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So, it didn’t start out like this.

Alfred would scoff at the statement, about how Bruce was trying to justify the whole situation to himself. It had started out as a simple design, black everything with black outlines and black hood. It got a little more intense as the world went on, got wind of his ghost on the streets, and became scared of The Bat . So Bruce got a little more creative with it, Alfred and him had a good laugh over the name, the scare, and Alfred had a vicious streak of humor that he had passed onto his ward-

So now the suit had a visible bat-theme, an insignia to drape in the shadows and to paint across the streets of Gotham.

At almost twenty, and with a sense of humor so skewed into left field that only an outfielder who could fly would be able to catch, Batman retired that night and went straight to Alfred and asked if his suit could be modified?

Alfred listened to the request, leaning against the computer in the cave under the house. He listened, laughed twice at the absurdity of it all, and said he’d get started on something right away.

So that’s how Bruce took to the streets a week later, his simple weighed cape now designed and fitted into something he can hook at his collarbones, and drape down into a true terrifying image of the night.

It actually made some criminals confess on the spot, seeing Bruce in his new cape, they pissed themselves, threw up their hands, and walked to the police station all on their own.

Alfred was laughing the whole time.

So, as one does when encountering a boon, Bruce makes improvements.

Alfred was always more of a designer, one that could make an ensemble look terrifying, but Bruce was always more of a practical kind of guy.

Weighed ends, with some fiberglass ribbing on kevlar sheets, the cape became his most iconic look, covering him in the darkness and just solidifying his appearance of a myth . The people on the streets whispered about meta-humans, about a man with wings that carried him to crime, a man, a bat , a something in between.

It was useful for gliding as well, the thumbs unhooking from his collar with a finger twitch, the electromagnet disengaging and allowing the cape, the wings to flare around him catching air and slowing down the fall. When the fighting needed to happen, down and dirty and rough and rumble, the kevlar flare was perfectly fine to drape around his shoulders, but when it needed to the cape hung limp behind him to keep his hands free.

Word got around that the Bat didn’t use his wings for fighting, that they hung limp and dead behind him as he tore into the criminals with his bare hands.

Now the flare of his cape didn’t scare the criminals nearly as bad as it once did, now that they knew what to expect from it.

“He could probably rig them to snap open” Lucius says one day, looking over designs to improve what will eventually become the final designs of the batmobile, six months after the first cape had been transformed into the appearance of leathery wings. “The fiberglass fingers he’s sown in there could probably be rigged to move if you do it right.”

Bruce just looked up from the display, eyes catching the glare off Lucius’s glasses in the low light of an office after hours.

Lucius mines a punch, a terrible one, “The Batman, I mean.”

Bruce raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, he discretely moves the designs he was working on over to another tab, and opens up a new whiteboard on his tablet. He passes over both his tablet and his stylus.

Lucius takes both, grinning wide and excited.

The prototype only grows from there.

With addition after addition, tweak after tweak, the suit grows better with each night out, the kevlar gets replaced with something a little lighter, a little more advanced, a little more flexible, a little stronger. Bruce grows another year, and with time his familiarity with Gotham’s streets grow, as does Gotham’s familiarity with him, the Bat.

The criminals whisper about a bat that became man, a man that has the wings of a devil, or something similar. The wings can glide him down long distances now, the grappling hook shoops him up an illusion of flight so seamless that people swear they can hear wingbeats at night when they walk the street.

It makes people feel safe.

Bruce controls everything with gestures, fine tuned sensors across his hands and up the back of his neck, pressed against the base of his skull. A twitch of his pinky flares them wide, enough that he can knock a grown man out when caught by surprise. The thumbs that are normally used to secure the cape to him have hooked claws that can tear and grip, with fine tuned control Bruce has used them to hang onto the sides of buildings. With a simple head tilt he can make them loom, with a twist of his hand he can flatten them tight to his back, a fist makes them slowly rise.

The membrane keeps him warm during the winter.

He’s almost twenty one when Richard Grayson comes into his life, barely nine years old with wide blue eyes and a weak smile.

A flying Grayson, grounded .

Dick, as the little bundles prefers to be called, figures out Bruce is the Batman by following his father down into the cave, hands grasping at the space Bruce should be, slipping down stone steps not made for children to navigate on their own. Dick looks up at the display case that serves as a display for the cowl and frowns.

“I thought Batman really could fly.” Dick whispers into Bruce’s chest, he’s been scooped up and held tight when he was discovered. “I thought he could fly .”

So Bruce, holding onto a child who's just as lost in this world as he is, makes a promise . A promise to his kid, a promise to the people who paint his symbol across the allies, a promise to the people who think Batman is something a lot more than he is.

It takes Bruce two months to figure out how to do it.

Another four to actually get off the ground.

Dick watches, wide eyed as always and with glowing, growing glee. Unmasked and unrestrained. Dick Grayson was born to be off the ground, he keeps climbing on things higher than Bruce’s heart can take. He knew it was going to just be a matter of time, but Bruce catches his little menace out and about in his old acrobat uniform, on the streets and with a vibrant coloring against the dark brick of Gotham’s buildings.

Dick keeps escaping into the night, a brilliant smile as he dances across rooftops, jumps and soars in a way Bruce never did, even with wings.

Robin, Dick calls himself, the same name his mother gave him, with his family colors.

Bruce tries, he tries , to keep his son safe and warm in their home, to keep Dick off the streets and unscarred.

“To keep me grounded!” Dick screams, the echoes of his little yell dance around the very top of the stalagmites in the batcave, he’s looking up at his father with tears in his eyes and his little eyebrows scrunched together so painfully.

“I want to fly with you!” Dick beats against Bruce’s chest- it’s only midday and they both were exercising in the cave, allowing the thick mats to catch them as they fought and did flexibility exercises, but their talking turned into a discussion which turned into a fight, as it always did when this topic got brought up.

Bruce holds Dick close, close against his chest and trying to imprint every bit of this memory into his mind. Bruce knows he can’t win, he can’t hold out against his baby boy like this. This is the moment when Bruce makes his child something unforgivable, something that's just going to be painful and hurt in the long term.

Dick cries again the very next weekend when Bruce shows him the harness. This time, Robin is going to officially join the team.

The harness is simple, it's just like Bruce’s own and is hidden underneath layers of protective armour. It’s not noticeable to a regular eye, and traces down the back, around the chest, over the shoulders and the hips. It’s made to mimic the muscles that neither of them have, they’re not actually birds or bats, no matter what the people in the news are saying, the people on the street. They’re normal humans who have the best cover they possibly can because everyones looking for a man with bat-wings who has taken in a fledgling with wings of red, gold, and green.

Dick’s lighter, smaller, able to go farther and fly higher. Agile in the air like Bruce can’t comprehend or mimic. Dick jumps off buildings like he was made to, he’ll jump off people and into the sky with a manic gleeful scream. The people who watch a child spread his wings and jump panic for a moment or two, but they quickly realize that this Robin is no slouch. A quick menace who is just as likely to kick you in the face as look at you, Robin dances on the ground and in the sky.

He grows, Dick does, and so do his wings.

They go from a simple feathery design to a more complex one, short flight feathers for maneuverability, adding a tail soon into the mix for better control. Blades get added to the primary flight feathers, the first few get full length ones but the inner primaries just get additions to the very tips- not all of them blades either. Some get a few surprises that make the criminal population of Gotham think twice. Batman’s own wings get more dexterity, their membrane gets thinner, allowing a longer wingspan, and Dick paints the inner membrane a yellow to black ombre on a day off school.

There’s very little to confirm that they even exist in the media, all of the so-called pictures are just grainy blobs of fast moving objects. The only people who can give any kind of real description are the ones who have a VIP fast pass to Arkham- all they do is rant and rave about clipping those damnable wings. No newspaper worth anything is printing what they preach.

It’s easier to picture Dick with the Robin wings than without.

Their fighting style evolves in strange ways, from the weight and balance. Their reach is astronomically long now, the sensors in their suits grow more and more nuanced, they have an entire sign language system.

More strange people emerge around the world, some meta, some gods, some aliens. Some a mixture. Superman is something untouchable given human form, technology from space seems almost like magic sometimes, hell there’s actual magic in some cases. The freaks sometimes help one another out, vigilantism patching together and very solidly ignoring the law.

There’s a few meetups in Gotham.

Batman’s not stupid, if there’s something he can’t hande he’ll absolutely contact somebody else whos dressing up in pyjama’s and breaking the law on a nightly basis. Sometimes, it’s easy enough to send an encrypted email to whatever hero needed it. That caused some paranoia early on. Apparently it was ‘rude’ to just reveal identities through deduction and then help them out with some information.

If anybody figured out who Bruce was and helped him out with information, Bruce would probably let the guy be on his team- it’s a wicked series of leaps and bounds to figure out his own identity, or if Robin and him are even real or not.

Dick loves meeting new people, getting to smile wide at the strangers who swing by and occasionally help- or occasionally need help. There’s whispers about a gathering of heroes like this, an overviewing force to look after the whole planet.

Bruce thinks about it, but right now everything’s just a little too new, a little too fresh. It’ll be a while before people get used to this new world.

🦇

“Batman.”

Batman tucks Robin against him, the man is thinner than Clark would have thought, tall though. He stretches over his child like a moth to the flame, the child goes happily into the waiting wings of his father, giggling slightly as he does so.

Clark tries not to make it a habit to come and visit them, these two particular brand of meta-humans protect their nest like it’s been beaten into them to do so. The Batman is named aptly, Clark took one look at the guy and nearly bolted back to Metropolis the first time they had encountered one another.

The man looks like something out of an old horror movie, all bluff and buster and deadly. The wings aren’t something that look inviting, or even very comfortable on this blustering cold night in the middle of January.

But they look wickedly beautiful.

Clark hates himself for thinking that, but when the man strands before him, holding onto his child like a little fledgling and tucking the Robin into the folds of his wings on a dark rooftop overlooking Gotham city.

“Superman.” Batman responds back in kind, head dipping in greeting. The leathery bat-wings move with him as natural as breathing, there’s armor on them, around the fore-arms and across his shoulders, the paneling tight around vulnerable spots in the man’s physique. Superman can see the spots where tears and rips have been repaired throughout the wings- scars only barely hidden and healed underneath a covering of yellow faded paint. “What brings you to Gotham?”

Superman sets down on the roof, letting gravity hold him down to earth. His own cape feels light as it brushes against his knees, is it rude to have a cape on when talking to winged men? Neither of them have capes- well Robin does, but it covers his back and attaches to the boy's tail. Batman’s wings are just like a bats, they’re wide and attach all the way down to his knees, no cape needed to protect him from the elements or to keep him hidden away in the darkness. The thumbs hold onto one another right at the base of his throat, the sharp talons are dipped in some kind of metal, they reflect in the low light of Gotham's Streetlights, hooked together like some strange mimicry of a pinkie-swear.

“I’ve gotten word that Luthor’s getting shipments from your docks.” Superman literally overheard it during lunch, he was irritated to be interrupted while Louis and him were having a bitch session.

Batman sighs, just a minute reaction, but the slight relaxing of his shoulders means that Robin can wiggle free of his fathers grasp.

Robin always smells faintly of dye and excitement, sometimes soft warm leather that his father leaves on his boy when Robin bursts out of Batman’s grasp. The little kiddo has got to dye his wings in a vain attempt to keep his identity safe, like Batman coloring the ends of his inner wing a yellow and coating everything else in a matte black.

Robin barrels into Superman’s knees, hugging tightly around Superman’s waist.

“Of course Luthor is.” Batman’s still hovering close to his ward, but he’s not stanced up for a fight anymore, it’s as relaxed as Superman ever sees the man. “Anything dangerous on those shipments?”

“Just guns.” Superman confirms, he ruffles Robin's hair, careful not to touch anywhere near the kiddo’s back. Last time Clark had clapped a hand on a shoulder a little too close to his wing both of Gotham’s vigilanties had frozen solid and Clark had to beat a hasty retreat before the two of their hearts had gone back to normal.

Batman sighed, motioned Robin back to himself with a twitch of his large leather wings, the fingers flaring straight for just a millisecond before relaxing back into their naturally tight state.

Robin disengages, giggling. “Bye Uncle Kal!”

The kid’s wings flare in perfect time with his fathers as the two take off from the sloped Gotham roof. While Batman’s wingspan is breathtaking, Robin still looks to be growing into his, half the length but with twice the flare.

Clark waves to them as they go check out the information given to them.

Clark tries to be respectful and not to stare as Batman uses his body to the ultimate of its abilities.

Clark … is going to have to try that whole “not starting” thing another day.

🦇

Batman forms the justice league with Wonder Woman and Superman.

He doesn’t correct them when they begin his introductions with “Batman, metahuman ”

🦇

Dick keeps up the acrobatics -even without the winged additions- enhancing them, teaching Bruce new tricks in and out of the sky.

The two of them dominate Gotham for four long years. Dick’s almost fourteen, turning so in a few weeks, when a little spitfire tries to steal the tires right off the batmobile.

The boy is slip thin, shoulders too broad for his body and his ears sticking out to match. Wild curly dark hair- black in the grimy back streets of gotham.

Bruce takes him.

Not as Batman, god no, Bruce makes sure that little Jason Todd gets sent to a good school for troubled children.

It doesn’t go well.

Bruce keeps updates on the kid, a small section of screen on the batcomputer is constantly checking up on how that little spitfire is doing. He’s abrasive, full of a heart of white hot gold. Dick notices, because how could he not . Dick goes in and out of the troubled scoool checking up on it, shutting down more criminal startups but simply existing in the same space- the school was sketchy as all hell but with frequent visits they kept themselves in line.

“He has red hair, when he’s under fluorescent lights.” Dick tells Bruce. “Dark red, almost black. When you just look at him, but under those visiting lights his hair is so red B.”

Bruce wheezes, softly. He doesn’t need to know this about the kid. He doesn’t need to know that there’s a child out there who can use his help. A child out there who could flourish under the tutelage of both Dick and himself.

Dick laughs at Bruce, at the efforts. “Just adopt him, jeeze .” Dick’s hanging upside down on his gymnastics equipment, harness on to get used to a new rig. The specialized feathers are made to hold a new weight and be used for a new range of mobility. Undyed yet- still that off white color. There’s blades in there, sharp and new, ready to cut through the armor of Gothamite villains. With the undyed synthetic feathers the shine of the metal shows through easily- too bright- much too bright.

“I couldn’t do that to you.” Bruce says, he’s working on kata’s without the suit on.

