license.”

Damian’s eye twitched. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Bruce finally looked up, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly calm way of his. “Then what were you going to say?”

Damian hesitated, because technically, what he was about to say was stupid. But he wasn’t about to back down. “I’m taking a few days off from school. To recalibrate.”

Bruce stared at him. “Recalibrate?”

“Yes,” Damian said firmly. “My learning environment has become… unproductive.”

“Damian-”

“Do not ‘Damian’ me,” he snapped, spinning on his heel and storming toward the stairs. “I’ll be in my room.”

Bruce sighed. “You’re still going to school.”

That was the final straw.
Fine. If his father wanted to play that game, then Damian would simply remove himself from the board.

-

He texted Jason.

Demon Spawn: I require your assistance.
Red Hood: that sounds ominous
Demon Spawn: I need you to kidnap me.
Red Hood: …
Red Hood: I’m sorry. what.
Demon Spawn: You heard me. Fake kidnapping. For the sake of peace.
Red Hood: “For the sake of peace.” you mean “so you don’t gotta go to school”
Demon Spawn: Semantics.

Jason read the messages twice, then started grinning. This was too good to pass up.
He could already imagine Bruce’s reaction, that mix of quiet fury and resigned suffering that was just chef’s kiss satisfying.

So, twenty minutes later, a bright red motorcycle rolled to a stop right outside Gotham Academy.

The teachers had long stopped panicking over “Wayne-related kidnappings.” After the third one, they mostly just sighed, logged it with security, and waited for Bruce Wayne to file the official “no, my child isn’t in danger, we’re negotiating with the kidnappers, please stop calling” paperwork.

Damian, already outside with his bag, climbed on without a word.

“Morning, kidnap victim,” Jason said, handing him a helmet.

“Let’s make it convincing,” Damian replied with a smirk.

Jason revved the engine, yelled, “SORRY BRUCE, I’M STEALING YOUR KID AGAIN!” and took off down the road before anyone could even blink.

-

They ended up at one of Jason’s safehouses, one that looked like it’d been a garage in a previous life. There were weapons on the wall, a couch that looked like it had seen war, and a fridge full of questionable leftovers.

Jason tossed his helmet onto the couch. “Alright, demon brat. What’s the plan? You gonna sulk in peace or do I gotta entertain you?”

Damian didn’t hesitate. “I wish to do as I please.”

Jason squinted. “That’s not a plan, that’s a threat.”

“First,” Damian said, ignoring him, “I intend to go for a walk. There are several stray cats in the area who require supervision.”

Jason groaned. “You’re not building a zoo in here, please-”

Too late. Damian was already out the door.

By the time Jason followed, Damian had somehow acquired two cats, a pigeon, and what appeared to be a raccoon that was most definitely not in good health.

“Okay, no,” Jason said, hands on hips. “Absolutely not. Put the rabid trash gremlin down.”

“He’s misunderstood,” Damian argued, holding the squirming raccoon at arm’s length. “His eyes merely reflect the pain of the world.”

Jason blinked. “His eyes reflect rabies, dude.”

Damian gave him a look that said you’re uncultured. “You have no appreciation for animals of character.”

Jason sighed. “I’m not explaining to Bruce that you got rabies because you tried to pet a rabid raccoon again.”

Damian scowled but set the raccoon down, albeit with a muttered, “He’d have been an excellent companion.”

The rest of the day was a blur of chaos. Damian spent hours doing “training exercises” that looked suspiciously like parkour off Jason’s furniture, followed by reading what he insisted was “actual literature” (Jason caught him with The Art of War in one hand and a book of medieval torture methods in the other).

Jason, meanwhile, mostly sat back with a beer and watched the show.

He wasn’t about to complain, Damian was quiet (for the most part), didn’t touch his guns, and occasionally muttered insults at the raccoon that had started following them around anyway.

But back at the manor, Bruce was… less than amused.

He knew Damian wasn’t in danger, the tracker on his suit made that clear enough. But it didn’t change the fact that Jason was deliberately ignoring his calls.

At one point, Bruce even called Nightwing.

“Can you handle this?” Bruce asked tiredly.

“I’m in Blüdhaven,” Dick said over the line, sounding half-asleep. “Handle what?”

“Jason kidnapped Damian.”

Pause. Then:
“…Again?”

“Yes.”

Dick chuckled. “He’ll bring him back eventually. Probably when he runs out of snacks.”

“I’m not amused.”

“You never are,” Dick said, and hung up.

-

By nightfall, Damian was still technically kidnapped, though at that point, he was sitting on the couch, cat on his lap, book in hand, and a bowl of cereal Jason had given him because he refused to cook.

Jason stretched out on the other couch, feet up, watching TV.

“Y’know,” Jason said casually, “you’re gonna have to go back eventually.”

“Eventually,” Damian echoed, flipping a page. “But not yet.”

Jason smirked. “Bruce is gonna lose his mind.”

“Good,” Damian said flatly. “He deserves it.”

Jason snorted. “Can’t argue with that.”

And so, the kidnapping continued, for now.
Because, honestly, Jason figured, as long as Damian wasn’t blowing anything up or adopting wild animals that could bite him, what was the harm in letting the kid hide out for a bit?

Bruce could suffer a little.
It built character.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Jason had begun to realize something very important:
Damian Wayne, when unsupervised and completely free of Bruce’s rules, was a menace.

He woke up to the smell of something burning. Not in the “oops, the toast is overdone” way, no, this was the thick, greasy kind of smoke that smelled like hell’s version of breakfast.

Jason stumbled out of bed, half-dressed and already on alert. “What the-”

He stopped in the doorway.

The kitchen looked like it had been attacked. Flour on the counter. Eggshells everywhere. A suspicious puddle of something pink dripping off the stove. Damian stood in the middle of it all, wearing one of Jason’s shirts like an apron and looking far too pleased with himself.

“Good morning,” he greeted crisply, flipping something black and smoking in a pan.

Jason blinked. “…What are you doing?”

“Breakfast.”

Jason pointed at the pan. “That’s not breakfast, that’s arson.”

Damian gave him a look like he was the unreasonable one. “I am experimenting.”

“With what, fire safety violations?”

“It’s a protein-based meal designed for optimal performance.”

Jason leaned closer to the plate Damian proudly slid toward him.
He stared.

It was… indescribable. Something between an omelet and a failed chemical experiment. The “pink” smell turned out to be strawberry protein powder mixed into scrambled eggs.

“Try it,” Damian said expectantly.

Jason stared at the plate. Then at Damian. Then back at the plate.

“No.”

Damian frowned. “Coward.”

“I’ve eaten MREs that looked safer than that, kid.”

“I refined the recipe with logic.”

“Yeah, well, logic doesn’t belong in food.”

Jason opened the window to let the smoke out while Damian huffed in the background, muttering something about “culinary incompetence” and “palate of a Neanderthal.”

-

After the disaster breakfast, Damian moved on to what he called his “physical enrichment exercises.”
Jason called it “reckless chaos.”

At first, it wasn’t too bad. Damian was doing normal training, push-ups, kicks, sword forms, nothing out of the ordinary.
But then… then he decided the equipment wasn’t challenging enough.

Jason was cleaning the kitchen when he heard the first snap.

“Hey, uh- what was that?”

Damian’s voice echoed from the training area. “Nothing.”

Jason walked in and stopped dead. His punching bag was split open, sand spilling across the floor like guts. Damian stood next to it, sword still drawn.

“You stabbed my punching bag?!”

“It was a weak opponent,” Damian said matter-of-factly.

“That was Everlast, dude!”

He didn’t stop there, either. Over the next hour, Damian somehow managed to:

• Break Jason’s resistance band (“It attacked me first.”)
  
  
• Knock over a rack of weights (“Structural flaw, not my fault.”)
  
  
• Use Jason’s pull-up bar as a perch for meditation (“Balance training, Todd.”)
  
  

Jason just stood there with his hands on his hips, staring at the chaos, wondering how Bruce hadn’t gone gray yet.

-

By midday, Jason thought he might finally get a moment of peace. Damian had gone quiet, which was both a relief and a concern.

When he found him again, the concern won.

Because Damian had returned from “a short walk” with…
four kittens.

All of them crammed in his hoodie.

Jason blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“They followed me.”

“You mean you picked them up and they didn’t bite you, so now you think they’re yours.”

“They were defenseless.” Damian looked down at the meowing mass against his chest. “They require care.”

“Kid, this isn’t a shelter. It’s a safehouse.”

“It’s safe for them,” Damian countered instantly.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alfred’s gonna murder me.”