Dick just tilts his head, his face isn’t even red no matter how long he hangs upside down. He looks like a strange owl, his hair all messy like this. “What do you mean?”

Bruce gestures all around him, the cave, the secrets they live in. “You’re my son, I can’t just … I can’t just grab another one. It would be unfair to you.”

It turns out, yes you can.

Jason is ten, when Bruce adopts him. Takes him from that school who was definitely up to something underhanded and brings him home.

Dick was right, he does have red hair under the right lights- the harsh fluorescent of the government building where they sign adoption papers at and through a pure sunny day in the gardens of the manor- but the paparazzi flashes show him as “ the second black haired son ” of a billionaire.

Jason takes to it like a duck to water, the books he has access to, the schooling and tutors and stability. There’s the initial stumbling period of mistrust but there’s nothing like walking home after a long day at the office and seeing Dick and Jason doing handstands in the front hall- laughing at one another and trying to kick the other down.

Then, like his brother before him, Jason takes a too-close look at the grandfather clock in the study and tumbles down the secret system of twinding tunnels that are easier to get lost in than to navigate correctly to the bottom.

He catches Dick and Alfred down there, Jason catches Dick who’s been benched for a leg injury but who’s still leaned over the feathers of the Robin suit, touching up the places where the dye has lost its vibrancy over the weeks of Gotham’s back alley adventuring. Hands covered in a dark green as Dick gets into his gear repair. Alfred is taking great care in meding and polishing the batarangs, making sure that when his charge and his grandson do truly reckless things at night they have equipment that won’t fail them.

Jason screams, loud and bone-chilling.

He also runs forward, uncaring that the cave floor is slick and slippery and not meant for running, His brain is trying to piece together that his brother is Robin- which makes his father Batman- but those two have wings and they’re angels -

Jason tackles Dick, crying, because he doesn’t understand. Alfred tries to calm the boy down, to instill some sense back into his mind. Jason can’t hear it, it’s such a jarring revelation. He thinks that somehow, someway, Robin has lost his wings, forever grounded. There’s nothing worse than this, Robin’s magic, Robin’s an angel that’s blessed Gotham in it’s darkest time. If there’s no Robin anymore then-

Jason, red faced and blotchy with his too wide shoulders and his ears that stick out, cries -

Bruce comes in early for the night, because of a frantic call by his oldest telling him he needed to come back now .

Batman comes in so fast that the batmobile isn’t even through stopping before Bruce is ripping out, running to grab ahold of his baby boy and comfort him. He doesn’t have the words, the perfect parental soothing speech, all Bruce can do is grip Jason tightly and hug the boy till he stops shaking.

Soft explanations, soft words, Bruce can’t get any gentler but he wishes he could.

Jason demands to be able to help.

Bruce says no .

“You’re a child.” Bruce tries, pleads, holds Jason’s calloused hands in his own on the cold stone cave floor while dressed up in a glorified halloween costume. He is aware of this irony. He doesn’t flinch when it’s pointed out. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Dick’s hurt.” Jason points out, infuriatingly calm when normally he’s so easy to rile up. Blotchy red still in the face from his tears. “He’s also a kid- he was younger than me when he started.”

Bruce inhales, he’s mentally counting to five-

“Also you can’t stop me, B.”

Mentally counting to ten .

Dick is very wisely not saying a damn thing, he has been moved to the time-out chair for not locking the cave correctly.

Bruce breaks in less time than it took him for Dick, mostly because within two hours of being asked not to crimefight Jason’s stolen from the old costume case and is wiggling into an old pair of Dick’s wings that have been long since hung up.

“Teach me how Dickie.” Jason demands, he’s climbing onto the obstacle course with no regards to his own safety. Dick is having heart palpitations watching another member of his family attempt to soar with no safety net.

“No! Get down!” Curse a lucky knife, getting Dick right under his knee. He can’t follow Jason up there, he can’t keep the little bastard safe . “Don’t be a fucking idiot!”

Jason rolls his eyes, and Dick’s going to really kill him.

“You don’t know how to work them!” Dick is hobbling over as fast as he can to the foam pits that sit beneath the flight range.

“Teach me!” Jason jumps .

Dick fishes his stupid idiot brother out of the foam square pit- cursing at him the whole time the both of them are flailing about trying to get back to solid ground.

They come to an agreement- Jason stays down for the day so that Dick can teach him on the ground how to control the mechanisms that control it all.

Bruce ignores it, he does, he tells Jason not to fight crime, he allows his children their fun in the cave as long as they keep safe and stay over the foam pits for safety. Alfred monitors them when they’re both in the cave, a watchful guardian. Dick’s leg heals, and because his children want to cause as many problems as they possibly can all while giving Bruce grey hairs over it as soon as Dick’s cleared for normal levels of activity again both of the little assholes are pushing one another to do tricks that are flashy and dangerous and…

Admittedly, a little cool.

Okay, a lot of cool.

But Bruce already has a Robin, he can’t justify it to the city about getting a second child into this mess. Gordon already gives him strange looks when Robin trails along after him, hiding in Batman’s cape, right under the membrane and peaking out whenever there’s a break in conversation.

Robin says it keeps him warm, hidden up under there, but Bruce knows better. The synthetic feathers keep in heat just as well as the membrane, the cold unyielding winters of Gotham’s coastal bay get icey and into the negatives, so Bruce isn’t going to oppose some quality closeness with his older son. Even as the time goes by and what was once an easy fit, hiding Robin away in his wings, now that Dick is bigger the maneuver to encase him in Batman’s safety gets more and more technical.

Soon enough, Dick grows out of the mantle of being Robin.

“I’m too old for it.” Dick says, almost truthfully, Bruce can see the strain of teenage rebellion around the corners of his eyes, the way that they keep disagreeing while on the field. Dick’s not fifteen yet but he’s not in his fathers shadow anymore, not all the way escaped from it yet but getting there . Edging closer and closer to the light to be his own thing, his own experience, his own hero.

Bruce doesn’t want to let him go.

Dick leaves, for New York, for the newly formed Titans, for his own life.

Nightwing takes to the streets with black and blue wings, vibrant colors on the underside, pale and inviting and blue in a way Robin wasn’t. Stripes of light flashing clear sky underneath the inky darkness of night. Jason dumps black glitter into the wings before Bruce gifts them to him-spreads it out while the black dye is still drying so that the wings shine like stars when nightwing takes to the streets of Bludhaven for the first time.

Nightwing laughs, laughs and laughs when he sees them. Because he inherited his sense of humor from Bruce and the image of a bunch of bad guys trying to get glitter out of their hair is just too good to pass up.

Dick still comes home, but not nearly as often anymore.

The press speculate why the older teenager isn’t under Bruce’s direct care anymore. Not a soul in Wayne Manor comments on it.

Jason asks, cautiously over the phone one night while talking to his older brother, if he can be the Robin in Gotham now. Please, please . Robin’s needed, he’s an angel, Robin has to dart across the streets and show the people that there’s still hop e .

There’s a sour taste in Dick’s mouth, overlooking New York, overlooking Bludhaven, overlooking a position that he thought was his and his alone.

Dick doesn’t like it, but says yes anyway.

Jason’s already been practicing for months, has taken self defense lessons from both Bruce and Dick and even Alfred when called for it. Jason had none of the acrobatic skill that his older brother did, none of the innate flexibility or the bravery for high flying jumps. Jason was better at brute force, straightforward thinking, and sheer tenacity.

“N never broke his wings like this.” Batman says, exasperated and amazed all at once. “How do you keep breaking them?”

Robin shrugs, one wing hangs limp and awkward on one side and the other expresses so flawlessly it's almost like he really was born with wings. He hisses, the wing has sensors that attach to multiple places on them, when something is wrong it lets out small electric snaps to let the wearer know what exactly was weak or broken with the wing.

Mad Hatter sits with handcuffs on, half asleep due to the knockout gas. He had gotten two good hits on Robin before Robin had punched the man into unconsciousness.

Bruce sighs, and crouches down.

With Jason’s wings out of commission, he’s a grounded bird. Dick didn’t break his own method of flight nearly as often- not that he didn’t break the things once or twice- but Jason seemed to shatter the bones in his wings on a bi-monthly basis.

Jason takes the hint, he’s done it enough times that it’s not new anymore.

Jason tries to fold the wings, but it's a loss cause, he just gets more notifications across his palms that the wings are compromised and not to try and let them hold weight. He lets out another hiss, the sensors must be truly going nuts if he’s this affected.

Batman stays completely still as tiny hands grasp ahold of his back. Jason hisses and whines the whole time- Mad Hatter had hit Robin’s collar bone pretty bad, it might be broken.

Jason climbs aboard, slipping his hands around his fathers throat and tucking his knees up into Bruce’s sides the little bird fits like a glove into the divot between Bruce’s shoulder blades, flattened down and carried easily. It’s a maneuver that’s good for holding onto his little fledglings.

They fly away, jumping into the night after sending out an alert to the police to come pick up Hatter from where he lay in an abandoned apartment.

🦇

Hatter takes a note, thinking about how the little bird had screamed when Hatter had taken a cane to his collar bone- winced and hissed and limped into the big bat's arms. The break had been clean across the wing, Hatter had been sure of it.

It had incapacitated the boy.

Hatter tells a tale in Arkham, about how … delicate a little bird's bones were.

🦇

It isn’t often that Clark gets to team up with Batman like this, the full force of all three metahumans from Gotham arriving to help out the teams of heroes to save the earth from some kind of wild threat.

Batman’s always stiff in the presence of other heroes he’s not as familiar with. He keeps his wings around him like a safety blanket, like the world's strangest kind of cape. The wings twitch and move and sways with B’s breath and motion, it’s like black living velvet draped across a man who’s pure controlled grace. The man's heartbeat doesn’t move a hair above forty-five beats a minute unless one of his children gets a little too close to danger. Robin still isn’t used to being around anybody but his family, so he sticks close to Batman

Nightwing’s still not a full adult yet, but he’s older than the little Robin. He stomps into the watchtower off of the javelin with excited glee. When the three of them are called they all huddle close, pressed into one another's plumage and speaking a language Clark can’t even begin to comprehend.

Let alone speak .

Nightwing still rushes forward, something in his chest giggling low and soft and jumps onto Clarks shoulders- “Uncle Kal!”

The boy is black and blue now, with those same short quick wings that make him impossible to catch mid-air. There’s a new dye pattern, midnight ink black which caught the light and shimmered iridescent and a midsky blue streaked through it. The black feathers seem to … “Are you covered in glitter ?”

Robin laughs, nothing at all like his older brother's little giggles, but full on physical belly laughs.

“ Duh yeah .” Nightwing flares his wings, showing off his vibrant colors. “Extra fine!”

He also covers Clark with glitter .

“Eugh!” Clark isn’t that put off by it- he’s known Nightwing for years now and this is by far not the first kind of stunt pulled by the little prankster. There’s not that much glitter that falls from Nightwings wings, a majority of it sticks to the feathers and keeps the shimmering star effect.

Robin gets attacked much the same way as Clark did, with Nightwing rushing over all at once in a bundle of limbs and feathers. Robin has wings that are a little bigger than Nightwings were at that age, they’re longer, thinner, made for endurance flight. Dyed in a similar way to Nightwings old color scheme, a paler yellow underside to a red and green flashy display on the backs. Matching no known color of any natural bird.

Clark … did a lot of research on bats after his first few times he met Batman. The research on birds was mostly asking google at 3 am if bats had a habit of adopting outside of their own species.

Bats do sometimes adopt isolated or abandoned babies from their colony, if you were curious.

Most of the other members of the Justice League whispered in low tones that Batman had taken in two birds who were kicked out of their nests, so to speak. Parents didn’t want to keep metahumans, especially ones that have such visible mutations, it's highly likely that the two boys had been abandoned and Batman snatched them up, hiding them away under his wing to let them grow up loved. They’re similar looking, the boys are, but not in a way that could indicate any real close relation.

Batman still taps the tips of their tails to get them to lay off of one another, to stop trying to lightly maim one another, Nightwing and Robin respond immediately to their father’s physical gestures, reaching out with their own primaries and pressing them to both Batman and each other.

Clark spots the knives that they have hidden away along the feather’s spine, thin razor sharp blades used for utility and defense when the boys spread their primaries. Batman doesn’t have anything like that so visible, just the gleam of metallic claw covers at his throat. There’s sleeping venom laced on that metal, and Clark wants to see those claws in action, just once.

He also might want to climb up the Batman like a tree and see how warm it really is in the man's embrace, but that’s neither here nor there.

Alright it might be here and there but Clarks is going to be professional about this.

The mission requires both stealth and an isolated island off the coast of some small country in the caribbean. The island has kryptonite weapons- stolen right under Luthor's nose-, and only wants to relax its anti-aircraft missiles when they can visibly see Wonder Woman on the news. It means it's a great, well, absolute most ideal mission to send somebody like Batman and his brood.

The flights are going to be long, longer than gliding around and short little flights in Gotham are.

It’s nearly an hour by plane .

Clark feels terrible asking them, but it’s essential to stop a deranged scientist trying to make phones turn against the general population and drave people mad.

Batman answers with no hesitation to how long he can fly for- “Three hours, non sustained. I’ve never tried continuous streamlined flight before.”

Both Nightwing and Robin look nervous, they glance at one another for not even a second before they go back to perfectly still statues.

Clark can make guesses, Batman’s wings aren’t made for long overseas flight like Robin’s are shaping up to be- bats have a whole different way of moving compared to birds- they’re much better at quick sharp turns and ducking around foliage, Batman can’t fly as long due to injuries, Batman is telling the league his absolute limit for flight, there’s a whole host of options that Clark can think of. It’s terrible to assume something in this line of business, however.

It’s a whole lot more economical to ask the boys later on, when they’re not in Batman's direct line of sight.

Nightwing likes to talk, to chat, and to mingle with other heroes. It doesn’t take long before Nightwing has darted off into somewhere to talk to his friends- the ones that he doesn’t get to see that often due to distance. Robin’s a little harder to separate from his boss, since Robin’s still young, young enough that the older heroes look at both him and Batman with barely concealed scorn.

Some of the founding members of the League don’t think it's right for Robin to be in a cape and tights. They question Batman’s integrity for allowing the kid so close to danger at all. The initial Robin has led the way for more and more ‘Boy Wonders’ to start popping up- some heroes are very against it.

Clark has to admit he’s done the same sometimes, asking himself why he still gravitates towards a mysterious meta who won’t show his face, won’t tell anybody his name, and won’t even relax enough to take off his gauntlets at the table.