Still, he didn’t have the heart to tell Damian no, not when the kid looked so proud of himself. So, he let it slide.

He immediately regretted it.

The kittens were everywhere. One climbed onto his boots. Another knocked over a water glass. One got tangled in his hoodie string. And the fourth decided Jason’s arm was a scratching post.

“Why are they all so claw-y?” Jason hissed.

“They are asserting dominance,” Damian said calmly from the couch, surrounded by the other three.

Jason gave him a deadpan stare. “You’ve been around Bruce too long.”

-

By evening, Jason was running on fumes. He thought, hoped, Damian might finally settle down.
He was wrong.

Damian had found Jason’s motorcycle keys.

Jason walked into the garage just in time to see Damian straddling his bike, helmet on, looking way too smug for someone who definitely did not have a license.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason warned.

“I’m just inspecting the vehicle.”

“You’re inspecting it like you’re about to steal it.”

“I’m not stealing. I’m borrowing.”

“Borrowing implies permission.”

Damian revved the engine.

Jason nearly had a heart attack. “KID-”

He lunged forward and grabbed the handles, hitting the kill switch. The bike sputtered and died, and Damian looked like he’d just been denied the right to breathe.

“You never let me have any fun,” Damian scowled.

Jason glared back. “You set my kitchen on fire, broke my training gear, smuggled in a litter of cats, and almost totaled my bike, all before dinner. You’ve had plenty of fun.”

Damian crossed his arms, clearly unbothered. “I am living freely. You could learn from me.”

Jason just stared at him, exhausted beyond words. “You sound like a motivational poster from Arkham.”

Damian ignored him and returned to the couch, kittens curling up beside him like he was some tiny, moody Disney princess.

Jason collapsed into the armchair, rubbing his temples.
“Why did I agree to this,” he muttered under his breath.

From the couch, Damian said without looking up, “Because you love watching Father suffer.”

Jason paused. “…Fair.”

The kid wasn’t wrong.

Still, Jason made a mental note: next time Damian texted him with “I have a plan,” he was blocking his number for at least 24 hours.

Chapter Text

Jason had not known true exhaustion before this.

Sure, he’d gone days without sleep before, stakeouts, missions, the occasional bar fight at three in the morning, but this? This was different.
This was psychological warfare.

He’d gotten, maybe, three hours of sleep. Three broken hours, to be exact, because every time he started drifting off, something, or someone, made sure he didn’t.

It started with the kittens.

They’d been cute when Damian brought them in, sure, but now they were tiny, fuzzy agents of chaos. At around 2 a.m., they began their nightly ritual of sprinting laps across the couch, Jason’s chest, and occasionally his face.

He’d managed to toss a pillow over his head and muffle their pitter-pattering paws when another sound joined the concert: Damian’s voice.

“Stop it, you’re spilling their milk!”

Jason groaned into his pillow. “Kid, go to sleep!”

“They’re hungry!”

“They’re nocturnal, not starving!”

“I can’t rest knowing they might suffer.”

Jason peeked out from under the pillow, hair sticking up like he’d just been electrocuted. “You’re suffering. I’m suffering. Go to bed before I put you in a box with the cats.”

That quieted him, temporarily.

By 3:15, Damian was humming something from the other room. By 3:40, one of the kittens was clawing at Jason’s sock drawer. And by 4:00, Jason had accepted that sleep was but a concept, a beautiful myth from a time before Damian Wayne.

When the sun finally came up, Jason felt like death. His eyes burned. His head throbbed. His body ached. He stumbled into the kitchen and nearly tripped over Damian, who was cross-legged on the floor, feeding the kittens from a makeshift bottle.

“You look terrible,” Damian observed.

Jason glared, voice hoarse. “You think?”

“Perhaps you should’ve slept more.”

Jason blinked slowly. “You were the reason I didn’t.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Jason just stared. “Kid, I swear-”

He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. Yelling wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth it right now except sleep.

So, after breakfast (which consisted of coffee strong enough to dissolve metal), Jason decided on a new plan. A simple one. One that, in his tired, delirious state, felt completely rational.

He waited until Damian went to train, again, and then calmly walked into the training room, rope in hand.

Damian looked up from his sword stance. “What are you doing?”

Jason didn’t answer. He just gestured for him to stay still. Then, before the kid could react, he looped the rope around him and the punching bag and tied the knots tight.

“Hey-!”

“Shhh.” Jason patted his head. “Nap time for both of us.”

“You can’t restrain me like some common criminal!”

“Watch me.”

“You will regret this, Todd.”

Jason yawned so hard it cracked his jaw. “Worth it.”

Damian glared, wriggling like an angry cat. “Untie me immediately!”

“Nope.”

“You are unfit to be my captor.”

Jason waved a lazy hand. “Yeah, yeah, take it up with HR.”

And with that, he stumbled to his bed and passed out fully clothed.

-

He woke up thirty minutes later to a crash.

Followed by a very distinct, “You’ll rue this day!”

Jason’s eyes shot open.

He bolted upright and ran to the training room, and stopped dead.

The punching bag was on the ground. The rope was shredded. One of the ceiling lights was swinging ominously. And Damian stood there, smug and free, surrounded by the evidence of yet another disaster.

Jason just… stared.

“...How,” he muttered.

Damian dusted off his gloves. “You underestimate my resourcefulness.”

“You broke my ceiling.”

“I liberated myself.”

“You broke my ceiling, Damian!”

“It was a casualty of your poor knot-tying skills.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. “I’m going gray. I swear, you’re making me go gray.”

“You already have gray hair,” Damian pointed out.

Jason froze. “That’s one streak, and it’s from trauma, not from you.”

“Semantics.”

Jason just turned, muttering to himself as he stumbled back toward the kitchen for another round of coffee.

Behind him, Damian had already started reorganizing Jason’s weapons cabinet, completely wrong, of course, and the kittens were following him like a tiny, meowing army.

Jason stared into his mug as he filled it. “He’s gonna kill me,” he whispered to no one. “I’m twenty-something and I’m gonna die of stress.”

The sound of glass shattering in the next room made him flinch.

He didn’t even check this time. Just took a long sip and sighed.
“...Yeah. Definitely gray.”

The press conference was already a circus before Jason even showed up.

Bruce was standing behind a podium, wearing his best “concerned billionaire father” face. Cameras flashed nonstop. Microphones were shoved toward him like bayonets.

“Mr. Wayne! Can you confirm if the rumors are true, your youngest son has been kidnapped again?”
“Has there been any contact with the kidnappers?”
“Do you believe this is connected to the previous incidents-”

Bruce raised his hand, lowering his voice into that calm, rehearsed tone that drove his PR team wild.
“Gotham’s police department is handling the matter. My family and I are cooperating fully. Damian’s safety is my top priority.”

He paused, just long enough to sell the illusion. “I’m confident he’ll be returned to us soon.”

And then, because he had to keep up the playboy billionaire act, he added with a charming smile, “Besides, the Wayne family has quite the history of surviving kidnappings, haven’t we?”

A few reporters laughed nervously.

In the back of the crowd, Gordon stood off to the side, looking like he wanted to quit his job again.

Bruce was about to wrap things up when every camera suddenly swung toward the back of the plaza, because the sound of a motorcycle engine had just echoed through the crowd.

Bruce’s stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no-

The crowd parted like a crime documentary reenactment in slow motion, and there came Red Hood. And behind him?

A very unamused, very much not kidnapped Damian Wayne.

And half a zoo.

A cardboard box of kittens, a leash with a very confused stray dog, and something in a blanket that Bruce prayed wasn’t alive.

The press collectively lost their minds.

“Is that Red Hood?!”
“Is that- wait, is that Damian?!”
“Why is he carrying a raccoon?!”

The police tried to step forward, but Jason held up one hand, palm out, and growled, “Relax. I’m just making a delivery.”

Bruce pressed his fingers to his temple. “Oh my god.”

Jason strolled right up to the stage, Damian trailing behind him like this was just another Tuesday. Damian looked perfectly calm, completely unbothered by the hundreds of flashing cameras, while Jason looked about five seconds from passing out.

“Red Hood,” Bruce said tightly, keeping his voice even. “To what do we owe this… visit?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Jason said, holding out a piece of crumpled paper. “Returning stolen property.”

He jerked a thumb toward Damian.

The crowd gasped.

Bruce forced a strained smile. “You mean my son.”

Jason shrugged. “Semantics.”

He shoved the paper into Bruce’s hand. “Also, here’s the bill.”

Bruce blinked, unfolding it slowly. “The bill?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, dead serious. “For damages. To my property, my equipment, my mental health. Kid’s a menace, man. Broke my punching bag, set my stove on fire, brought in a plague of cats, and almost totaled my bike.”

Reporters were whispering furiously.

Bruce glanced at the paper, which was scrawled in red marker:

DAMAGES CAUSED BY YOUR HELLSPAWN:

• Kitchen destruction: $400
  
  
• Punching bag (RIP, includes shipping): $150
  
  
• Dumbbells (snapped in half, don’t ask): $300
  
  
• Emotional trauma: priceless (but I rounded to $1,000)
  
  

Total: $1,850 and one week of therapy.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. “You expect me to pay this?”

Jason crossed his arms. “With interest. And maybe throw in a bottle of aspirin.”

Damian huffed beside him. “You act as if you did not enjoy my company.”

“I didn’t,” Jason shot back. “You tried to cook eggs with protein powder.”

“It was nutritious.”

“It was pink!”

Bruce’s PR manager was having a visible breakdown off to the side.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked painful.

And the press, oh, the press, was losing it completely.

“Is this some kind of publicity stunt?”
“Mr. Wayne, how do you know Red Hood?”
“Red Hood, are you saying Bruce Wayne owes you money?!”

Jason just turned to Bruce, muttering through his helmet, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For bringing your kid back before he burned down my safehouse.”

Bruce sighed, giving the most deadpan, billionaire-smile he could muster. “Red Hood, thank you for your… civic duty.”

Jason gave a mock salute. “Anytime, Mr. Wayne.”

Then he turned and started walking off, but Damian didn’t move.

Bruce looked down at him. “Damian, we’re leaving.”

“I wanted to stay with Todd,” Damian said stubbornly.

Jason pointed at him. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I value my sanity, demon.”

Damian glared. “Coward.”

Jason just gave Bruce a little two-fingered salute and muttered, “Good luck, old man,” before disappearing into the night on his bike, leaving behind a dazed crowd, a stack of reporters shouting questions, and Bruce Wayne standing next to his “recently returned kidnapped son” and a suspicious box of meowing kittens.

Bruce took one long, steady breath.

Then he turned to the cameras with a weary smile. “Well,” he said lightly, “I did say I was confident he’d be returned soon.”

The press went feral.

Gordon muttered to himself, “I need a vacation.”

And Damian, ever so calm, picked up the box of kittens and said flatly, “They’re coming with us.”

Bruce didn’t even argue. He just rubbed his temples and muttered, “Jason’s not wrong. I am paying for therapy after this.”

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne’s day had already been long, and it wasn’t even noon yet. After the chaos of last night, the Red Hood crashing his press conference, Damian dragging a parade of animals into public, and Jason billing him for “emotional distress” on official letterhead, Bruce had barely gotten through breakfast without Alfred giving him one of those “you raised this disaster” looks.

Now, standing on the private jet heading toward Metropolis, Bruce adjusted his tie and exhaled through his nose, mentally preparing to act like the brainless billionaire again. A task that, unfortunately, required energy he didn’t have. But seeing Clark would make up for it. Probably. Assuming Clark wasn’t buried under articles, photos, and whatever chaos Lois Lane had gotten the newsroom into this week.

When the jet landed, Bruce slipped on his sunglasses and the trademark grin. The playboy persona clicked into place like a switch being flipped. He walked into the Daily Planet lobby, ignoring the way heads turned and whispers followed.

“Oh my god, Bruce Wayne?”
“Why’s he here?”
“Do you think he’s here for a scandal piece?”

The elevator ride up was slow and filled with the kind of polite smiles and stares Bruce had mastered pretending not to notice. When the doors opened to the bustling newsroom, it was like stepping into organized chaos, phones ringing, printers humming, and reporters arguing over headlines.

He spotted Clark almost immediately. The man was in his usual shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, glasses slightly askew. He was typing at superhuman speed, pretending to be normal about it.

Bruce approached quietly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Kent,” he greeted, casual, lazy tone and all.

Clark looked up, blinking like he wasn’t sure his brain was processing reality correctly. “Bruce? What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d drop by,” Bruce said smoothly, leaning against the edge of Clark’s desk like he owned it. “You weren’t answering my calls. Starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Clark’s ears went slightly pink, though he kept his professional composure. “I was working,” he said, glancing at the very obvious stack of papers in front of him.

From the corner, one of Clark’s coworkers, a younger journalist named Evan, whispered way too loudly, “You know Bruce Wayne? Dude, what the hell?”

Clark cleared his throat, shooting him a pointed look. “We’ve… known each other a while,” he said carefully.

“Oh, that’s an understatement,” Bruce said with a grin that made half the room assume something scandalous. Which was fine. Let them think what they wanted. Bruce Wayne’s reputation was good for something.

Lois appeared like a storm cloud in heels, crossing her arms. “You’re interrupting, Wayne,” she said flatly.

“Always a pleasure, Lois.”

She gave him a once-over. “If you’re here for an interview, book it through the front desk.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I already talked to Perry.”

Clark frowned. “You talked to-?”

“Your boss,” Bruce said casually. “He gave me permission to borrow you for a bit.”

Clark blinked. “Borrow me?”

“Don’t make it sound weird,” Bruce said, already turning toward the elevator. “You work too much, Kent. Come on.”

Lois muttered something about billionaires and their “weird power trips,” but Clark sighed, grabbed his jacket, and followed Bruce anyway.

They were halfway up in the elevator before Clark spoke again. “You could’ve just texted,” he said, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

“I did,” Bruce said. “You ignored me.”

Clark laughed softly. “You know, you’re lucky I can’t exactly say no to my boss or you.”

“That’s the plan.”

Bruce’s “kidnapping” destination turned out to be a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Metropolis skyline. The place was completely empty except for a waiter who looked terrified to be serving him of all people. Every table except one had been cleared out.

“You rented the entire place?” Clark asked, shaking his head as he sat down.

“Bought it out for the evening,” Bruce corrected. “Didn’t want interruptions.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

Bruce picked up his wine glass. “That, too.”

Once they were settled, the waiter vanished as quickly as possible, leaving the two alone. The city lights glowed below them, golden and soft. The air was cooler up here, and Clark leaned back in his chair, relaxing for what was probably the first time in days.

“You know,” Clark said, smirking slightly, “I think you like showing off.”

Bruce didn’t even pretend to deny it. “Maybe,” he said, cutting into his steak with precise movements. “You’re not exactly easy to impress.”

Clark snorted. “You flew all the way here to drag me away from work. That’s not impressive, that’s dramatic.”

Bruce looked up from his plate, eyes calm but sharp. “I’m Batman. What part of that isn’t dramatic?”

Clark laughed into his drink, the sound warm and low. “Fair point.”

Dinner went smoothly after that, quiet conversation, teasing remarks, and Clark stealing fries off Bruce’s plate despite Bruce glaring every time. It was… peaceful. Something rare for both of them.

At some point, Clark leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You look tired,” he said softly.

“I am,” Bruce admitted. “Jason dropped Damian off at a press conference last night.”

Clark blinked. “...He what?”

“In full Red Hood gear,” Bruce said. “With animals.”

Clark tried not to laugh and failed miserably. “God, I wish I’d seen that.”

“No, you don’t,” Bruce muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’m considering early retirement.”

Clark grinned, leaning closer. “You’d get bored in a week.”

“Probably.”

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward, just comfortable. 

Eventually, Clark reached out, brushing his fingers against Bruce’s hand on the table. “You know, if you wanted to spend time with me, you could’ve just come over.”

Bruce’s lips twitched upward. “I don’t like sharing you with the world.”

Clark chuckled. “You mean the newsroom?”

“I mean anyone who’s not me.”

It wasn’t romantic in the sappy sense, it was just… honest. Typical Bruce. No grand speeches, no flowery words, just quiet possession and affection buried under layers of gruffness.

Clark smiled, warm and a little fond. “You really are impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” Bruce said, tone dry.

Clark laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

They stayed up there long after dinner ended, watching the skyline and trading quiet remarks about work, the League, and the ridiculousness of their lives. Bruce didn’t smile much, but he didn’t need to. Clark could tell he was content just by how relaxed his shoulders were.

When the waiter finally reappeared to tell them the kitchen was closing, Bruce stood, offering his hand. Clark took it, letting Bruce pull him up.

“Next time,” Clark said, amusement glinting in his eyes, “I’m kidnapping you from your cave.”

“Good luck getting past Alfred,” Bruce replied.

They both knew he’d lose that fight, but Clark just grinned and kissed him once, brief, soft.