Then Batman does something stupid and self sacrificing and lonely. He’ll say something that makes something just creep into his voice, his scent, and it makes Clark want to walk over and embrace the man. Tell Batman that he’s not alone in this thing anymore.

Clark can just pull on his own memories of being different and scared when he was still growing up, and that was all with a normal looking exterior.

Nothing that would obviously or outwardly make him a unique or nonuniform human mould. Clark’s got a little bit of hiding to do when his joints don’t move or line up exactly like a human's should, when his pupils are hexagons instead of circles, but there’s nothing like a winged individual would experience.

Batman finally does leave his Robin to his own devices, Batman has to talk shop with Diana- about making sure Wonder Woman is on a TV appearance at the same time that Batman’s trying to do the infiltration, all while making sure that Robin is safe here in the watchtower while him and Nightwing did the mission- so Robin gets left with the computers to toy with and Clark to talk too.

Well, there were other supers to talk too, but there’s also the fact that Clark wants Plastic Man nowhere near a child. Hawk Girl was okay, but was also more apt to give Robin a mace than actually talk to him, J’onn was with Diana and Batman in the war room, Green Lantern was here somewhere, but also wanted to avoid talking to anybody under 30 like the plague.

Now it’s just Clark, Shazam, and Robin overlooking the watchtower's observation deck. Shazam is the one technically on duty right now, but Robin sits in the seat rather awkwardly and looks around the whole world with satellites.

Through the lenses, one can just barely see the outer ring of Gotham’s vigilante’s irises. It’s the only way to possibly track where any of the three Gothamites are looking, and even then it’s sometimes not a good indicator depending on the light. Robin’s eyes dart all over the place, constantly trying to watch the world below.

“Three hours, is that a time you can match?”

Robin looks from the window to Superman. “Yeah? Nightwing too. It’s our maximum time limit though, we always stay within two hours to be safe.”

“He’s trained you all to have a maximum flight limit?” Shazam’s got one hand on his hip and it's cocked out. Leaning against the console like you’re not meant to. Shazam and Flash tend to lean on buttons pretty much all the time, even if it’s against watchtower rules.

Robin just looks confused, the flexible mask polymer follows the line of his eyebrow as he scrunches them up. “Uh, what?”

Shazam shrugs awkwardly “Isn’t that kinda- Doesn’t that make Batman sound like-”

“A total dictator?” Robin’s smirk is back now, the kid leans as far back in the chair as he possibly can with his wings hanging over the side. Clark lets the kiddo go as far back as he can, it’s nothing like his older brother and Nightwing’s habits of physically trying to do handstands on the furniture.

The shine of the earth makes it so that the entire room is cast in a soft, warm light, it’s as dark as it gets in the observation room and the massive lights they use for gatherings have been turned off to save on power. It’s a quiet moment between three people, with all the illusion of privacy and safety that comes with it.

Robin sighs, a smile on his face, “It’s to keep us safe. I’ve fallen out of the air more times than I can count. I run out of steam mid-jump and I fall to my death. It’s as simple as that.”

Clark tries his best not to wince, it’s reality but Batman could sugar coat it a little bit to his kids. Robin clearly sees the facial expression his ‘Uncle Kal’ makes and rockets to a picture perfect posture.

“It’s not as easy as we make it look like, you don’t probably realize because both of you can just sit suspended but it takes a lot of training to get up in the air! It’s all about wing loading’ and aspect ratio- god the lectures i’ve heard about that- We have to make our own lift when we’re not ridin around Gotham and that's just even more draining-”

Shazam throws his hands up- “Woah woah! It’s okay we’re not accusing you of anything here.”

Robin’s accent comes out when he gets heated, Jersey streets through and through. “Sounds to me like you don’t trust none of us to realize the limitations of our own equipment.”

“Don’t refer to yourself as ‘equipment’ dude, it makes you sound so weird.” Shazam and Robin are now one on one, totally ignoring that Clark is even in the same room.

The two of them seem to talk in circles for a while or two, Shazam trying to get Robin to admit that maybe Batman trains him a little too hard while Robin’s holding on to his own ground on the fact that if he wasn’t as prepared as Batman's training made him then he’d be dead.

“I don’t have powers like you.” Robin says so carefully, like he’s trying not to yell. “To make it as heroes Nightwing, Batman and I need to work, like, three times as hard.”

“You have wings!?” Shazam gestures to the way the two feathered limbs skew over the handrests and push feathers out of their place and into an disarray.

With that statement, the door to the war room opens, and Batman steps back out into play.

🦇

Dick’s preparing the final equipment check before the mission, Jason helps with the sensor check by using his own wings to press against parts that make the haptic feedback buzz against Dick’s back. There’s twenty four sensors from the back of his neck all the way down and across his shoulders, four on each palm, and two that sit right underneath his pectorals. Each one of them will give haptic buzzes that vary in pressure and when the area has been broken or unusable they send out small ignorable shocks- literally repurposed from a children's toy- every ten seconds.

They’re charged up and ready to go- the wings are- they’re made to last three hours on a portable battery that’s hidden underneath the down on a person’s back.

Jason does the calibration testing quick as ever, flashing out with his own wings, his own arms.

It looks like a spar to the outside observer, a flare and flash of capes and feathers.

“Hey, Dickward.” Jason asks as he slams his primaries against Dicks’ own. The name is as much of an insult as it is a quick way to get Dicks attention. It’s also the only part of that sentence spoken in english. Bruce is having them work on Mongolian and Thai this week. Jason has an atrocious accent. “I had an interesting conversation today.”

Dick blocks with his own hidden blades, the haptic on his right lower shoulder buzzes, level three of five. “Oh? I’ve had interesting conversations too. Did you hear the hottest gossip?”

Jason huffs, and twirls, lashing out with a kick which Dick braces with the forewing. Palm, upper pinky side, level four of five, Jason’s getting stronger in those kicks of his. Good for him. “I heard that Shazam thinks we actually have wings.”

Jason also’s getting better at his Mongolian, good for him.

Wait a fucking second.

“Shazam thinks what .” Dick’s too surprised, he goes back to his native Romani instead of the Thai he was speaking.

For that, Jason flashes out a kick to Dick’s shins. Dick takes it, that's the punishment for forgetting what they’re meant to be speaking in- a free shot for whoever hears.

“The guy- for some reason- thinks that we actually have wings .”

Dick doesn’t know what the hell Jason’s on about. “What the fuck do you mean.”

So Jason and Dick have a good laugh together. Jason explains, in great detail, and Dick can’t keep his giggles contained. It explains so much, like why the entire Justice League was so damn worried about whether or not Nightwing would ‘make the trip’ or not. Why nobody ever seemed to ask them about how cool their technology in their capes were, why everybody is always so careful when talking to Dick or Jason. It's hilarious, it's somehow nearly impossible to comprehend. “We’ve got to have taken off the capes some time or another.” Dick gasps laughing. “There’s no way they actually assume we’re the same as Hawkman or something, right?”

Turns out, the Justice League actually truly believes that the vigilantes of Gotham are metahumans. That the wings they wear aren’t just fancy accessories for a billionaire's crime fighting spree. Uncle Clark and Aunt Diana, who come to talk to Batman, Robin, and Nightwing about having a carrier to the midway point of the mission before letting Batman and Nightwing fly on their own, confirm it when Dick asks some very specific questions.

Dick looks at Batman, eyes wide and amazed behind special concealing lenses.

Bruce has gone stock still, carefully holding himself in a way that Dick can recognize as surprise.

🦇

Back at the batcave, after a successful mission in which the worst injury was a broken index finger from Bruce, the man actually loses his entire shit.

Dick is heaving with the laughter of keeping it in the entire time. Jason is screaming about how nobody knew , how Batman was so secretive that people assumed that the three of them were-

“Meta-human!” Jason screeches to the ceiling. “They think that we’re not all just regular guys! They think that we have powers! How are we going to be cooler than Green Arrow, if nobody compares us! ”

Bruce just laughs harder, the bastard that he is.

“They oughta know how much effort we put into this!” Jason fails his arms, gesturing to the haptics that are still across his entire torso. The cape, when taken off, gets taken off in three parts- the wings, the tail, and the thin shirt of haptics underneath. Batman’s cape has a little bit of a difference, being that his wings are based on, well, bats .

Dick’s taken off the whole costume, he’s just in an after save-the-world ensemble that’s soft and easy to wear. Comfort all the way. The undersuit is comfortable, sure, but it’s definitely got electronics in it and isn’t washed as often as it should be .

The three of them can’t even believe it, that the League has been under such an assumption for the entire time they’ve known each other.

But, also, none of the Gotham vigilantes want to reveal that they’ve been inadvertently lying to … well ... everybody .

🦇

Jason takes a nosedive close to Joker.

Too close.

The Joker’s grabbed him, dragging kicking and screaming into the darkness.

The first thing Jason does is activate the emergency beacon, then the second one, then the third one.

The wrist watch gets taken immediately, Joker rips it from him with a cry of manic glee. The magnetic clasp on the watch doesn’t give way easily, or immediately, but Joker still manages to tear the metal and make Jason bleed. The second beacon is the communicator, which is torn from his ear with vengeance- ow, by the way. There was a reason that every member of the Wayne family had an earring, and now that the com link has been torn from his very delicate cartilage he’s gonna have to put the damn thing in his left ear while his right one heals.

The third was the only one not found.

Because the third emergency beacon was right at the base of Jason’s spine, hidden away by both feathers, down, a battery, a backup emergency air supply, and haptic buzzers. It’s a patch of nearly invisible plastic that echoes his exact location to Batman, to Bruce, to anybody .

The reason why it wasn’t found is that Harley, when searching him for them, didn’t want to fully undress a fourteen year old “ freak ‘a nature ”. Joker also claimed all rights to little Robin’s wings, forbidding anybody else to lay a damned hand on them.

Joker breaks his right leg, then the left. Tibias, not fibias. Thank god for small miracles.

One femur, his left one, Joker wasn’t strong enough to shatter his right.

Harely left at day two of the torture, she only threw up twice. Pussy.

Joker then skipped his torso completely, the mad man jumped right to the place where the stiff bone of the cape came from his shoulder, The deranged villain went right into a rant, a tirade rant about the Batman and mortal enemies and arch nemesis and all other kinds of maniacal bullshit. Joker also threw in a good few lines about airline food.

While beating Jason’s skull in, for a treat.

Because he was crazy.

The Joker traveled up the cape’s lightweight ribbing- the ‘ bones ’ so to speak. He broke the material in pieces and bits, shattering it under a crowbar.

Jason made sure to give out little whimpers whenever the man seemed like he needed some confirmation he was doing a real good job of the whole ‘break Robin’ thing. The pain was excruciating, yes, but it was also just confined to his legs, which could be ignored with very specific mental willpower.

After four days of nonstop pain, Bruce barrelled through the ceiling.

Dick grabs Jason with no hesitation, Nightwing is in through a window, scooping up his younger brother, and back out again in seven seconds.

🦇

Jason’s benched from Robin, he’s wheelchair bound for the next half year.

He’s mad about it.

He’s got to go through PT as well after that, so he’s not going to be Robin for a long while yet. A grounded bird.

Everybody knows it.

The villains don’t try a damn thing after Jason’s been brought home. Safely cradled in Nightwings arms, a photograph had been leaked onto the internet, from someplace high in the streets, of Nightwing holding onto a bird with broken wings.

The picture is beautiful, in a way that’s horrific. A visage of war, of an avenging angel in black and blue with a father’s wrath behind him caked in glorious golden flames. Wings spread, flared, dark and dangerous with those blue streaks turned red in the lighting of the explosion behind him. Hair flared out, sparkling the same kind of starry night as the reflecting specks in his wings. Nightwing looks like death, like Lucifer falling from grace on wings of black midnight starry skies.

He’s crying.

Robin lays in his arms, limp and broken, fallen open with his throat thrown back and exposed. The wings of pale gold flare out around him like a halo of purity, like the magic has been seeped from his bones, from his feathers. There’s blood on the bottom of those pale golden feathers, splattered from crowbar hits, the suits ripped and torn and underneath it all is just a boy, both of them are.

The photo is beautiful, breathtaking.

It also doesn’t give anything away. It’s dark enough that no details in either boy's face are shown, just their postures, their sorrow.

It’s the only confirmed picture of any one of the three vigilantes of Gotham.

Nobody dares commit a crime in Gotham for nearly a week after the release, the leak, of the photograph. They’ve all heard the state in which Joker was returned to Arkham.

The clown’s alive , and that’s about all he has going for him.

Dick runs back to Bludhaven, he’s back nearly every night to sit outside of Jason’s door and listen to his brother breathe. Just to make sure.

Bruce patrols every night anyway, with a vengeance almost unheard of.

He’s killing himself, taking rises that he shouldn’t be, ruthlessly pursuing anybody who comes close to hurting another human being.

Bruce can’t sleep, but sometimes he sits with Dick at Jason’s door when the sun’s just beginning to rise.

Jason decides to be productive, and uses his newfound time in the day to both track down whoever might have taken that picture of him and Dick (creepy stalker much? what was the agenda of whoever did this?) and work on arm exercises when he can’t stand to look at the screen anymore.

Jason hunts down the original source- a single reddit account that was created two days after the incident, it has one picture, and it’s been submitted to three subreddits.

That’s it.

So Jason digs a little more, finds the email address the reddit account was linked to, and jumps from there.

The email address was made only an hour before the reddit account- just a random assortment of numbers that are most likely randomly generated. The email’s only been used to open one single reddit account, there's no other attachments to it.

While that’s running- Jason’s also looking at who could possibly get a camera to take the picture (there’s a lot of photographers in Gotham) and what kind of camera it could be. How far away the photographer had to be to take this particular photo, a diameter of the scene had been taken into account and from there maybe street cameras may have picked something up.

When Bruce see’s him working on the batcave’s computer he makes a noise in the back of his throat. That’s a noise that makes Jason perk right up, it’s Bruce’s ‘putting together information’ noise.

“Tell me what you got, B.”

“You’re looking at cameras? A stretch of a connection.” Bruce has a cup of coffee in his hands and dark bags under his eyes. He lays a hand on Jason’s shoulder and squeezes.

“A stretch, sure, but a connection nonetheless.”

“If you can find a way to be discrete about it- the neighbor’s into photography last I remember. He might be able to help you.” Bruce takes another sip of his coffee. He’s got a massive bruise across his ribs and his hip has been sprained.

“We have neighbors ?” Jason can’t recall ever seeing another house out here. He did Robin shit out in the yard, what if somebody saw him?

Bruce blinks, he removes the coffee from his lips and looked down, a blank look of polite confusion. “Of course we have neighbors? It’s not possible not to have a neighbor in Jersey.”

“We’re literally on hundreds of acres? It’s very possible to not have neighbors.”

Bruce shrugs. “Have Alfred call the Drakes, ask about the cameras. It’s easier to get an expert's opinion than to learn everything on your own.”

Jason looks again at the thousands of cameras that could have taken this shot- the millions of possibilities.

“I’ll tell Alfred to make the call.”

🦇

Jason sits in the living room, he’s been doing nothing but sitting recently. His broken legs aren’t very conducive to walking all around the place. He can hobble around very lightly, but there’s limits on his mobility that basically means he’s stuck at the manor.

At least he’s got some cool facial scarring out of it- a busted lip and eyebrow have almost healed into a full blown scab. There’s a rather unfortunate haircut to accommodate the stitches on his head where Joker had cracked it right open.

Today’s the day that the neighbor, Drake, is coming over to talk about cameras. Alfred had set up the entire thing yesterday, and the poor butler hadn’t seemed very happy afterwards. He had been polishing the silver in the nice dinning room for hours afterwards.

Now Jason’s curled up with a nice collection of romantic literature, a soothing tea, and a blanket while he waits. His wheelchair sits by the couch, if he wants to bother with it.

It turns out, having Robin training is actually great in times like these- he can brace up his legs on something that rolls and crawls with his hands. It freaks the absolute hell out of Dick when his brother sees it- but it's faster than getting in and out of a wheelchair every time.

The time ticks over to noon- the neighbor should be here in fifteen minutes. Jason can just picture what the guy’s gonna look like. Something from one of Wayne’s Gala’s, or maybe a fat cat that sits so pretty in a political seat? Slick and dark haired with a smarmy smile or an older genuine man who won't give up his money for anything?

Jason reads two more chapters. Finished two cups of tea.

Alfred walks into the room, all perfect posture and raised brow. “Your guest is here to see you, young master.”

Jason looks up from reading a beautiful piece of gothic prose, already putting on his fake smile for the man who-

It’s a kid.

Half behind Alfred, a kid who is maybe eight or nine years old. Dark hair and eyes so pale ice blue that any color just blended into the whites. Jesus christ it was like looking at a walking, animated zombie. The kid was pale, shaking slightly, and the only flash of color on his thin self is the fucking blue tie he’s wearing. Grey sweater vest, white collared shirt underneath, black slacks, black shoes, ice cold blue silk tie, and a black backpack with some kind of school logo on it.

Oh this is sad.

This is … this is sorta pathetic.

Alfred bows, the man’s eyebrows are pulled into displeased , and heads out of the room leaving the door open to keep an ear out on the conversation.

Dick was in New York, getting the degree he was meant to, and Bruce was at work. There’s only three people in this whole wide house, but the neighbor kid’s stiff and still like he’s going to face a gauntlet of attacks from all sides.

“You know all about cameras right?” Jason asks, because honestly this kid needs to unwind just a little bit before Jason’s back starts to hurt from looking at him. “I’m Jason.”

The kid nods, once twice three times, so ridged and practiced that Jason is vividly reminded of Bruce. The kid pulls his backpack from behind his little self and just … hands it over.

Jason doesn’t take it, just looks at the slight shake in the kid’s whole body. He looks like he's expecting to be hit goddamn.

The neighbor kid doesn’t know what to do when Jason won’t take the bag, clearly, but he’s also clearly too nervous to do anything more than hold out what Jason assumes is his camera.

“What’s your name, dude.” Jason asks, blunt as he possibly can.

“Drake, Tim Drake.”

“Why the fuck are you this nervous, Tim.”

Then the poor kid breaks down into tears.

Ugly, terrible gasping sobs, the tears are freakishly silent underneath the little intakes of hiccuping breath. The kid’s still holding out his backpack but it’s shaking so bad at this point that Jason has to take it from him. Drake immediately slams his hands onto his eyes to cover up the waterworks.

The backpack comes unzipped with Jason throws it down between them, reaching out and putting both his hands on Drake's shoulders to try and calm him down-

Pictures spill out of Gotham at night, with the neon signs blurry in the background and shots of Batman and Robin in the fore.

In focus, and in stunning color, pictures from the pre-incident of Jason jumping off buildings and hiding under Bruce’s cape. Pictures of Bruce alone in the Batman cowl, posing dramatically on the gargoyles like he denies that he does. Nightwing, much less pictures of Dick’s blue and black suit and cape from just how rare Nightwing is in Gotham proper.

But there’s also pictures of Dick as Robin.

Jason lets go of Drake, lets the kid step back and curl further into himself, and dives for the photos that spill glossy on the floor between them. Jason can’t go far off the couch but the pictures are just right at the edge of it all. Closeup shots from below, the capes spread out far reaching to catch air from above. Robin, Jason , kicking a mugger in the face with a wide impish grin, followed up by Batman’s brutal crime spree he’s been on recently. There’s backdrop silhouettes and full black and white artful poses of displays of picturesque violence.

There’s hundreds of pictures here, all 8 by 10s. No fingerprints on any of the surfaces, all of them bundled together with loose string in some kind of filing order.

Jason looks up from the damning evidence, sharp.

Drake, the neighbor boy, has stopped verbally making noises but still drips tears down his thin cheeks. He stands like he’s on death row, thin shoulders squared as tough as they can be but still shaking with the force to be silent and still.

Alfred races in, as fast as Jason’s ever seen him, and demands to know what’s wrong.

🦇

Bruce comes home.

The phone call with Alfred has left him ruffled, the butler had called Bruce’s personal line, demanded him to get to the manor now and hung up without another word.

Bruce had been out the door before anybody could even ask him where he was going.

He drove like hell was on his heels, going through downtown traffic at near ninety then once removed from the congestion of other cars Bruce slammed the pedal all the way down. The car wasn’t made to do over one-forty but Bruce was gonna push it till he couldn’t anymore.

The door was already opening as Bruce ran up the stairs, Alfred stands as stauch as he ever does but his eyebrow has been pushed to its limit.

There’s a child in his arms.

Bruce blinks as he rushes inside, Alfred steps out of the master’s way like a true trained gentleman but Bruce traces the scene in front of him like a trained detective.

Jason, crawling around half on and half off a longboard, frozen in the doorway of a living room. Jason looks uninjuried- well, no new injuries at least- and Alfred holding onto a toddler with one hand. There’s no disarray in the house, nothing outwardly wrong with the situation.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Alfred shifts a fraction, allowing Bruce to recognize the neighbor boy curled up and red in the face from crying.

“Is he okay? Alfred what happened ?”

“Ask your son, Master Bruce.” Alfred is about as furious as he can possibly look, he’s been mad ever since the phone call last night to the Drake residence.

Bruce doesn’t want to make Alfred more mad so he does as instructed and looks at Jason.

Jason is doing his best to scoot around the polished wood floors with one cast propped onto a skateboard and the other one in a repurposed kidde skate that had been a gag-gift from Dick years and years ago. The kid scrambles back into the living room with his hands, and Bruce has to give Dick some credit about the comparisons between Jason’s preferred movement while injured and the ‘ Ring ’ horror movie. Jason lets his torso drop to the ground to throw up his hands, “I didn’t do anything!”

Bruce throws his hands in a gesture to where Alfred is cradling a crying toddler.

Jason flips him off.

Bruce does not flip Jason off in return, because Bruce is both a respected father and twenty eight years old. Bruce does give a very rousing glare.

“I really didn’t do anything!” Jason does a pushup and begins to scramble back into the living room. They’ve had to remove nearly all the rugs in the bottom floor to allow Jason easy access to roll around. “I asked like two questions and the kid broke down!”

Alfred follows Jason, crisp steps clicking with the heels, so Bruce does the only reasonable thing and follows both out of the foyer.

Jason’s pretty fast rolling around at shin height, so when Bruce gets fully into the living room Jason is already handing over a black backpack that Bruce doesn’t recognize.

Looking inside, all Bruce sees are- “Photographs?”

He reaches inside and pulls out a bundle of about ten or so. There, right on the top, blazed across the night sky of Gotham’s art deco skyline, is Bruce dressed up like a bat and posing dramatically off those gargoyles near fifth ave. Holy shit.

Bruce sits down on the couch, slamming himself down and picking up more of the hidden photographs from the depths of the small black backpack.

Jason claws his way up, onto the couch and then half in Bruce’s lap.

“Did you take these?” Bruce asks Drake, looking up finally to the neighbor's kid.

It takes a minute, but eventually “Y-Yes Mr. Wayne sir.”

Drake finally looks up from where he’s been tucked away in Alfred’s embrace. The kid is so little, oh my god, all jerky movements and stuttering looks. Alfred does set the boy down, gentle and easy before correcting his jacket from it’s rumpled state. Bruce remember’s Timothy Drake from functions and Gala’s, faintly from his mother and father’s mentions of him and more so from seeing him roam the outer banks of such events like children are meant to. The Drakes have been good people, they donate annually to charities and they normally show up to the christmas ball once a year. Bruce never personally talked to Timothy, but see’s the boy with a camera more often than not.

Jason looks out of his depth and is haltingly awkward.

Bruce can’t blame his son, he feels the same way.

“Why…” He’s trying to find a way to phrase this delicately.

“Are you mad?” Timothy asks, small and soft. “That I took all those pictures of you? I got the call and I gathered them all up- so you could destroy them or wha-whatever. Please just don’t hurt me.”

That makes Bruce’s blood freeze .

Jason sums it up like he normally does, by shouting “ WHAT!? ” into the rafters.

🦇

“How’d you figure out our identities?”

After they calm Tim down from thinking he was walking into his own execution at the hands of the Batman and his brood, the kid was relatively fine to speak too. They had to make it very clear that Tim wasn’t going to be hidden away in Arkham or sent to the ends of the world for knowing a secret he shouldn’t. They’re also pretty sure Tim doesn’t believe them when they say he’s okay, he’s fine.

Tim bites his lip, Jason wants to hit him to break that habit already, the kid already has a scar there. “It, I dunno it was easy.”

Jason picks up one of the photographs, a picture of Dick as Robin doing a graceful backwards leap off a building with wings spread and Batman behind him with the same, and shows it to Tim. He then points at where Dick is currently sitting, upside down, in sweatpants too big for him eating doritos with one hand and flipping through the collection with the other.

Tim nods.

Jason makes sure he’s seeing it right- and yeah he is. Dick came by in an absolute rush about twenty minutes ago. Alfred had called him too but it takes time to get from one city to another. Now the oldest brother sits in borrowed-from-their-father sweatpants and an old basketball jersey, nothing at all like the photographs of Robin and Nightwing that dance so gracefully through the air and across buildings.

“You’re gonna have to explain this one to me.”

Tim bits his lip harder, but other than the white spot on a white complexion Tim has no outward sign that he’s uncomfortable. “Richard Grayson is one of the three people in the entire world who can do a quadruple somersault. The other two are in China, I looked them up, they’re professional gymnasts.”

Jason didn’t know that, by the looks on his face Bruce didn’t know that either.

A beat of silence, Tim looks around but nobody interrupts him so he continues. “Robin did one, one time. I saw it. No cape to help, the mugger had cut something and the cape wasn’t functional anymore.”

Dick’s ears go ruddy red, just the very tip of the curve of them. The bastard knew , he knew he was talented in a very specific way and proceeded to show off as Robin anyway.

“That was years ago.” Bruce cuts in. “We had to redesign the whole hydraulic system because of that incident, you couldn’t have been more than five or six.”

“Yeah, I was five.”

Jason catches his brother's eye, Dick’s skin is just a little too dark to blush with a traditional pink but the very tips of his ears turn brilliant scarlet “You let a five year old catch you?”

Dick throws a dorito, “He’s been trailing you the entire fucking time! No room to talk!”

Jason eats the dorito off the floor. “He got pictures of you first, you moron.”

Bruce makes a gagging sound, “Jason we’ve talked about this, please don’t eat food that's touched the ground.”

“Technically the first pictures I have of are Batman.” Tim says, underneath it all.

Dick throws another dorito. “Then this is all B ’s fault.”

Jason stretches over to eat that one too. “You were the one who couldn’t not show off, dickwad!”

“Don’t eat off the floor!” Bruce physically has to pick Jason up to prevent him from grabbing at the nacho chip.

“At least I have something to show off, you brute .”

Jason rips himself out of Bruce’s loose hold to attack his brother. It’s mostly Jason using his core to filing himself as far as he can, but Dick both catches Jason and these fucking hands .

Dick and Jason proceed to slap the shit out of one another, screaming every insult they knew in every language they could recall.

Being Batman’s kids, they could recall a lot.

Bruce just sighs, deep from his soul like he does when somebody’s keyed the batmobile. “I’m so sorry about this, Timothy.”

The kid squeeks. “No worry Mr. Wayne. It’s okay.”

“Have you told anybody about this?” Bruce can recall Timothy’s parents bragging that their child had won some basic photography awards in his age demographic, but if Timothy had released any of these photographs before he would have been national news. Hell, he must have released the one single one that was out there now, making headlines and causing the police of Gotham all kinds of grief about “allowing” children to patrol their streets.

“No sir! No Mr. Wayne I would never.” Tim looks up at Bruce with his pale eyes and pure truth in that way young children generally are. “It’s not my secret to tell!”

Jason bites his older brother, Dick howls and pinches Jason’s ear, trying to get Jason off his arm.

“You’re sure you told not a single soul, not your friends or parents?” Bruce hates laying into a child but it’s essential that he knows exactly who knows what they shouldn’t.

“I don’t have friends Mr. Wayne.” Tim says evenly, with a smile. “When my parents are home I’m like all children should be, so I haven’t told them either.”

Bruce doesn’t even know how to begin to answer all that.

Jason takes his teeth out of Dick’s arm to ask- “What the fuck does that mean?”

Dick yanks Jason’s ear harder, nearly toppling his younger brother off the couch. “Language!”

Jason asks the same question again, this time in Cantonese. Dick smacks him in the stomach for being smart.

“Screw you Dickie!” Jason flings his own arm out to smack his brother back. “What does it mean, ‘like all children should be’?”

Tim scoffs, just a blink in his blank facade “Seen and not heard, is how children should be. It’s … it’s like a basic saying?”

Jason and Dick look morally offended at this, but at least they’re not attacking one another anymore. Bruce’s face is very blank right now, so blank that it’s horrific. All three crime fighters have nothing to say to that, because none of them have ever been seen but not heard. They’re either loud and proud or not there at all.

“If that’s what you think I bet you’re horrifically offended at young Master Dick and young Master Jason.”