“Worth a shot,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

He arrived in the sleek black Bentley, pulling up in front of the school with the easy grin of a man who had absolutely no idea what the word discipline meant. The valet, who was clearly unused to seeing billionaires at this particular event, nearly tripped over himself opening the door.

Bruce adjusted his tie, put on that charmingly clueless smile, and stepped out like he didn’t spend his nights breaking ribs in alleyways. Inside, the atmosphere was a mix of nervous parents and overly enthusiastic teachers.

The receptionist greeted him in a tone that was just a little too high-pitched. “Mr. Wayne! Oh, we’re so honored to have you here, Damian’s teacher has been waiting for you!”

“I bet,” Bruce muttered, though he gave a polite nod and followed her down the hall. His shoes clicked against the polished floor as he passed by colorful art projects taped to the walls, most of which looked  more like scribbles than actual drawings.

When he reached the classroom, the teacher, Ms. Thompson, stood to greet him. She was young, nervous, and clearly unsure how to balance “talking to a billionaire” and “disciplining said billionaire’s terrifying ten-year-old.”

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, shaking his hand a bit too quickly. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Bruce said with a pleasant, practiced smile. “I always make time for my children’s education.”

That was a lie. Alfred made time. Bruce made excuses.

They both sat down at one of those undersized tables meant for elementary schoolers. Bruce’s knees barely fit underneath. The tiny chair creaked in protest.

Ms. Thompson cleared her throat, flipping through a folder stuffed with notes. “So… Damian is very bright,” she started. “Exceptionally so. He consistently scores at the top of his class in nearly every subject.”

Bruce nodded. “He’s a fast learner.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she said, forcing a laugh. “He’s also very… uh… confident in his intelligence.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Confident?”

She sighed. “He’s corrected every Latin pronunciation I’ve made in class. Repeatedly. Loudly. In front of everyone.”

Bruce leaned back slightly. “Well, he is fluent in Latin.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, voice tight with patience, “but it’s also very disruptive.”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully, though internally he was trying not to smirk. Damian correcting people’s Latin? That was probably the least concerning thing he’d done this week.

Ms. Thompson continued flipping through her notes. “And… there was also the incident with the other student.”

“The punching?” Bruce guessed.

She blinked. “You’re aware of that?”

“Damian mentioned something about ‘disciplining a bully’ over dinner,” Bruce said casually.

Her jaw went a little slack. “Mr. Wayne, your son punched another child in the stomach.”

“In his defense,” Bruce said smoothly, “the other child was apparently bullying a smaller student.”

“That’s not an excuse,” she said firmly.

Bruce gave her a polite, apologetic smile. “Of course not. I’ll speak with him about… nonviolent alternatives.”

That was also a lie. Damian had probably gone easy on the kid.

She sighed again, clearly unsure what to make of him. “Mr. Wayne, Damian’s behavior has been… challenging. He’s very independent, doesn’t like group activities, and often prefers to sit alone during recess.”

Bruce nodded. “He’s just… focused.”

“On what?” she asked, exasperated.

Bruce paused for a second. “…Enrichment.”

Her expression said she didn’t believe that, but she pressed on anyway. “Look, Damian’s intelligence is far above average. I’ve been talking with the administration, and we think he might qualify for a grade advancement.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You mean… skip a grade?”

“Yes,” she said, clearly relieved to move onto the positive part. “If he can show improvement in his social behavior. He already understands most of the material we’re teaching. He’s ahead in math, literature, even history. But his attitude and… combative nature are holding him back.”

“Combative?” Bruce repeated.

“He debates everything,” she said. “He argued with the science teacher about the structure of the human genome.”

Bruce couldn’t help it, he chuckled. “That sounds like him.”

Ms. Thompson gave him a look that screamed this isn’t funny. “Mr. Wayne, Damian has so much potential. But he needs to learn how to work with others. If he continues like this, he’ll alienate every classmate he has.”

Bruce leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. “I appreciate your concern,” he said sincerely. “Damian… comes from a unique background. He’s used to being right. And he’s used to getting results.”

She hesitated. “I understand that. But here, we want him to grow, socially and emotionally, not just academically. He’s bright, but he doesn’t need to prove it every time someone else talks.”

Bruce gave a small nod. “I’ll talk to him.”

She smiled, relieved. “Good. Because honestly, I think if he could just learn to play nice, he’d be one of our top students. Possibly even move up a grade before the end of the year.”

Bruce filed that away mentally. Damian in a higher grade meant less boredom-induced chaos. He’d take it.

Ms. Thompson stood and shook his hand again. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne. And… I appreciate your involvement.”

“Of course,” Bruce said with another charming grin. “My kids mean everything to me.”

He stood, ducking slightly so he wouldn’t hit his head on the doorframe, and made his way out of the classroom, loosening his tie as soon as he was clear. The playboy mask slipped off a little as he sighed, already bracing himself for the inevitable argument.

By the time he reached the car, Alfred had texted:

“I trust the conference went well, sir?”

Bruce replied:

“She said Damian can move up a grade if he stops punching people and plays nice.”

The reply came a moment later:

“So… never, then.”

Dinner at Wayne Manor was… chaos. As usual.

Alfred had set the long dining table with his usual precision, every fork perfectly aligned, every plate gleaming. The only problem was that the family who sat around it had the collective attention span of a pack of caffeinated raccoons.

Dick was home from Blüdhaven, grinning like he hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks (which was probably true). Jason had shown up uninvited, again, claiming he “just happened to be in the neighborhood,” which nobody believed for a second. Tim sat with his leg propped on a chair, scrolling through his phone while muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Conner said he’d call me back ten minutes ago.”

Cass ate quietly but smiled every time someone raised their voice, which was often. Steph was in the middle of trying to balance a spoon on her nose, Duke was watching her with the look of someone slowly losing faith in humanity, and Damian was sitting with perfect posture, glaring at his peas like they’d personally wronged him.

Bruce, at the head of the table, was trying, really trying, to hold an actual conversation.

“So,” Bruce started, tone carefully neutral. “Your teacher told me about your performance in school today, Damian.”

Damian didn’t look up. “I assume she complained about the lack of mental stimulation her class provides.”

Jason snorted around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Kid’s not wrong.”

“Jason,” Bruce said without looking at him, in that warning tone that could silence an army.

Jason shrugged. “What? I’m just saying, maybe the little gremlin’s too smart for his age.”

“I am,” Damian muttered.

Steph grinned. “Oh, we know, Short Stack. You remind us every five minutes.”

Damian shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Unlike you, I actually pay attention to my studies.”

“Hey!” Steph protested, gesturing with her fork. “I graduated!”

“Barely,” Tim mumbled without glancing up from his phone.

“Tim, stop instigating,” Bruce said.

“I’m not instigating,” Tim said. “I’m observing. It’s science.”

“Observing what?” Dick asked, grinning.

“How long it takes for Damian to start another family war,” Tim said casually, still typing.

“Not long,” Jason muttered.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, enough. Damian.”

Damian looked up finally, clearly unimpressed. “Yes, Father?”

Bruce took a slow breath, like he was about to deliver a lecture to an actual rogue. “Your teacher said that if you’re… nicer to your classmates, and you stop correcting your teacher every time she mispronounces a Latin word-”

“She butchers it,” Damian interrupted flatly.

“-and,” Bruce continued through gritted teeth, “if you work on your social behavior, she’s considering moving you up a grade.”

That caught the table’s attention.

Steph froze mid-bite. “Wait, he can skip a grade?”

“Apparently,” Bruce said.

Dick grinned. “Hey, that’s awesome! You’ll get to take harder classes.”

Damian crossed his arms. “I do not require the approval of an underqualified educator to advance in my studies.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Translation: ‘I’m too good for this.’”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said, kid,” Jason said, pointing his fork at him. “Just with more syllables.”

Bruce gave Jason another warning look. “Enough.”

Jason held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying, if I’d had the option to skip a grade, I would’ve-”

“You dropped out,” Tim said without looking up.

Jason glared. “I got killed, Timmy. Kinda interrupts your education, y’know?”

“Technically-”

“Do not start a sentence with ‘technically,’” Jason warned.

“Boys,” Bruce said sharply.

Cass, quietly sipping her water, leaned over to Steph. “Ten minutes,” she whispered.

Steph smirked. “You win the bet. I thought it’d take eight.”

Meanwhile, Bruce was still trying to stay on track. “Damian, I’m serious. This is an opportunity for you.”