Alfred causes nearly all of them to jump, Bruce is the only one not spooked. The butler’s carrying a tray full of chilled water bottles and pretzels.

“No sir, not at all.” Tim accepts a water bottle from Alfred when the man puts the tray down. “I look up to them very much sir.”

Bruce watches, in real time, as both of his boys visibly puff up in pride. Of course those two peacocks are responsive to positive words.

Bruce makes a note to himself that he’s about to see a lot of this kid in the upcoming days.

🦇

Tim excuses himself after a polite and appropriate time of an hour and a half, but Jason pretty much refuses him leaving, asking all kinds of questions about how Tim had kept up with Batman and Robin during their nightly patrols.

“I didn’t.” Tim explains, the more he talks and the more relaxed he feels the more words come out. He still moves and talks like he figured out how to be human from pictures alone, from one pose to another with little in between. “I figured out your patrol routes and stationed myself at good vantage points to catch good shots. I only move three or four times at night.”

Which makes Bruce worried that his patrol routes are that easy to follow. If somebody can track his patrol routes that means he can be ambushed which is not what he wants to hear.

“All humans have to have a routine, especially one as meticulous as you, so I figured you have to have some kind of schedule that was both designed to be unpredictable but easy enough for a Robin to follow and remember.”

Tim’s right . Bruce, on his own, never had a plan or routine because he was mostly reactionary. Something happens and he shows up to deal with the problem. Robin, both Jason and Dick, had to have a specific routes and routines to follow- outside of extenuating circumstances- to both make them vaguely visible to the people of Gotham, have an effective patrol route, and have an easy time remembering what they were meant to be doing and where they were meant to go.

Which brings around questions from Jason again.

Dick only contributed to a few questions here and there, the questions he did ask however were pointed and thought provoking.

Tim finally goes home after four hours of interrogation- he says he'll just walk back over but Alfred insists on driving the very tired child home.

Bruce, Dick, and Jason say goodbye, promising Tim once again that they’re not going to do something drastic because he knows the secret.

Bruce, after the door is closed, heads immediately down to the cave. Dick follows right behind, very much ignoring his brother’s demands of help down the slippery uneven staircases.

Bruce goes and pulls up every scrap of information available to him about the Drake family-

Drake Industries, mostly a medical production and supply company with some research on the side, was an active participant in things like Doctors without Borders and research into vaccines for areas in need. It’s a huge company, making millions of dollars a quarter, and the CEO and his wife are constantly on the move trying to help the world be a better, healthier place. They’re not often in the news, only when something truly groundbreaking in their vaccine or cancer research labs occur, but the latest news article on the two heads of the Drake family is that they were last heard of on a small island in French Polynesia trying to help children with cleft palettes born into low income families.

That was almost four months ago. There’s been nothing newsworthy since.

Jason manages against all damn odds to show up halfway through a background check on the Drake's finances, and a check to make sure Tim has no hidden account where he’s been getting strange money transactions.

“How do you keep getting down here? You literally can’t walk.” Dick demands, looking over Bruce’s shoulder. Dick stands on the right of Bruce, but also is extra enough to balance on the armrest and twist across Bruce’s space to look over Bruce’s left side.

“ Tenacity , Dickie. Tenacity. ” Jason’s still in two massive casts, one that goes up all the way to his hip joint, and the other that goes up to right under his knee. He can barely move his pelvis, but his arms still support him fully- since the Joker never bothered to break them. He won’t tell either Dick or Bruce that he’s using the uneven walls and bouldering down without any leg support.

They’d worry.

Jason asked Alfred to keep a few skateboards around the house to grab and use to roll around on. Alfred had denied him and had purchased two wheelchairs. Jason then asked Dick to do it instead without telling anybody and then Dick was the one who had to suffer the glare of a disapproving Alfred.

Dick still is mad about it.

So Jason grabs a board, puts it under his hip and long cast, then rolls over to the mainframe.

Once he gets all the way over Jason uses Dick as a climbing wall and hauls himself right into Bruce’s lap.

“They’re not getting income from anything they have not accounted for on their taxes.” Bruce ignores the child wiggling his way into a comfortable position in front of him. “I’ll have to do a more thorough search later, but nothing in the preliminary passes are coming up red.”

“Any secret accounts under their name?”

Bruce loves both of his sons very much, but he does have to push Dick’s head out of the way to reach the screen. “None besides the usual ones.”

Jason perks up- “ Usual ones?”

“Most people who have more money than they know what to do with have a few offshore accounts.” Dick answers, then makes a face that's a little disgusted with himself for knowing that.

“Their son has an account that’s getting income, but either it’s an allowance or a holding account for when he’s older.'' Bruce does a few more clicks, “I think it’s his allowance, there’s transactions in there for food and for camera equipment, mostly. Some other miscellaneous stuff like computer games and the like.”

A few more clicks through, a couple of programs running to just make double sure that there’s nothing fishy going on, and Bruce moves on from financials. There’s no mention anywhere in the news about the Drake’s son, but there are mentions of Timothy at charity events and galas once in a blue moon.

“His parents, are they still out of the country?” Dick asks, his eyes are going over some miscellaneous information thrown onto a smaller screen.

Jason wiggles forward, grabbing a hold of the mouse. Bruce lets him navigate back to a credit card bill that was of no consequence.

He clicks on a line from last night, a bar tab for two.

In Morocco.

“Maybe it's a mistake?” Bruce says, mostly to himself, but he’s already seriously doubting that claim.

The credit card is in Jannet’s name, and it’s one that gets them airplane miles everytime they buy something. It’s also been used pretty extensively in a slow crawl through Eurasia recently.

There’s been no flags of fraud on this account.

“Check the last time this card had been used in America- in Gotham.”

They do.

Six months ago.

“I see you’ve all discovered what I’m mad about.”

Alfred’s at the entrance of the cave, he’s got his hands clasped behind his back. Jason peaks over Bruce’s shoulder at the sound, Bruce can’t look behind him due to two wiggling teenagers but Dick makes a full turn. “You knew ?”

“I had strong suspicions ever since I called the residence. It was the housekeeper that answered, she transferred me to-” and here Alfred actually brought up his hands to finger quotes- “quote, ‘the only one who lived there’”

A scoff. “She was horrid, couldn’t even answer the phone properly.”

🦇

The next morning Tim wakes up, makes sure that he’s still alive and breathing, and gets out of bed. The housekeeper wasn’t going to be back for another week so he’s got enough time to use his homemade darkroom, go online and check up various leads he’s been looking into, and-

There’s a knock on the door.

Tim huffs, irritated. The stupid camera lense came too early and now he’s gonna have to go and sign and deal with the mail lady that hates him.

He doesn’t bother brushing his hair, it lays flat enough anyway and he’s not meeting the queen, nor does he lace up the shoes he shoves his feet in. The mail lady hates his guts anyway so she’s not gonna bother to even fuckin’ smile for her.

The knock comes again, she must be using the big ornate door knockers that Jannet hates people to use because they scuff easily.

Tim ambles over from where he was gonna eat his breakfast of cold pizza all the way over to the front door. The mail lady knocks three more times because she’s an impatient asshole who doesn’t think Tim is a valid person to hand packages too.

Tim throws open the massive front door with all the force his little nine year old self can muster.

The glare quickly morphs into blank surprise- it’s Jason at the door.

Jason, who’s sitting in a wheelchair with Alfred right beside him. “We’re kidnapping you.” Jason says, very apropos of nothing. “Get in the car.”

Tim looks down, he’s wearing a Gotham Knights shirt that’s a decade older than him and twice as big- his father’s, and just boxers. Not even socks. He hasn’t eaten, or brushed his hair, or …

“I haven’t… I’m not ready.”

Jason rolls forward, Tim tries to take a step back to give him room enough to maneuver freely. Jason’s older, he’s a whole lot bigger, and it takes him no effort at all to snag the collar of Tim’s oversized shirt and yank.

Tim doesn’t make a noise, but he does lash out at the sudden movement, too taken by surprise to suppress his ‘fight’ reaction to stressors.

Jason’s too good to be seriously hit by a reactionary swing though- with the hand not hauling Tim into his grasp Jason smacks away both the punch and the kick. Tim gets put rather haphazardly into Jason’s lap before Jason pops a wheelie and turns on a dime. “Alfred, the car!”

“We’re on steps!” Tim tries to wiggle out of the situation he’s found himself in but Jason’s already got a hand on the back of his neck and it’s rock solid. There’s not going to be breaking out of this grip anytime soon.

Alfred, the poor man, is just walking down as easy as you please while Jason has a wheelie popped and screams ‘ For Valhalla!’ before ramming the stairs at full speed.

It’s a miracle that they don’t flip or topple, Tim nearly climbs on top of Jasons’ shoulders so as not to overbalance them both. Alfred has the car door open neatly by the time the two boys reach the bottom, Jason uses his superior size and strength to almost physically fully throw Tim into the backseat before he himself grabs the roof with both hands and swings himself in right beside his kidnappie.

Alfred closes the door, sharp and crisp. Tim’s not sure how in the world it has come to this, but he’s beginning to think that maybe the vigilantes' of this city really are going to kill him over this whole ‘knowing the secret’ thing. Jason seems pretty relaxed, but there’s also the fact that he’s been in higher stakes situations than getting rid of a nine year old who’s next check in is in three months.

“Oh my god.” Tim whispers to himself. “I’d be the easiest kid to kill in the whole world.”

Jason … doesn’t look enthusiastic about that statement, his face is very expressive. So is Dicks, now that Tim thinks about it. Is that a mask thing? Needing to exaggerate facial movements to get the expression across? Maybe Tim just has never seen a person so happy before? Too many variables.

The drive to the Wayne estate is filled with Jason’s chatter, it’s a whole twenty minutes between houses but it feels like nothing when Jason explains that Bruce and Dick are borth going to be home later in the day but for now they have the entire house all to themselves.

Tim’s not sure exactly what's happening here, but he’ll take it. He wasn’t going to do anything very worthwhile today, not until tonight anyway when he was going to take the camera and sit at four prime locations to take some more sneak shots of Batman.

Then he would turn them over to the Waynes, because now the Waynes know that he knows and is taking pictures of them all.

Oh is that weird?

Maybe?

“Is it weird to know I take pictures of you guys when you’re in tights?” Tim asks, because he's not sure.

Alfred makes noise that sounds like a huff of air, quick and sharp.

Jason, however, looks horrified- “ Never call the armour anything close to tights again.”

🦇

Dick comes home from college pretty often- New York is close to both Bludhaven and Gotham so it's not that far of a drive on a nice day. Dick also really does like to drive around. Yesterday he had cancelled all of his classes for the rest of the week to run to Alfred’s distress call- today he’s going with Bruce to make nice with the reporters and do any kind of damage control he possibly can with the Wayne image.

Either by damaging it and getting the Nightwing and Robin picture out of the media, or by doing some kind of wild charity work with Bruce and kicking gossip off the society rag.

It’s looking to be some kind of public charity work, Bruce’s set something up with his company while Dick hangs around and smiles wide and asks around about the news in Gotham- from both company employees and certain less than wholesome contacts.

The streets are saying that Robinis dead, that Joker killed him and now everybody’s paying for it. The rogues can all see the way Batman handles the criminals now, with broken bones and a wicked right hook. The media also can visit the medical ward of Arkham and take a picture of how the Joker hasn’t even woken up yet. Harely Quinn is beside herself, she’s been curled up in her cage in Arkham and hasn’t moved more than to barely eat while she warns everyone else about her mistake.

It’s not making good news for Batman- or Gotham in general.

If people are afraid of Batman then the value of this city goes down, which makes crime rates go up, which makes everything just a little worse to try and make a living in.

It’s not always about punching the bad guy and heroically saving the day- it’s mostly boring shit working with computers and knowing how technology interacts with one thing or another and intimidating muggers into dropping little old ladies purses. Almost eighty percent of Batman’s job could be done sitting right here in the cave. The times when Riddler has a dirty bomb about to kill the entire damn state are few and far between- that shit’s expensive on a good day and ludicrous to obtain on a bad one.

Dick and Bruce go home at three o’clock. They chat idly at the Starbucks near the main office as they wait for their coffee before they actually get into the car for the day- it’s nearly forty-five minutes to get home to Wayne Manor and both of them want something to tide them over for the drive. Dick orders something fruity with sprinkles, sparkly and vibrant more so than anything else. Bruce gets something much more sensible and more resembling coffee. Loser.

The two of them take only a few requested photos in line, before they head on home.

Alfred picks them up, like he normally does, the car this time is a classic thunderbird, the same color blue as Nightwing’s symbol.

“Have a good day at the office?” Alfred asks.

“I made Powers want to kill me again.”

That's true, Dick hates the man who rules financials with an iron fist, but Bruce has a special penchant for making Powers furious with seething rage over what amounts to basically nothing.

“A true use of that brain of yours, sir.”

Bruce barks a laugh, it’s a sharp single one. “How’s the house?”

“Everything is well at the home front, Master Jason invited over a friend today. I made sure the two of them were properly taken care of for the day.”

“Did Jason do his schoolwork?”

“Before I was even done with breakfast, I had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to invite young Tim over before every bit of homework was done.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, imagining what trouble Jason can get into with somebody smart enough to figure out their secret identities. Dick’s brain supplies the fact that Alfred has to be gone for a minimum of an hour and a half to come and retrieve Bruce and Dick.

Which means Jason, in all of his mischievous rage, has been left alone with access to the fucking batcave with somebody that’s going to absolutely enable him.

Oh fuck no.

🦇

“Isn’t this dangerous?” Tim asks, for probably the fourth time. Jason has ignored him since the first time Tim expressed hesitation on this.

Jason swings around to look Tim in the eye- literally. They’re on the top section of the training area- there’s rows of metal bars off to one side that are wider than normal monkey bars by increments depending on which side one takes. The largest width is four feet of gap- the smallest is two. Jason hangs on the bars right in the middle of the two extremes, dangling nearly sixty feet above the foam fall pit. There’s still netting midway up from when Dick used it last so the fall’s not gonna make him complain.

It’s easy to swing around- a lot easier than walking is right now. Sure it makes the bruises on his ribs ache a bit but where’s the fun in being totally perfectly alright.

Tim’s looking a lot more apprehensive about the whole ‘race you across the foam pit’ thing. “You didn’t have a problem when we were on the lower levels.”

“I didn’t have a problem when we were at the first level . “ Tim calls out. “I don’t even think I can reach those bars.”

“Jump.”