Damian’s expression didn’t budge. “An opportunity to be surrounded by more imbeciles who cheat on their exams and speak with the grammar of a sewer rat?”

Duke choked on his drink. “You can’t just say that, man.”

“I just did,” Damian said matter-of-factly.

Bruce’s patience was thinning. “Damian, no one’s asking you to like your classmates. Just… try to be civil.”

“Define ‘civil.’”

“Not threatening to disembowel anyone,” Bruce said tiredly.

Jason nearly spat out his drink laughing. “Disembowel? Who are you raising, Bats, a knight or a serial killer?”

“Yes,” Tim muttered.

Bruce ignored him. “Damian, your teacher thinks you could move up a grade by the end of the year. That’s a good thing.”

Damian stabbed a piece of broccoli like it had insulted him. “I don’t see the point if I must pretend to be ‘nice’ to people who have no ambition.”

Dick reached over and ruffled his hair, earning a murderous glare. “It’s not about pretending, demon. It’s about learning to get along. You can be a genius and still not be a jerk.”

“I disagree,” Damian said flatly, fixing his hair back in place.

Steph leaned on the table, smirking. “C’mon, demon brat, it won’t kill you to be nice for likem what, five minutes?”

“It might,” Damian said.

Jason cackled. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. He gave a long, resigned sigh and muttered mostly to himself, “I fought Ra’s al Ghul for less stress than this.”

“Maybe he would’ve liked to attend the parent-teacher conference,” Jason said with a grin.

Bruce just gave him a look. “Jason.”

“Yeah, yeah, shutting up.”

Dinner went on like that, half-bickering, half-banter, entirely exhausting. Damian didn’t agree to anything, Bruce tried to keep the peace, and Alfred quietly refilled his tea like this was all perfectly normal.

At the end of the meal, Dick leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You know, B, if this whole billionaire thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a great negotiator.”

“I already am.”

From across the table, Damian muttered, “Not with me.”

Jason raised his glass. “And that’s why he’s my favorite.”

“Because he disagrees with almost everything Bruce says?”

“Exactly.”

Chapter Text

Breakfast at Wayne Manor began… suspiciously early.

Suspiciously early meant one thing and one thing only: Alfred had a plan.

By the time the Batfamily stumbled into the kitchen, half-dressed, half-conscious, and wholly unprepared, they found the butler standing at the counter like a general before a doomed army. Every surface of the kitchen was spotless, gleaming, and intimidatingly well-prepared. There were cutting boards, clean knives, bowls, and neatly labeled ingredients arranged in rows like a science lab.

In the middle of it all, Alfred Pennyworth stood with his arms crossed and the look of a man who had lost all patience with his so-called “family.”

“Good morning, everyone,” Alfred said in that deceptively polite tone that always made them nervous.

Jason squinted at him, coffee mug in hand. “Why do you sound like you’re about to ruin my day?”

“Because I am,” Alfred said simply.

Steph blinked. “Wait, are we in trouble? Did someone blow something up again?”

“It wasn’t me,” Duke said immediately, raising both hands.

Damian huffed. “If it had been me, it would have been a controlled explosion.”

“Controlled explosions don’t burn through kitchen ceilings,” Alfred said without missing a beat. “As was the case last April, Master Damian.”

Damian scowled and crossed his arms.

Tim, seated on a stool with his cast stretched out and his phone already in hand, muttered, “What’s this about? Please tell me you’re not doing another ‘family bonding’ day.”

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Dick said with a grin. “I’ve seen that look before. That’s the ‘I’ve had enough of your nonsense’ face.”

“You are correct, Master Richard,” Alfred said briskly. “I have, indeed, had quite enough of your collective nonsense. Particularly regarding your utter incompetence in the kitchen.”

Jason frowned. “Whoa, hold up, ‘incompetence’? I can cook.”

“No, Master Jason,” Alfred said calmly, “you can burn.”

Dick tried not to laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

“Shut it, Goldie,” Jason muttered.

Alfred clapped his hands sharply. “Silence, all of you. Today, we are having a mandatory cooking class.”

The room went completely still.

“...You’re joking,” Steph said slowly.

“I do not joke about food, Miss Stephanie,” Alfred said, with the kind of gravitas that made even Batman look like an amateur. “Now then-”

Bruce entered the room just then, coffee in hand, still wearing his robe, looking like a man who’d been dragged out of bed by sheer force of will. “Alfred, what’s going on?”

“I am fixing the family’s most tragic flaw, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “Your collective inability to feed yourselves like functioning adults.”

Bruce blinked. “You woke everyone up for that?”

“Yes,” Alfred said. “Because apparently, it must be done manually.”

He turned on his heel and started pacing in front of the counter like a professor lecturing a particularly hopeless class.

“When I am unavailable,” Alfred began, “you lot have shown a disturbing pattern of subsisting on takeout, cereal, and, God help us, microwave burritos.”

Jason shrugged. “Hey, they’re efficient.”

“They are poison,” Alfred said. “And you, Master Richard, seem to think ramen packets constitute a balanced meal.”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “They have veggies in them sometimes.”

“Dried flakes of disappointment do not count as vegetables,” Alfred deadpanned.

Steph snorted. “Oh my god, Alfred.”

Alfred ignored her. “Master Timothy, you have, on more than one occasion, attempted to brew coffee in a saucepan.”

Tim didn’t even look up from his phone. “It worked.”

“It exploded,” Alfred said.

“Still tasted fine,” Tim muttered.

“Miss Cassandra,” Alfred continued, turning toward her, “your cooking attempts, while admirable, have resulted in structural damage.”

Cass signed with a grin: ‘Big fire.’

“Yes,” Alfred said dryly, “I recall.”

Then he looked at Duke. “Master Duke, your effort to make grilled cheese last week involved a blowtorch.”

Duke grimaced. “Yeah, I, uh, saw it online.”

“And you, Miss Stephanie-”

Steph groaned. “Oh, come on.”

“-used an entire bottle of maple syrup in pancake batter.”

“They were extra sweet!”

“They were inedible,” Alfred said firmly.

Finally, Alfred turned to Damian, who was sitting rigidly in his chair, arms folded. “And you, Master Damian, refuse to eat anything you did not personally approve of.”

“I have standards,” Damian said.

“Yes, but none that involve sharing a kitchen with other people,” Alfred replied.

Bruce sipped his coffee like he was trying to disappear into it.

Alfred finally faced the group again, hands clasped behind his back. “Therefore, today you will learn basic cooking skills. You will not leave this room until I am confident you can produce something that does not resemble toxic waste.”

Jason groaned. “You can’t make me.”

Alfred looked at him sharply. “Master Jason, I have cleaned your blood off the carpet more times than I can count. You will participate.”

Jason held up his hands. “...Okay, fair.”

Alfred began pointing to the counters like an instructor at a military academy. “This-” he gestured to the stovetop, “is not a bomb. It is an appliance. It produces heat. Controlled heat. Something this family clearly struggles with.”

Steph whispered to Cass, “He’s really treating us like toddlers.”

Cass nodded, amused.

“Over here,” Alfred continued, “we have knives. You will note that they are not to be used for combat.”

Everyone looked at Damian.

Damian glared back. “I would not sully a chef’s knife for combat.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, completely serious. “Now, cutting boards, color-coded to prevent cross-contamination. Master Richard, you will not use the same board for raw chicken and vegetables again.”

Dick frowned. “That was one time.”

“You gave yourself food poisoning,” Alfred said flatly.

Tim was typing something on his phone.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said without looking. “If you attempt to order delivery, I will disconnect the Wi-Fi.”

Tim froze mid-swipe. “...You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Bruce was trying very hard not to smile into his mug.

“Now,” Alfred continued, “we will start with the basics: washing hands, organizing ingredients, and operating a stove without setting anything, or anyone, on fire.”

Jason leaned toward Steph. “He’s actually serious about this.”

“Of course he is,” Steph whispered back. “He’s British. They take tea, manners, and lectures seriously.”

“Master Jason,” Alfred called without turning. “You are still within earshot.”

Jason froze. “...Noted.”

Alfred clapped his hands again, startling half the table. “Right then. Let us begin with how to properly boil water.”

That set off an immediate chorus of groans.

“Alfred, c’mon,” Dick whined. “We know how to boil water.”

“Do you?” Alfred said. “Because the last time you tried, Master Richard, you forgot to add the water.”

Duke nearly choked laughing.

Bruce sighed, setting his mug down. “Alfred, maybe we can-”

“No, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted smoothly. “You will all participate. Even you.”

Bruce blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. The last time you attempted to cook, you left the oven on overnight.”

Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Fair.”

Alfred turned, picked up a pot, and held it up for demonstration. “Now then, class, this is a pot. It is used to contain the water you are about to boil. You do not place it directly on the flame without checking for water first.”

Jason leaned toward Tim and whispered, “This is the weirdest family punishment ever.”

Tim, deadpan, murmured, “At least no one’s bleeding this time.”

“Yet,” Damian muttered.

Alfred gave him a look that could curdle milk. “You will all learn. I am tired of returning from errands to find pizza boxes, unwashed pans, and charred… things.”

Dick raised a hand. “What if we, uh, fail this class?”

Alfred smiled pleasantly. “Then I will make you cook dinner for the entire household tomorrow.”

Everyone fell silent.

Steph whispered, “So basically, we’re doomed.”

Jason nodded. “Pretty much.”

Alfred regretted everything.
Absolutely everything.

The lesson had barely started and he already wanted to revoke kitchen privileges from all of them, permanently.

“Now,” Alfred began, tone crisp as ever, hands behind his back like a general preparing for battle. “We’ll start with something simple, grilled chicken, vegetables, and rice. Balanced, nutritious, and requires only basic skill.”

Basic skill. He really should’ve known better.

Dick was already leaning against the counter with his apron on backward, grinning like he was in a cooking show. Jason was leaning on the fridge, scrolling through his phone, clearly planning to wing it. Tim was sitting on a stool with his cast propped up, eyes half-lidded and a cup of coffee glued to his hand. Damian stood perfectly upright, knife in hand already, as if prepared to wage war on the ingredients. Steph had already stolen a slice of raw carrot. Cass was watching Alfred like a hawk, taking mental notes. Barbara sat in the corner with a tablet, recording the chaos for “research purposes.” And Duke… Duke just looked afraid.

“Right,” Alfred said with a sigh. “Wash your hands, first of all.”

It was a simple request. Should’ve been easy.

Jason rinsed his hands under cold water for two seconds.
Steph turned the sink into a mini water park.
Damian somehow managed to make the soap dispenser explode.
Dick was humming “Stayin’ Alive” while washing, doing the little disco dance as he scrubbed.

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is precisely why I don’t take holidays.”

Once everyone was “cleaned up”, or as close as they could get, he gestured to the ingredients neatly lined up on the counter. “You’ll each prepare one portion under my supervision. Dick, you’ll handle the chicken. Stephanie, vegetables. Master Damian, the rice. Mr. Todd, you’ll-” Alfred paused. “You’ll not cause trouble.”

Jason grinned. “That’s a full-time job, Alfie.”

“Precisely.”

Tim raised his hand lazily. “Can I just… supervise? My leg’s broken.”

“You may chop herbs,” Alfred replied, sliding him a cutting board and a small knife.

Tim blinked at the herbs. “This feels discriminatory.”

“Life is unfair, Master Timothy. Begin.”

For a brief moment, things were calm. Almost normal. Then the chaos began.

“Uh, Alfred?” Dick called, staring down at the raw chicken. “It’s… slippery.”

“Yes, that is typically the case with raw meat, Master Richard.”

“No, I mean it’s really slippery- oh.” The chicken launched itself from his hands, slid across the counter, and landed on the floor with a sad slap.

Jason burst out laughing. “Five-second rule, right?”

“If you pick that up, Master Jason, I will personally disinfect the entire manor,” Alfred warned.

Meanwhile, Damian was glaring at the rice cooker like it had offended him. “Why does this contraption require buttons to boil water? It is inefficient.”

“Because, Master Damian,” Alfred said, “not everyone wishes to cook using the traditional pot-and-fire method.”

Damian pressed a button. The machine beeped aggressively.
He pressed another. It beeped louder.
“Is it supposed to scream at me?” Damian asked flatly.

“Do not-” Alfred began, but it was too late. Damian unplugged the rice cooker. “Problem solved.”

On the other side of the kitchen, Steph was trying to chop vegetables. “How small should I cut them?”

“Uniform cubes would be ideal.”

“Got it!” Steph swung the knife down with enthusiasm, too much enthusiasm. Carrots went flying.

Jason ducked. “Heads up!”

One piece hit Tim in the face. “Ow. She’s armed!”

Steph shrugged. “You said uniform cubes, not where they needed to land.”

Cass, meanwhile, was perfectly following every step, her chicken sizzling golden in the pan. Alfred nodded approvingly. “Miss Cassandra, excellent form.”

Jason side-eyed her. “Teacher’s pet.”

Cass only smirked. “No. You’re just bad.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but then his pan suddenly burst into flame. “Oh, come on!”

“Step away from the stove!” Alfred snapped, already reaching for the fire extinguisher.

Jason backed off, waving his hands. “It wasn’t even that hot! I swear I didn’t-”

“Perhaps next time you’ll refrain from adding whiskey to your marinade,” Alfred said dryly as he put out the fire.

“It’s called flavor, Alfie.”

“It’s called arson, Master Jason.”

Barbara was barely holding her laughter in as she filmed from the corner. “I’m making a documentary. Title: The Culinary Crimes of Wayne Manor.”

“Make sure to get my good side!” Dick said cheerfully, flipping what was left of his chicken.

“There is no good side,” Jason muttered.

Tim sneezed as the herbs puffed into his face. “Why do we even need parsley? It doesn’t do anything!”

“Presentation,” Alfred said sharply. “Food should look as good as it tastes.”

“Then I’m doomed,” Tim muttered, staring at his hacked-up herbs.

By the end of it all, the kitchen looked like a war zone.
There was rice on the ceiling.
A chicken breast in the sink.
Half the vegetables had disappeared (Steph claimed “taste testing”).
Jason’s pan was smoldering in the trash.
And somehow, Dick had managed to get flour in his hair, even though there hadn’t been any flour involved.

Alfred just stood there, motionless, eyes scanning the room like he was reconsidering his entire existence. “You are all banned from this kitchen,” he finally declared. “Indefinitely.”

Dick frowned. “But we haven’t even eaten yet!”

“Exactly.” Alfred pointed toward the door. “Out. All of you. Before I make good on my promise to replace you with competent individuals.”

Jason yawned. “Cool. Pizza, anyone?”

Damian scowled. “You will not bring more junk food into this household-”

“Oh yes, he will,” Alfred interrupted. “Because I will not be cooking tonight.”

Everyone froze.

“You’re serious?” Dick asked.

“As the fire hazard your brother nearly caused, yes.”

Jason grinned. “Guess that means I win.”

“You win nothing,” Alfred said, sweeping past them to clean up. “Now go. Before I change my mind and start assigning dish duty.”

As they shuffled out of the kitchen, Duke whispered, “Do you think he’ll ever forgive us?”

Tim, yawning, replied, “Not before the ceiling rice falls down.”

And somewhere behind them, Alfred muttered, “I should’ve retired when Master Bruce turned 18.”

Chapter Text

The day started with collective groaning.

Every single one of them, except Barbara, who managed to weasel her way out of it, had been summoned by Bruce for something he called “a mandatory family mental health intervention.”

Translation: therapy.

And not just any therapy.
Oh no.
This was Bruce Wayne therapy, which meant NDAs, background checks, surveillance sweeps, and all of them showing up in full vigilante gear because “it’s safer that way.”

So now, sitting in a neatly furnished, softly lit therapist’s office with a tiny water fountain and inspirational posters on the walls, were Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, and Robin.

They looked like a discount Justice League meeting gone wrong.

The therapist, a woman in her 40s with sharp eyes and the patience of a saint, smiled nervously at them. “It’s… nice to meet all of you. I’m Dr. Keller. You can call me Abigail if that’s easier.”

Nobody said a word.

Jason leaned back in his chair, boots on the coffee table, helmet on.
Tim had crutches leaning against his seat and was glaring at Bruce like this was his villain origin story.
Steph was sitting cross-legged, twirling a stress ball she stole from the table.
Cass was silent, signing a quick “I want to leave.”
Damian had his arms crossed, glaring at everything.
Dick smiled too wide, like he was seconds away from snapping.
And Bruce just sat perfectly still, like he was waiting for an interrogation to start.

“So,” Dr. Keller started, forcing a smile. “Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves? Maybe say why you’re here?”

Jason snorted. “Because Batman has control issues.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “Because certain members of the family are incapable of handling conflict in a healthy way.”

“That’s rich coming from you, B,” Dick said, arms spread. “The man who communicates exclusively through brooding and sudden disappearances.”

Steph raised her hand. “Do we, uh… use our actual names?”

“No,” Bruce said immediately.

Dr. Keller blinked. “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable. So… Red Hood?”

Jason leaned forward, voice dry. “I died.”

There was a long pause.

Dr. Keller blinked again. “I- sorry?”

“Yeah. Died. Came back. Bit of a thing. Kinda messed with my head, but I got over it. Sorta.”

Dick rubbed his temples. “You did not get over it, Hood.”

“Didn’t ask for your opinion, Acrobat.”

“Didn’t ask to be traumatized by your existence, but here we are.”

“Boys,” Bruce warned, low and sharp.

Tim sighed, voice tired. “If we’re trauma dumping, I lost a spleen, nearly got blown up, and once got Joker venom in my system.”

Dr. Keller stared at him. “…Your spleen?”

“Yeah,” Tim said casually, scrolling on his phone. “He’s gone now. In a jar somewhere.”

Steph groaned. “Red, you cannot just talk about organ loss like it’s a pet goldfish.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “He really can, though.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “This is pointless. None of us require therapy. I’m perfectly fine.”

Steph pointed at him. “Says the guy who trained to kill people before he could ride a bike.”

Damian scowled. “That was necessary conditioning.”

Dr. Keller scribbled something down. “You were… trained? At what age?”

Bruce’s head snapped toward her. “He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Dick muttered.

“I’m fine,” Damian insisted. “Unlike Hood, who clearly requires psychiatric observation.”

Jason spread his arms. “Oh, so we’re diagnosing people now? Cool. You’ve got a superiority complex the size of Gotham.”

“Better than your inferiority one.”

“Oh that’s it-”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice cut through the argument like a whip.

The room went quiet. Even the little fountain in the corner sounded scared.

Dr. Keller cleared her throat, trying to regain composure. “Why don’t we… take turns sharing one event that you feel shaped you?”

Dick raised a hand with a fake smile. “Oh! Watching my parents fall to their deaths when I was young. Definitely character development material.”

The therapist froze. “…I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Dick said quickly. “We all have our thing. Trauma’s basically our family hobby.”

Steph nodded. “Yeah, mine’s growing up with a criminal dad and dating the guy with no spleen.”

Dr. Keller blinked again. “…Dating- wait, what?”

Tim didn’t even look up. “We don’t talk about it.”

“Not my fault you can’t handle an emotionally stable girlfriend,” Steph teased.

“I was kidnapped by Ra’s al Ghul that week!”

“Excuses.”

Jason groaned, rubbing his temples. “You two need couple’s therapy.”

Steph shot back, “You need therapy therapy.”

Cass, quietly, tapped Dick’s arm and signed something.

Dick smiled softly. “She says her parents tried to train her to kill people and that she used to not talk because of it.”

Dr. Keller, wide-eyed, blinked again. “…Oh. That’s… a lot.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah, we’re a lot.”

“Understatement,” Tim muttered.

Dr. Keller looked around at the group and seemed to realize she was in way over her head. “Right. So maybe… we can talk about coping mechanisms?”

“Violence,” Damian said flatly.

“Coffee,” Tim said at the same time.

“Alcohol,” Jason added.

“Acrobatics,” Dick grinned.

Steph shrugged. “Sarcasm.”

Cass signed, Tea.

“Brooding,” Tim muttered, glancing at Bruce.

Bruce didn’t deny it.

The therapist looked utterly done. “All right,” she said with a forced smile. “That’s… certainly a variety of responses. Perhaps we can-”

Jason leaned forward. “You got a liquor cabinet in here?”

“No.”

“Shame. Would’ve made this way easier.”

Dick laughed softly. “You’d drink rubbing alcohol if you thought it’d take the edge off.”

“Don’t test me.”

They went on like that for an hour, arguing, deflecting, occasionally trauma dumping in the most casual tone possible. Every time Dr. Keller tried to redirect them, someone would drop another bombshell.

Jason: “Yeah, so I came back from the dead and started killing mob bosses.”
Steph: “I faked my death once too. It was a phase.”
Tim: “I hacked the Pentagon.”
Damian: “I stabbed the Flash.”
Dr. Keller: “…you what?”
Dick: “It’s okay, he lived.”

By the time they left, Dr. Keller was sitting in silence, staring at her notebook, questioning all her career choices.

Outside, as they walked back to the Batmobile, Jason stretched his arms. “Well. That was productive.”

“Productive?” Tim muttered. “She looked like she was about to start drinking holy water.”

Steph grinned. “I liked her. She didn’t run screaming.”

“She might after she reads the notes,” Dick said.

Bruce just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Next week. Same time.”

“WHAT?!” they all yelled.

“It’s mandatory.”

Jason groaned. “You’re lucky I already died once, because that just killed me again.”

Damian folded his arms. “You cannot force us to participate in this nonsense.”

“Yes, I can,” Bruce said calmly. “And I will.”

Tim glared. “What happened to freedom of choice?”

“Freedom ends where public property damage begins,” Bruce replied, walking toward the car.

Dick groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Next week, she’s either going to quit or write a thesis about us.”

Jason smirked. “If she sticks around that long.”

And as they all piled into the Batmobile, Alfred’s voice crackled over comms.

“How did it go, Master Bruce?”

Bruce sighed. “They need… more sessions.”

In the background, Jason muttered, “What we need is exorcism.”

Chapter Text

The next day started like every other day in Wayne Manor, badly.

Except this time, Bruce was the reason.

He stood in the middle of the living room like a general addressing a squad, arms crossed, expression dead serious. Everyone else was slumped around the couch in various states of dread, suspicion, and exhaustion.

“Today,” Bruce said, “is a self-care day.”

Dead silence.

Jason blinked. “A what?”

“A self-care day,” Bruce repeated, like the phrase itself didn’t sound utterly foreign coming out of his mouth.

Tim frowned from the couch, his leg still in a cast. “You mean like… no missions?”

“No missions,” Bruce confirmed.

Steph gasped. “No screens either?”

Bruce nodded. “No screens. Alfred already shut off the Wi-Fi.”

A groan rippled through the room like a dying animal.

“YOU WHAT?!” Tim shot up so fast his crutch clattered to the floor. “Alfred, how could you?”

Alfred stood at the edge of the room, arms behind his back, calm as ever. “Master Bruce requested a complete digital disconnection to ensure adequate rest. I have therefore disabled Wi-Fi, confiscated handheld devices, and blocked all cell reception within a hundred-meter radius.”

Tim looked genuinely betrayed. “You’re a monster.”

“Thank you, Master Timothy.”

Dick, who had just come back from Blüdhaven, was sprawled upside-down on the couch. “Okay, so what’s the actual plan here? We just… sit around and vibe?”

Bruce’s tone was flat. “No. You’ll all be participating in basic hygiene, healthy eating, and proper rest.”

Jason snorted. “So, torture.”

Bruce ignored him. “That includes cleaning your personal spaces and the Batcave. No training, no gadgets, no caffeine, no work.”

Tim let out an audible gasp. “No coffee?”

“Correct.”

“Bruce, you can’t just take away my life support.”

Steph patted his shoulder. “RIP Red Robin. Gone but not forgotten.”

Damian, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looked unimpressed. “This is absurd. I have training to complete and animals to feed.”

“You’ll take care of your animals after you take care of yourself,” Bruce said evenly.

Jason leaned forward, smirking. “That’s the first time you’ve said that sentence to anyone.”

Bruce gave him the Batglare. Jason didn’t back down.

Meanwhile, Alfred rolled out a cart of neatly labeled meals. “Breakfast will be served shortly. Steel-cut oatmeal, scrambled eggs, fruit salad, and freshly squeezed juice.”

Jason eyed the bowls suspiciously. “You replaced the coffee with juice?”

“Orange juice,” Alfred said.

Tim made a face like someone had kicked his none existent dog.

Dick tried to lighten the mood. “C’mon, guys, it’s not that bad! One chill day won’t kill you.”

Steph gave him a flat look. “You say that now, but wait until Bruce starts enforcing the eight-hour sleep rule.”

“I already am,” Bruce said.

Tim squinted at him. “You’re what now?”

“You’ll all be sleeping here in the living room tonight,” Bruce said, voice calm but firm. “Together. Phones off. Lights out at 10 PM.”

Jason snorted. “What are we, toddlers?”

“Yes,” Alfred said dryly.

Cass signed something and Dick translated: “She says, ‘this is going to be chaos.’”

“She’s right,” Jason muttered.

By noon, morale had collapsed.

The cleaning phase was… rough.