Tim’s face is very impressively blank, it must be a rich person thing to look like you have no emotions behind it all. Jason’s never been able to manage it, Dick’s only good at halfway masking what he’s thinking.

There’s a stare off between them, Jason’s wiggling his eyebrows hanging off a metal bar with chalk on his hands and a cast on both legs while Tim’s still wearing the big t-shirt he slept in but with his little arms crossed and perfectly poised posture.

There’s a few moments of paused silence, pointed.

Tim sighs, looks down at the layered foam underneath them- the netting that’ll catch him if he falls. Jason takes the moment to start gaining momentum, he’s gonna do something dramatic and stupid, but it’ll look cool as hell.

Jason takes a backwards leap, throwing himself in such a way that he twists backwards mid-air and snags the next rung down. Tim jogs backwards one, two steps, then runs forward to take a running leap at the bars.

Jason makes it.

Tim doesn’t.

“Fuck!” Both of them yell.

Tim’s fingertips just barely taps the bar, not nearly enough to grab ahold of anything. Jason see’s the leap take a sharp arch and then head straight down .

“Fall right!” Is the only advice Jason can think of to scream.

The aerial net does it’s job, Tim thankful doesn’t tense up or try and flip around, he falls perfectly onto his back with his legs and arms spread full eagle. The net dips, cradling the small body it’s saved, but doesn’t sag like it would for Bruce or Dick- Tim’s a hell of a lot lighter.

“You okay!?” Jason calls down.

Tim gives a shaky thumbs up, still wheezing slightly.

Well, thank god for that.

Tim begins to move, wiggling along the netting to get back to the ledge. Jason’s hands are beginning to sweat, he’s gotta move or he’ll end up wiggling along the net just like Tim is.

Jason’s gotta get back to where he started- so he turns around and starts swinging.

Tim makes it to the ledge that the netting is strung to- Jason makes it to the first rung.

Oh he hasn’t thought this through. His legs are broken, how the fuck is he going to get down from the bars?

Will it be easier if he goes back two bars and falls into the net too? Nah that’s gotta jarr the bone right? Fuck man Jason’s not a doctor.

It’s right at this moment that a soft ‘ tick ’ echoes along the cave walls- somebody’s home.

“JASON PETER TODD.”

Well this is just shaping up to be a great situation all around isn’t it.

“WHERE ARE YOU.”

🦇

Bruce climbs up to where they are in the training area with a calculated grace. He snags Jason from where he’s holding onto the bar by his son’s waist and on the way down goes ahead and picks up Tim by the back of his collar.

Jason’s been trained not to struggle, so he doesn’t, goes limp in his father’s arms and hangs as loose as he possibly can so Bruce has as much mobility granted when holding onto a whole person. Tim, however, had a natural instinct to struggle a bit against the hold, he wiggled and shifted- not trying to break the grip but definitely not making things easier. Bruce makes a note to train that out of hi-

Bruce makes a note not to make notes about training the neighbor kid.

Dick’s laughing at him, at everyone, leaning against the chair by the computer.

Alfred’s upstairs, making dinner, the only one in this household who Bruce still likes.

“Need a hand there, B?” Dick asks, holding his arms out- Bruce passes him wiggly Tim. Dick takes the kid under his armpits and hauls him up. Tim doesn’t make a sound but he does flash out with a sharp little kick.

Good instincts there.

Jason remains limp, but Bruce can maneuver him with both hands now, flipping his son to his back, right between his shoulder blades. Jason grabs tightly around Bruce’s neck and uses his slightly better leg to brace against Bruce’s ribs.

It’s time to go upstairs, yell at his stupid son for endagering both himself and somebody elses entire person, and eat dinner.

🦇

Clark has no real say in this meeting- it’s mostly about the fate of some hero down in Florida who had just freakin snapped and decided to kill their whole rogue gallery. Clark’s already set his vote down- jail time, with a mental assessment beforehand and removal from the justice league.

Batman’s not paying attention so hard he’s got his phone out- texting something furiously and scowling.

Nobody bothers to tell him to put his phone away.

Even Clark wouldn’t tell Batman to do something when the man has that look on his face.

Flash is trying to look on the bright side, so is Wonder Woman. But Martian Manhunter’s also pushing for full removal and jail time. “I looked into their mind.” J’onn is saying, trying to lay it out again for everyone. “It was not mind control and it was not the work of another. They made a conscious decision to do this.”

Clark had seen the footage, from both the rampage and the follow up interview from the league and the police. He might have had a rather black and white outlook on the world but this was something that was rather black and white, wasn’t it?

Batman taps his phone a little harder, his scowl a little deeper.

Whenever Clark wears gloves he can’t ever get his phone to work right- thank god he doesn’t have static fingerprints or else he’d have to wear the things all the time to keep his secret identity.

It was a weird thing to learn, when he looked into his fake birth certificate when he was seven and compared his fingerprints at the time for his science class. When they didn’t match he did his own testing over the course of a few months and it turns out that the way his skin grew and regenerated it made his fingerprints both unrecognizable as human and not static enough to use as an identifier.

Batman’s scowl lessens a tad, just a quirk that wouldn’t be recognizable to anybody without Clark’s vision.

Damn, Batman has a good jaw. It’s strong and square with just a little bit of stubble that usually is taken care of with a very in character precision. Batman’s bottom lip is pink, very pink, and a lot thicker than his top one. It’s the only part of Batman’s face Clark has ever seen- the man lines most of the rest of his suit in lead- so it’s probably the most relevant of Clark’s musing.

Well, that and Batman’s wings.

Clark thinks way too much about how Batman looks underneath that suit of his. Are the plates covering real muscles that really look like that or is it a stronger kind of padding underneath the trim waist and strong shoulders? Batman has thinner shoulders than any other founding male member, the thinnest waist too, but he beats out everyone else on thighs.

Clark thinks it's because Batman uses his legs so much in combat- Clark’s seen Batman choke a man out just using his legs before.

When Clark had seen that mauver pulled he had almost wanted to say something to Batman about not needing any air.

“We’ve talked about this for two hours now.” Wonder Woman’s voice cuts through the daydreams. Clark pops right back into the conversation, half focused on it this whole time anyway. “We need to come to a decision.”

Clark moves his vote- anonymous and through the tablet in front of him.

Everyone else does the same, quick as each member wants to weigh their options about the case. Batman was practically done before the voting even started- it took Wonder Woman the longest to think about it.

The votes go in,

Jailtime, removal from the League, mental assessment.

“Now that we’re done with that decision-” J’onn very pointedly moves his head so he’s clearly looking at Batman. “What has kept you so distracted, friend?”

Batman doesn’t even look up. “Flock problems.”

Clark can feel his blood freeze. The other members of the League go stock still. Flock problems mean that Robin or Nightwing is having issues and with the recent media frenzy not a soul on the tower doesn’t know that Robin is either dead or halfway to it. Batman has been rather tight lipped about it, he’s taken a while off of League business to deal with his personal family problems.

In fact, this is the first meeting Batman had been back to since that horrifying picture had shown up on every single news feed in the country.

Everyone at the table knew Robin, knew him and his smiles and his excitement and his energy when he was at the watchtower with his father. Nightwing was young, but he had made it. Made it to adulthood and out on his own, survived being Robin and made it out into something that could fly on his own. Out of Batman’s wings.

Robin, the second one, never did.

Nobody here knows if the kid is alive , life support, perfectly fine, dead or anywhere in between.

So now the whole table has gone as still as if Captain Cold froze them all solid. Batman sends another few texts, his phone has one of those crazy privacy screens that mess all kinds of hell with Clarks vision even when he's looking right at them.

Nobody wants to bring it up, but everyone also wants to know something, anything, about the flock problem .

Clark gives people another ten seconds.

Not a soul moves to speak first.

Fine then, time to put those public speaking classes to good use!

“We have to know, Batman.”

Public speaking classes have failed him!

“No. You don’t.”

“Is he alive at least?” Clark doesn’t want to beg but he’s willing. “You have to give us something here, we’re all sitting on eggshells here. Let us know if he’s doing okay if we can visit, if he can visit us. Does he need help ? He's a child, Batman-”

“You think I don’t know that?” Batman clicks his phone off, not a sound from either the action or the button press itself. “You think I don’t realize that he’s only almost fifteen? That I sent a child out into the streets and only by a total and utter miracle of misunderstanding that he came back to us at all? He’s alive, he can’t walk, I was the one who sent my own kid out into this bullshit only to have him cry my name into the communicator and beg me to save him before the Joker ripped it out? Do you not think I understand that my son is only a child ?”

Nobody dared to breathe .

Because what do you say to that?

“Robin is alive, benched, probably for good. Is this enough information for everyone to be happy ?”

“What was the misunderstanding?”

All eyes to Flash. The speedster has both hands on the table, fisted out in front of him with a steady heartbeat and a steady breath. Clark can hear the way Flash's heart always beats solid and heavy, there’s no stuttering interruption in his surprisingly rather slow rhythm.

Nobody says a thing, so Flash says again- “What was the misunderstanding that saved Robin’s life.”

Jaw tightening, Batman looks away.

Clark watches the way his wings fold a little tighter to his sides, the thumbs against his throat twitching.

“If this is a metahuman thing-” Clark tries to say, but Batman throws up a hand.

Everyone waits, they’re willing to allow Batman time to phrase his words how he wants to be heard, to be understood.

“It was a grave misunderstanding of my children’s anatomy- of mine as well.” It’s like pulling teeth, getting information from this man. “Joker was aiming to cause us pain, to kill Robin after days of sustained torture, and he ignored more viable spots to do that in favor of trying to be …”

“ Unique.” Is what Batman settled on. “The effort on the Joker’s part was extensive, and saved Robin’s life in the end.”

Clark could read between the lines well enough, he wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing, at any rate.

Robin was grounded , maybe for life at this rate. The picture had shown visible breaks in the wings, but Clark didn’t have enough knowledge about that particular area to have made any real diagnosis- the picture was also dark, with sharp shadows, so it was impossible to make any real physical assessment.

“Oh, Batman I’m so sorry to hear that.” Wonder Woman touches a hand to Batman’s, gentle and soft. She’s got a worry line in his brow that only appears when she’s truly upset with something.

Batman stands, with all that coiled control he always does.

When he walks on his hands, out of the room, nobody bothers to try and stop him.

🦇

Dick’s on his hands, in a handstand, maneuvering the best he can as he barrels after his brat of a housemate.

The manor is vast, but the rules of this game are simple- in the fact that nobody’s allowed to leave the two bottom floors and nobody’s allowed to ask Alfred for help.

Dick watches as Jason- also in a handstand- turns a sharp left into the formal dining room.

The dining room is only used for formal occasions of more than twenty people, when the manor has to hire extra staff to help for the night and they bring out the really nice table runners. The room likens itself to those old balls in historical movies, where the dinner scene crests and the music swells with the piano and the two love interests look at each other and swoon. All old warm wood and wall sconces that were once candlelight that matches the chandelier in which Dick has used as a trapeze before.

Tim’s on the mantle of the fireplace- half climbed up to the very inviting rafters. He’s also been using his arms and hands to move around but he’s been given a huge head start and the ability to hide for his ‘not a superhero’ advantage. Jason and Dick have to keep moving at all times.

Dick see’s the easier target, and takes a hard turn from tracking down Jason to start climbing the mantle.

“Why’d you lead him to me!?” Tim screams down at them.

Jason falls from his handstand- just for a second to look up at the betrayal he had caused. “The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; as you are sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse will tear at my bosom, and will not forego their hold!”

“Don’t quote shit at me! Help me!”

Jason lets out a truly magnificent cackle and leaves poor Tim to his fate.

Dick’s gonna get his ass later, the fucker, but for now he’s got a sitting duck trying frantically to climb higher up to get to his only chance of escape- the rafters.

Dick reaches Tim before he has any chance, snagging the frantic kid and then climbing down.

Tim pouts and complains but holds onto Dick’s back anyway, accepting the loss with grace.

“If Jason didn’t lead you right to me then you’d have never seen me.” Tim sighs as they both shimmer on down to get back on the bare floors again.

“Yeah I’ll give you that.” Dick would never have looked up into the rafters on his own accord- neither him nor Jason go up that high and hide in places that small and dark. “Sneaky sneaky.”

Tim’s now a seeker as well in their game of total manhunt, a glance at the clock says they’ve both got another two minutes to find Jason before the little bastard wins this round.

Alfred keeps the whiteboard in the off-limits kitchen. He’s the only one to be trusted with the scores and the dry erase maker. Dick has two points- both wins by seeking. Jason has only one point, his also by seeking. Tim, infuriatingly , has three points by hiding alone- the little monster is way better than he should be at hiding in places no human body should be able to fit.

Dick and Jason also aren’t used to all his favorite hiding places yet, but they’re getting there . Tim won the first two games, then the fourth, but hasn’t won since.

Dick gets to the bottom of the fireplace and sets Tim down. Dick folds into a handstand with a fluid single motion, then takes off in the direction that Jason had left in.

Jason was fast, he’s well trained and strong, but Dick’s just a little older, a little better, and most importantly, knew Jason.

On the stairs- the little bastard’s been bouncing between the two floors to have the most mobility.

“Shit!” Jason watches Dick race up from the first floor so he bolts up to the second.

Dick’s faster, has had more experience with handstands, and most importantly has full motor control of all of his appendages. The rules might go against being able to run- but there’s nothing about using your legs to climb .

The staircase is a sharp u-turn style of stair, so Dick’s easily able to hook his foot into the railing on the upper story and haul himself up with an ab curl of the century.

Jason goes down easy to Dick’s larger weight, cursing the whole time he gets tackled.

“I hate you.” Jason wheezes from underneath. “I really fucking hate you”

“I expected this reception,” said the eldest. “All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!”

“Don’t quote Frankenstien at me, I’m mad at you.” Jason huffs.

Dick lays there for another few moments yet, he should hit the button on his watch to send an alert beep through the entire manor- letting both Tim and Alfred know the game is over and to reconvene. But it’s comfortable to squish the life out of Jason, letting the brat get his comeuppance for being annoying.

Jason wiggles for another few seconds, but eventually he deflates and lets Dick’s heavier weight press him flat.

“Are you going to let me up anytime soon?”

“Not if you keep asking.”

A sharp wiggle, Jason’s elbowing Dick in the spleen. Dick ignores it, as is his god given right as the older one.

It’s only another thirty seconds before they hear the approaching of little hands, and sure enough there’s Tim, on unsteady and shaking hands, wobbling slowly through the hallways. Tim had only learned how to handstand a few days ago- he’s small enough that it’s mostly about balance and not weight so he has no hope of out maneuvering anybody anytime soon.