Jason’s “cleaning” mostly consisted of throwing dirty clothes into one corner of his room and calling it organized chaos.
Steph accidentally flooded a bathroom while “learning how to properly clean tile.”
Tim kept trying to argue that his leg meant he should be “supervising, not productive,” until Alfred handed him a broom and told him to sweep from the chair.
Cass actually did fine, quietly cleaning her area, while Damian deep-cleaned his space like he was prepping for a military inspection, mumbling insults the entire time.

Dick, on the other hand, got distracted halfway through and started reorganizing his closet by color because “it felt like therapy.”

When they regrouped for lunch, everyone looked tired, mildly irritated, and suspiciously cleaner than usual.

Alfred served grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed vegetables.

Jason poked at his plate. “You’re kidding.”

“This is rabbit food,” Damian said.

“It’s healthy food,” Bruce corrected.

“Healthy people are boring,” Jason muttered, shoving a forkful in his mouth anyway.

Dick smiled brightly. “See? It’s not so bad!”

Steph glared. “You’re too positive for this environment.”

Afternoon brought the “relaxation” phase, which, for a group of vigilantes who thrived on adrenaline, was basically psychological warfare.

Bruce had banned training and combat drills.

So instead, he handed everyone yoga mats.

Jason stared at his like it had personally offended him. “You expect me to stretch?”

“Yes,” Bruce said simply.

Tim groaned. “I can’t even bend my leg.”

“Then don’t,” Bruce said.

Dick, already halfway into a plank, grinned. “I actually kinda like this.”

Steph threw a pillow at him. “Of course you do.”

Damian, meanwhile, was balancing on one leg, perfectly poised, muttering, “This is ridiculous,” while somehow maintaining the best form in the room.

Alfred clapped his hands once. “Splendid effort, everyone. You may now proceed to your downtime.”

“Downtime,” in this case, meant forced relaxation.

Bruce handed out books. Actual books. Boring ones on stuff like history or biology.

No one wanted to read them.

Jason lay flat on the floor. “I’m dying.”

Tim, eyes twitching, muttered, “I could be debugging the Cave’s servers right now.”

Steph threw herself on the couch dramatically. “I miss TikTok.”

Cass signed, I’m bored.

Bruce just sat in the armchair, reading silently, utterly unaffected.

Then came bedtime.

At 10 PM sharp, Bruce stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, watching them like a hawk.

The entire family was sprawled on sleeping bags, blankets, and couches, clearly miserable.

Jason muttered, “You’re not really gonna sit there and watch us sleep, right?”

“Yes.”

“…Creepy.”

Tim glared. “I can’t sleep without white noise.”

“Close your eyes,” Bruce said.

Steph yawned. “This is the weirdest cult ever.”

Dick laughed softly, already half-asleep. “Could be worse. We could be in therapy again.”

Jason threw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

Bruce didn’t move. He just sat there, stoic, arms crossed, the very image of parental authority and sleep deprivation.

By midnight, half the room was asleep.
By 1 AM, Bruce was still sitting there.
By 2 AM, Jason opened one eye. “You’re seriously still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Dude, go to bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“You’re in a chair.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

Jason groaned. “You’re insane.”

Steph murmured from her blanket, “He’s Batman, what did you expect?”

Chapter Text

It started like every other “peaceful” morning in Wayne Manor, meaning Alfred was in the kitchen, Cass was quietly feeding the cats, Jason was attempting to drink his coffee before someone annoyed him, and Bruce was nursing a headache from whatever chaos yesterday had brought.

And then his phone rang.

It was Damian.

The boy didn’t even bother with greetings. Just;
“Father, get down here.”

Bruce blinked, halfway through a sip of his black coffee. “Damian, where exactly is ‘here’?”

“The Gotham City Animal Shelter on Fifth. Bring your wallet.”
And then the line went dead.

Jason, sitting across the table, snorted into his mug. “Kid’s got you trained, old man.”

Bruce sighed. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jason smirked. “Sure you will. Try not to come home with a zoo this time.”

When Bruce pulled up to the shelter, he immediately spotted Damian, standing outside with his arms crossed, an employee next to him looking both terrified and relieved. The sight inside the shelter was… overwhelming.

Dozens of cats, dogs, rabbits, birds and other animals were out of their cages, many lounging around as if the building had suddenly become a sanctuary instead of a holding pen. Damian looked completely at home, crouching to pet a large black dog and two kittens that had claimed his shoulders.

“Damian,” Bruce said slowly, stepping out of the car. “What did you do?”

“Father,” Damian said, standing up straight, “I’ve come to the conclusion that this establishment is in dire need of better funding and management. The animals are malnourished, the cages are inadequate, and they’re set to euthanize several perfectly healthy creatures because they’ve been here too long.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what do you expect me to do about that?”

“I already told you,” Damian said, deadpan. “Buy it.”

The shelter manager, who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days, piped up nervously. “M-Mr. Wayne, I assure you, we’re doing our best with what we have-”

“I’m not blaming you,” Bruce said quickly, realizing this poor person had been caught in the middle of a Wayne family moment. “Damian, we can donate, but we can’t just-”

“Father,” Damian interrupted, voice flat. “If you don’t buy the shelter, they will kill these animals.” He gestured dramatically to a room full of wide-eyed animals. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”

Bruce sighed. “You already made the calls, didn’t you?”

“I may have discussed preliminary ownership terms with the board,” Damian admitted, not looking remotely sorry.

“Damian.”

“Father.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a long moment. “…Fine.”

Damian’s lips twitched into a satisfied smirk. “Excellent.”

The shelter manager looked like they might faint. “E-excuse me, sir, are you saying you’ll purchase the shelter?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, pulling out his phone. “Get your paperwork ready.”

Within an hour, Bruce had officially bought the Gotham City Animal Shelter. Damian immediately began directing changes like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.

“The cages go. Replace them with open areas for free roaming,” he ordered. “I want separate enclosures for small mammals, cats, and dogs. And that section near the back? Expand it. Add heating lamps for the reptiles.”

Bruce trailed behind him, signing whatever Alfred would inevitably scold him for later. “Damian, slow down. This is a business, not your personal zoo.”

“It’s a refuge,” Damian corrected sharply. “And from now on, any animal that doesn’t get adopted within the set timeframe will come home with me.”

Bruce froze. “…Come again?”

Damian turned, completely serious. “If they are not chosen by others, I will take responsibility for them.”

“Damian, that could be dozens of animals.”

“Then we’ll have dozens of new residents. The others will adapt.”

Bruce sighed. “Damian, the manor is not-”

“Father, you’ve already bought the shelter.” Damian folded his arms, expression smug. “It would be cruel to abandon them now.”

Bruce rubbed his temple. “I need coffee.”

By the time the paperwork was finalized, Damian had renamed the shelter “The Wayne Sanctuary.” He’d already begun rearranging furniture, talking about “enrichment areas” and “socialization schedules.”

When Bruce finally tried to leave, Damian followed him to the car, holding a cardboard carrier with three kittens, one small snake in a secure container, and a gray rabbit.

“Damian,” Bruce warned. “No.”

“Father,” Damian replied simply. “They imprinted.”

“They what?”

“They looked at me. I am their father now.”

Bruce stared. “…You’re grounded.”

Damian raised a brow. “You can’t ground a philanthropist.”

“I’m regretting teaching you that word.”

When they arrived back at the manor, Jason was lounging on the couch with a bag of chips. He raised an eyebrow as Bruce walked in, covered in cat fur, followed by Damian carrying a miniature zoo.

Jason grinned. “Called it.”

Bruce dropped the car keys on the table, exhaling slowly. “He bought an entire shelter.”

Jason blinked. “…You what?”

Damian huffed. “It was necessary.”

“Kid, you’ve officially outdone me,” Jason said, still half-laughing. “That’s impressive.”

Tim limped into the room on his crutches, glanced at the animals, and groaned. “Oh good, we’ve expanded into the pet industry.”

Cass silently took one of the kittens, smiling softly. “Cute,” she said.

“Thank you,” Damian said, completely proud.

Bruce, meanwhile, was mentally calculating how much space was left in the manor. Spoiler: not enough.

He glanced down at the snake peeking through its container holes and muttered, “Next time he says ‘get down here,’ I’m blocking his number.”

From the kitchen, Alfred’s voice rang out dryly, “I sincerely hope you’re joking, Master Bruce, because there will be paperwork.”

Bruce sighed deeply. “I know.”

Jason just smirked. “Hey, at least the animals will get better lives than we did.”

Damian, petting the rabbit, nodded approvingly. “Indeed.”

Bruce wasn’t sure if that was comforting or concerning. Probably both.