In fact, Tim topples over as soon as he spots Dick and Jason.

Then the kid just seems to say ‘fuck it’ and walk over normally before he sits back down again.

“Do I have to crush Jason too?” Tim asks.

“Don’t you dare .”

Tim doesn’t dare, giggling, but he does lie down next to them anyway.

“Are you calling it quits lil buddy?” Dick has to ask, laughing. “Tuckered out?”

Tim nods, yeah, his arms shake and it’s going to be a few hours before he can do another round of handstand manhunt.

They should probably go and get lunch from Alfred, but they’re all too comfortable laying on an old rug on the second floor. Dick moves off of Jason's torso, putting himself between the two younger boys. The sunlight’s warm and feels nice on their skin from where it filters through the stained windows, it's quiet here, away from everything and sequestered in the warmth of Bruce’s home. It's safe here in a way it’s not safe anywhere else in the whole world, a soft space when needed and a place where their edges can be filed into fine points. This place, within the breath of broken families that hover so quiet in the afternoon sunlight, is somehow a place of healing and discovery.

A discovery of talents hidden, a healing from hurt not long ago inflicted.

A discovery of secrets that should be kept quiet and a healing from bullets in the street.

Dick sits between two children who need something larger than themselves to follow, something to believe in during terrible times. Jason’s already getting better while Tim is still taking his first steps.

🦇

Nightwing is in New York with his team, trying to peel away the secrets from a tight-lipped group of scientists so they can reverse engineer some kind of bio-bomb that’s going to be deployed in China next week.

Jason’s in the cave, overlooking coms like he always does nowadays. Alfred’s dusting off the trophy area, polishing the display case that holds the second Scarface.

Bruce Wayne was at a gala tonight, something with crystals and white attire. It’s at the Iceberg Lounge so Jason sits and listens to Brucie talk nonsense to people who make more money than god and run background checks on all the waitstaff and plus ones.

The Iceberg Lounge is the perfect place for this winter wonderland formal, all snowflakes and seals, penguins and christmas trees, crystal chandeliers and wine glasses carved from clear ice in everybody’s hands.

Brucie’s here for business tonight, so it’s a balance between being smart enough to invest in and dumb enough to not pose a single threat. Bruce plays his part well, most people in the world above really do like Wayne Enterprises. Not only are Wayne Enterprises a global powerhouse, pulling in billions a year in pure revenue but the company’s also well known for its glorious charity work and ability to pull nearly anything out of the hole.

Bruce Wayne is approachable in ways other sponsors aren’t, he’s famous in a very specific way. He tweets out glamorous living shots and party’s that sparkle, he’s shown both doing work in soup kitchens helping the homeless and half naked at strip clubs on the pole and threatening to show more. He’s strangely human, both in real life and in interviews but he’s enough of a figurehead to admire and look to as a celebrity.

It’s also unfortunate that when he goes to places like this, surrounded by people who expect certain things from him, he can’t just punch one of Joker’s goons when they emerge from the crowd with a gun pointed to his Temple.

Bruce struggles just for show, gasping and throwing his hands up as the party begins to scream.

“Dad!” Jason watches the camera feed from Bruce’s third button and the incredibly nice security cameras that are layered all over the place. “Dad, get out of there!”

Jason clicks one of the screens to a news channel- making sure he can get updates from the outside as well, the news is not showing the story yet but it’ll catch up in a few minutes.

Bruce doesn’t struggle too hard, he doesn’t want to get hit in the head and become disoriented, but he continues to constantly try and break free of the bonds they begin to wrap around his wrists.

Jason hits the emergency signal- he’s getting every superhero team’s attention he possibly can on this subject, right the fuck now .

God if he was still able to be Robin this wouldn’t be a problem! This would be perfectly fine and he’d be at that gala busting heads within ten minutes! He’d be at the gala with his father!

Fuck!

He flicks through the camera’s again, trying to find anything or even anybody who could help- Selina Kyle maybe? Except she’s not been invited to this stupid party, everybody’s pretty much sealed in the same room where Bruce Wayne sits hogtied and handcuffed on top of the main table next to a tipped over crystal centerpeice.

The League is saying that the emergency call is a low priority, eta nearly two hours, Nightwing hasn’t responded at all but his team is at minimum four hours.

Jason hates that he’s essentially desk-ridden, hates with all his heart that he can’t be there to save his fucking dad -

The camera’s show the crowd in high definition, the small gathering of the elites all being held hostage by the Joker . The Joker himself is high and mighty, a deranged grin and a suit that’s not only off color for the white out event but also out of season. The poor bastards also got a roaming medical supply after him, with an oxygen cannula and a bag of morphine. The man has crutches even with both his arms broken to the point of unsuitability. Hair wild and half saved off to show vibrant red stitches, the Joker’s holding onto consciousness by pure insanity alone, and Harley Quinn is behind him to help move him around.

The Joker is demanding that everybody give him the donations for tonight or he starts killing people one by one.

“I’ll start with the children!” Joker cackles loud enough to be picked up through Bruce’s earring com, holding the gun to Bruce’s head and musing up Bruce’s finely styled hair. “One at a time and then work my way through everybody! Poorest first!”

Jason’s not panicking, he can’t in situations like this, he’s been trained not to in situations like this. He hits the button to activate the coms. “B, respond to your communicator, damn it.”

Bruce’s shoulders relax only a fraction of an inch. “I would love to respond to you gentlemen’s request- but sadly my company won’t allow stuff like this!”

The goons are combing through the crowd, guns raised high and laughing gas contained on their backs, nobody opposes them when they go around searching people for valuables (nobody wears the good jewels to events in Gotham anymore, not unless the event is being held at Wayne Manor).

A goon grabs somebody, wholly picking them up by the neck. “I got a kid to start with, boss!”

It’s somebody that Jason recognizes.

Kicking and screaming, putting up a hell of a fight even though he’s about three feet tall, it's Timothy Drake .

“Thank the lucky stars tonight, boss, they’re bringing Tim to you.” Jason snaps through the coms, already trying to come up with some miracle with the new player in the game.

Joker laughs, he twists and turns and fails out with his crutch with a mace, Harely catches the off balance man immediately. “Bring the kiddo up here! Bring him here!”

Tim gets taken to the main table, screaming the whole time. His struggle only seems to amuse the Joker and his gang, while the rest of the captive audience looks on in fear. Tim’s parents- at least the people who he was taken from- are openly crying.

Tim gets put right in Bruce’s lap, the goon just tossing the child up there with no care or delicacy.

Jason thinks fast, and comes up with the best plan he’s got.

“B, right now, get Tim to take your communicator.”

“No! Calm down,” Bruce says loud and clearly to the room at large, hiding the message to Jason.

“B, give Tim your communicator. I have a plan! ”

Tim’s clearly still wiggling, still too mobile to get any kind of tie on him.

Bruce sighs, the bags under his eyes are real and the exhaustion in his shoulders are heavy. “I can’t put another child in danger.” The voice is barely a whisper, just a hint enough for the microphone to pick up.

Jason can see on the camera’s how Tim twists up to look at Bruce as he speaks- Tim is putting together the situation as fast as it's developing.

“B, trust me .”

Bruce closes his eyes, and prays for Jason to pull another miracle.

Low again, just enough for a few words to pass between breaths. “Tim, do you have pierced ears?”

Tim reacts in a flurry of movement that nobody can predict- not even the Joker Goon that’s reaching to grab Tim’s wrists to tie him up.

Tim rips the single silver stud out of Bruce’s right ear, no time to be careful just pulling straight down, and bolts.

Bruce doesn’t make a single sound at the tearing the cartilage, the forceful pull doesn’t even yank his head down. Bruce stays a perfect mask over the minimal pain that comes from having torn relatively unfeeling skin.

People cry out at the flurry of movement, Tim’s screaming bloody murder and crying out exactly like a kid his age is meant to, he kicks the goon square in the nuts with all the force he can muster and bolts .

Tim doesn’t stop running, even through the flash of surprised gunfire that his movement startles out of the goons.

He breaks through the open doorway- his own panicked escape leading a good few of the high society making the same break for it.

About ten people make it through uninjured, another four make it through taking visible hits on camera.

There’s still about forty people to worry about- Bruce’s camera feed isn’t going to help much, but Jason still throws it to a screen so he can keep watch over it. The main camera’s he wants to watch are the ones that have Tim on them, flying down the hallway at top speed.

Jason clicks on an open continuous line. “Tim! Tim, can you hear me?!”

Tim screeches to a stop behind a secretary's desk, sliding across the tile as a dozen others file to the elevator area in a mad panic.

Jason watches as Tim grabs ahold of his own ear, dons the blank expression that means he’s not playing a part anymore, and slams the earring through a non-pierced ear.

“Tim! What the fuck !”

“I don’t have earring holes.” Tim explains, wincing as he begins to poke around the secretary’s desk. He finds a pencil, seemingly what he wanted, and rips off the eraser.

The eraser goes behind the earring as a makeshift backing, Tim’s fingers are tipped with red where Jason can see them on camera.

“Alright, Jas-”

“No real names on coms!”

“You’ve used mine already!” Tim snaps. “What should I call you?”

“Robin!” Jason’s mind is working overtime. “Call me Robin-”

“Then what the hell am I?”

Jason’s eyes catch Joker looking at the skylights of the Iceberg Lounge, twitchy and constantly scanning for the real ruler of Gotham-

“I’m going to call you Placeholder .”

🦇

Bruce makes a note that he really should be wearing two earrings to formal events, two nice simple silver studs that both work as communicators. He’s old enough now, probably, that it won’t be seen as an ‘act of stepping out’ or whatever the newspapers had called his original earring.

Nobody’s noticed the fact that his ear’s bleeding, it’s a rather small injury in the grand scheme of things right now. Harley gunned down the man who allowed Tim to escape, then shot the two guarding the door in the kneecaps for good measure.

Joker’s furious that he has to rely on somebody else to be his movement, he’ll never be able to pick his arms above waist high ever again, but at the same time he seems to be delighted that his heist is going so well even in his compromised state. Joker does keep looking to the sky, through the massive windows with what might be a hint of fear hidden in those empty depths of him.

Looking for Batman.

Bruce himself is relatively uninjuried, everyone else is relatively bored. It’s not like they’ve never been held hostage at one of these things before. There’s a betting pool if you know where to look for it about what high named celebrity is going to get kidnapped next-

Dick won a whole lot of money tonight, because he always bets that Bruce Wayne is going to get kidnapped.

(Bruce’s own odds of being kidnapped are spectacularly low, actually, he’s one of the least likely in all of america for how butt-numbingly famous he is.)

The donations can’t even be hand collected in an event like this- it’s all mostly through digital donations nowadays and tracked through a projector screen showing the numbers up on the ice at all times.

Harley screams , high pitched and full of terror.

Bruce mentally checks if he has the holster on his thigh which holds all the up to date personal antidotes on both Scarecrow’s fear toxin and Ivy’s lust dust. There’s also some minorly out of date antidote for Joker gas, but there’s a super good reason that he hasn’t created the newest version of that and it’s not procrastination no matter what Dick accuses him of.

It’s because the Joker gas is hard to synthesize, that’s all.

All vials are there, but there’s no undercut of earthen moss smell that curls around with fear toxin.

It also helps that Bruce knows that Crane is definitely in Arkham and doing very well with their new bingo nights program.

So why does Harley Quinn point a finger to the sky and cry out:

“ Its a fuckin’ ghost! ”

Everyone looks up, thinking that this is just another part of the game. They’ve all got a part to play here and if that part is serving an audience to theatrical megalomaniacs then they’re going to be the best damn audience ever-

Bruce nearly dies on the spot.

That can’t be Jason, up there standing in the skylight back lit by the not-quite full moon. It can’t be Jason, small and fragile and clearly not a full adult yet, the Gotham fog and dramatic distance make it hard to pick up details beyond the gasping, drifting, ghost of translucent tattered wings that spread around the dark outline. It can’t be Jason, arms spread and dripping with dark liquid, blurry face covered in red when the lights from below light up the figure.

It can’t be Jason, because that figure is standing on it’s own two unbroken legs, thinner than Jason’s broad shoulders and shorter by a good amount of inches.

Bruce’s mind gets over its vivid hallucinations of a ghost of his very much alive son, and puts it’s massive brainpower to work.

Tim’s up there, with Jason in his ear, and they’re-

Well frankly they’re scaring the shit out of all the hired goons.

Everybody’s seen the picture that Tim put out on the internet, with the bloody and limp body wrapped up in a brother's wing, they hear no scrap of information from any news site about Robin reappearing on the streets. Everyone’s thought Robin has been dead this whole time, Bruce, Batman, had let them think Robin was dead.

Now there’s a ghost above them all, small and fragile with wings made of gossamer shimmering fog.

“ I KILLED YOU! ” The Joker screams up at the figure of a myth. “ I BROKE YOUR WINGS! I WON!”

Harley’s throwing the gun, screaming down at and with the rest of the grounded earth, “I’m done Mista J! I’m fucking done! I saw that kid die once. I am not here to watch it again! This isn’t funny anymore!” She moves away from Joker, from the man she was supporting, towards the high table where Bruce is tied.

The goon’s are high tailing it out of here, they’re throwing in the proverbial towel, literal gun. The army of clowns has turned into a graveyard shift of them.

“ I KILLED YOU! ” Joker’s screams are dangerously maddening, even as he tips over and into his own insanity.

Bruce is close enough to hear Harely say to herself, in almost a normal voice, “Maybe this was never funny at all.”

Hands on the ties, Bruce’s eyes jerk from where Robin stands above them to right in front of him. Harely’s got a knife in her prefered red and black, sharp and open right next to delicate unprotected arteries, Bruce panics for less than a second, already moving in an instinctive headbutt, but Harely’s knife slices through the rough hewn ropes, not skin.

Bruce is free, nearly all the rest of the guests are fleeing, and Harely’s got a glint in her eyes that means something terrible is going to happen soon.

Bruce isn’t going to be around to bear witness to it all.

“Thanks,” He tells her, already up and moving, already planning on how to get up to Robin as fast as humanly possible to grab him away from what’s already in motion in the criminal underbelly of this city.

Harley doesn’t acknowledge, she’s already turning on her heel and bolting .

🦇

The wing’s are made out of two curtains and what remains of a decorative centerpiece, held together with shining silver duct tape.

Jason’s got a response from Nightwing, the guy’s offworld and he’s sort of freaking out about the situation. Jason sends an update the best he can and hopes that Nightwing doesn’t have too many heart attacks between now and when he gets back. Jason’s also already retracted League assistance- Batman is on his way up the stairwell right now, tearing through the floorplan like a madman with no regards to how many cameras there are.

Jason’s just going to gloat to himself for a bit, halfway through the Iceberg Lounge’s remote systems to delete some key footage of tonight.

Joker’s writhing on the floor, Jason think’s the man’s pissed himself. There’s only three goons left but most of the Gotham Elite have already either escaped or used their purses as weapons and beat down the unskilled thugs.

The people of Gotham have quickly learned that the Bat can’t be everywhere, so the amount of people who know how to throw a punch or two in this city is astronomically high. There’s nightly defense classes and the rate of people who are taking some kind of martial arts is through the roof. It’s not strange at all that both of Bruce Wayne’s children are occasionally seen at the GCPD taking courses with Barbra Gordon and her father.

It’s a good thing too, or else Bruce would have had to do a little more work to get those people to real safety down there instead of just bolting off into the night in full display of the cameras.

Bruce bursts onto the roof, Jason watches through the camera that still is totally active in Bruce’s button on his jacket.

Tim stands as tall as he can on an old box, the hastily put together ensemble includes a scrap of fabric across his eyes- a remnant of the torn tuxedo jacket that’s been hacked at with a pocketknife. The whole ‘Robin’ costume has Tim’s pants cut into four strips and used as the faux cape tied with a knot at the collar. A destroyed table centerpiece had been duct taped together and-

“Are you wearing curtains?” Bruce asks, he’s already taking off his own tuxedo jacket. It’s cold outside, too cold for this nonsense.

“Yes.” Tim and Jason say together, though Bruce can’t hear Jason at all right now.

“Are- what are you using for blood?”

Jason rolls his eyes, this is getting ridiculous; “Placeholder, take me out and give me back to B.”

Tim does, gets a bitten off-fingernail behind the stud and rips it out of his own ear with no thought or care. The bloody cartilage begins to bleed again, an open hole.

A second or two, B’s voice filters through the coms. “Robin?”

“Here I am, get everybody home as fast as possible. Report back.” Jason clicks through another few security cameras to delete the footage of a small kid ducking into a janitor's closet with a verifiable mountain of craft supplies.

“Full report.” Oh that’s the Batman voice, all deep and growly. “Right now.”

The Bruce cam goes all funny, the fabric must be folded in on itself, but through the Iceberg Lounge itself Jason’s already taking screenshots of Bruce holding up a bundle of his own jacket. This is blackmai- payback for all the times Tim took all those embarrassing pictures of Jason and Bruce.

“You were indisposed, because you don’t want the world to know you’re a badass for some reason, so my plan was basically ‘make Joker piss himself’ and cause enough of a distraction for the party to fall apart.” Jason rambles out the report like he’s been trained to do.

“Placeholder has a pocketknife and the ability to take instructions really, really well, so we improvised! The stuff we stole from the party and the blood is fake, it’s some kind of red sauce from the kitchen. I promise B, I was the eyes in the sky for the whole thing and made sure that nobody got close to any thugs.”

“I’m headed to the cave.” Batman’s taken over the situation now, it’s all in the growl of the voice and the posture that Jason can see through the security feeds. “Get it ready for us.”

“Nobody’s hurt?”

“ Robin. ”

Jason rolls his eyes, and starts to turn on some protocols to allow quick access into the cave. “Agent A’s heard everything, he’s headed towards the door.”

“We’ll be there soon.”

🦇

Tim’s getting his face washed off by Alfred, sitting on a table in med-bay with his legs swinging and munching on some kind of sandwich. His parent’s are already on a plane, they had called Tim once to make sure he wasn’t dead and to tell him to look over the house.

Jason is getting his ass fucking chewed out by a furious father, asking what the hell is wrong with him.

This is very much not fair.

Nightwing’s also trying to be there, but his connection is shaky at best and downright not connected at all at worst. He’s somewhere with his team in space with that whole bio-bomb mission with Starfire and China but the connection is somewhere along the lines of ‘potato-vision’ or maybe ‘filmed with a toaster’.

So, Nightwing’s trying his best to be in the conversation but not only is it delayed by about fifteen minutes and it only catches every eighth word or so.

Robin is being asked if he still has a brian in his head, real time no delay and with every word crystal clear.

“It saved your ass didn’t it?” Jason throws back at his father, all wicked quick and angry. “Why are you so mad if everyone’s okay and the Joker’s back in prison!?”

“Because you’re still hurt !” Bruce is never loud, he never screams, but he does say things with such force to them, it makes something deep in Jason react viciously to it, like he's back in that rotting apartment years and years ago.

Jaon’s blood goes cold, freezing him in place, wide eyes and a quick heart.

Jason gets wrapped up in strong arms, soft and gentle, a hand through his hair and an arm supporting him no matter what. Jason’s panic, his worry, his desperation to protect, gets melted in a warm embrace and soft words. “I’m sorry.” Bruce tells him, spoken into his ruffled hair. “I’m so sorry Jason.”

Jason wraps his arms around Batman’s neck, Batman will never hurt him, Batman saves the day, beats the bad guys- even this kind of bad guy.

🦇

Dick rubs the back of his younger brother.

Jason’s face is red, blotchy, ugly and wet. Dick knows this feeling, this horrendous feeling.

“I’m being replaced .” Jason rubs his face in Dick’s side.

“No you’re not.” Dick whispers, bringing Jason further into his lap. “I wasn’t, and neither are you.”

They’re both at Dick’as apartment in Bludhaven, all greys and blues and blacks in a way the manor was all reds and yellows and browns. Dick’s got a pretty nice penthouse here, spacious windows that look over the city- a view all the way to New York, Dick always likes to joke. There’s things here built for comfort, not for show or display like the manor always is. It’s all expensive and modern, sure, styled with the help of some of the world's best interior decorators, but there’s personal touches that dip in and out because there’s nobody to impress here.

Dick just brings over friends, his family, coworkers sometimes.

There’s no great big impressive parties here, this is secret, just for him and who he invites, and now it’s a sacunatry away from what the Manor represents.

Jason came in with an override code for Nightwing’s own personal cave, driving one of Bruce’s nice cars and speeding like he would when being Robin-

Well.

Bruce had sat Jason down and explained, in excruciating, saddening detail, that Robin and Batman were myths , perpetrated by the talk of the criminal underbelly. That the reason why the rouges hadn’t gone on terrible crime sprees was that they’re funneling all that destructive creativity into trying to take down the myth that was Batman, the cape and cowl, not the man behind it.

There’s not a man behind a mask, it’s just a mask.

Bruce Wayne would never be Batman, no matter how much Batman is Bruce Wayne. Batman will always be Batman, a shape in the darkness that swoops in to reclaim the day for the light. A symbol in the sky that everyone can blame, that everyone can look up too. Batman is nothing but an ideal, just like Superman’s always going to be perfectly unobtainable, not that fallible man that the whole family has seen underneath the cape.

A cape was a cape, a mask was a mask, an ideal an ideal.

There was no … person underneath it all.

There’s just another myth, another ghost, another voice in the screaming nothingness.

Robin was dead, a cape laid to rest, a person that was taken by the myth that the city whispered to one another. Nobody expected Robin to come back, to grow older, to be anything but light behind the dark bat in the symbol. Robin could be buried and no more kids needed to be hurt.

Until Joker was taken, screaming, back to Arkham, raving about broken birds rising from the grave.

Jason didn’t understand , didn’t want to maybe.

Dick holds his little brother, murmurs low soft words into dark red hair.

It’s hard to let go of the power that Robin holds. It’s hard to willingly give the cape from one hand to another, it's even worse to have that cape taken without permission.

Robin’s going to be expected out there now, going to be looked for and counted on.

Robin needs to show their feathers to the streets of Gotham, a colorful angel that flies over the city skyscrapers telling the people that there’s hope .

Robin is magic.

Too bad that Jason’s just got his magic wand taken away from him.

🦇

Tim didn’t want to take it.

Jason didn’t want to give it up.

But the Riddler demands Robin to show up to the games now, Ivy takes her lust dust out of the equation when a child is on scene, Penguin brings extra guards, expecting two people. Joker’s going crazy, er, crazier trying to find out how Robin came back from the dead, Two-Face makes two person traps in anticipation of a coin flip-

Dick can’t be here all the time.

Tim’s not Bruce Wayne’s kid, but he might as well be for the amount of time he’s here now. Jason’s healing at a rate that’s stubbornly human, which is annoying, but even then he’s the one who’s overlooking Tim’s training. Dick’s in college, he’s trying his best to be everywhere at once, but he does want a degree in criminology and he’s not sacrificing grades to his night work.

Robin makes appearances only sparingly, careful not to be in the line of fire without completing the training that lays before him.

Jason’s on coms every night, he’s looking to graduate highschool early and get into law maybe, maybe an english degree? He does love looking through books, thumbing the pages and thinking about the love that goes into each word chosen with such specific purpose.

Robin gets trained with Jason’s old wings.

Tim nearly cries when they get put on his back, secured tight against narrow shoulders. He apologizes to Jason, apologizes for this whole situation.

There’s no forgiveness here, not yet, there’s just teaching, one Robin to another.

It’s six months before Robin really does fly.

The heat of summer, with wing’s so thin that they’re mostly see-through underneath the spotlights and neon of the city’s night lights.

Not as long as Jason’s preferred style of pure intimidation, but nothing like Nightwing’s short maneuverable ones.

Dick isn’t a powerhouse, he’s quick and light and built for twists and turns, he doesn’t get hit because he’s already ducked out of the way. Dick’s main style of fighting is getting in, attacking twice, and getting back out before the opponent can retaliate. Strong, sure, but he’s never going to drop people with one hit, Dick’s made for movement, twists and turns and sharp angles.

Jason is growing to be a brick shithouse, in opposition to his older brother. His frame has a whole lot of power behind it, he strances up and only has to hit people one time for them to get the memo. He’s got strength in spades, easily packing on muscle and keeping it there. His time without use of his legs has built up his shoulders to something nearly as intimidating as Batman himself.

Tim, it’s quickly discovered, is good at enduring speed.

Dick’s fighting style lends itself to multiple breaks, Jason’s all power all up front, Bruce’s is technical without a single breath wasted.

Tim never fucking stops moveing.

Jason’s able to stand now, his cast got taken off month five into his recovery, but the physical therapy to get all the strength and coordination back is going to take time still.

But now that he can walk around, he can train .

Their fighting styles have been shaped by who’s taught them, the people they battle, and the wings that they wear. Twirling, Dick uses his wings like they’re a part of him for real. All whipped out feathers and hard metal rods that send shocks of electricity through anybody that they touch. Jason gets caught in the neck by Dick’s dulled down blunt force primaries more than once, the air getting cut off from his windpipe with a gasp and he has to sit down for several minutes before he can get back up again. Jason is much more of a fan of using his reach to his advantage, the blockier heavier hitting fiberglass bones, the allua feathers, hitting Dick back hard as he can in the stomach and knees. Tim’s got the shortest reach, but he’s decided he’s going to be a menace with all of the weapons hidden in his feathers. The kid goes down, and then Dick gets hit in the face with a collapsible metal bo staff. Jason dodges one swipe of a wing just to have Tim follow it up with a batarang that he threw behind his feathers.

Bruce fights like a monster, all movements with no waste and the power of a nuclear bomb behind heach strike, he’s got the most mobility in his cape as well- Bruce doesn’t like calling them wings- so he uses them with a force that’s like a natural disaster. Each of the claw tips are heavy titanium, sharp, Bruce has trained himself to catch any spare bit of clothing and pull his victim to him- or tear a hole into their sides.

Jason tries out fighting with Bruce’s setup, the flexible membrane without the feathers. He’s thinking about his future.

Jason’s already sketching up something new, some body new. Alfred’s helping him. His time at the computer has unearthed a whole bunch of interesting street level crime that somebody like Batman could never deal with, underneath Nightwing’s watchful eye. It’s all street level, all simple exchanges that spiral out of control in ways that affect the big boys.

So Tim gets trained by his two previous incarnations, and Jason regains enough strength to get ready to put something in action that Bruce won’t like.

🦇

Clark’s spending his Friday nights like he always imagined he would spend them in the wild and crazy big city when growing up.

He’s in space, holding up a part of the watchtower as a man in a bat costume that’s worth more than Clark’s life sits and does repairs.

Batman’s leaning into Clark’s thigh for support, a plasma torch resealing torn metal that got roughed up in a scuffle of an invading alien force.

Well, okay invading alien force was a bold kind of headline for what had actually happened, in that seven rouge space pirates had thought earth was easy picking for ruling and tried to break into and take over the watchtower.

During the monthly founders meeting.

Diana had punched the biggest one hard into a console, scratching a huge gouge into the floor and shredding the underside, the aliens have been gathered up and taken by GL to the lanterns for trial while the rest of the founders are cleaning up and getting ready to go home for the weekend. Flash was great at buffing out scratches and general cleaning, but for all he’s a hell of a lot faster than Clark the man’s not nearly as strong.

So now Superman’s basically lifting up the sofa as the wife vacuums underneath.

Well, okay, maybe not that simple-

“Stop shifting around.” Batman’s voice comes from where he’s pressed against the hard line of Clark’s thigh, “I’m nearly done.”

Clark doesn’t know how any of this has happened? Genuinely he was doing so well today, he kept his mind occupied with thoughts of Louis lately, not his teammate.

He knew Louis, he knew her well as Clark and a coworker and a friend. He had been hanging out with her for years and they laughed together over dinner more than once. THey had friends in common and they were getting closer over the years they had been sharing the same space.

Clark can fit the amount of information he had on Batman on one hand .

But the man had the jawline of a god and a heart of gold. The way the man moved was something to behold for mere mortals and Batman’s mind was astonishingly intelligent. God the man was all vicious muscle and wicked grace.

Clark can feel the steady, slow heartbeat of the man against his leg, and it’s driving him sort of crazy.

The sound of the plasma torch cuts off, and Batman moves from underneath the console with silent shuffles, tapping Clark’s knee with a soft touch. “I’m getting out from under you now.”

Laughter, from Flash. “Wow, Bats, is that how you talk to all of us or is Supes over here special?”

Superman started to ease the console back down, making sure to do it as gently as possible as to not scuff up and dent the floor of the space station. They didn’t need any weak spots up here.

“Jealous, Flash?” Superman calls back. “That I’m B’s favorite?”

Batman’s already going to the controls on the console and making sure that the teleporter still works right. He’s not answering the game around him, he never does get roped into banter like this unless he has a devastating line to drop on everybody.

“It’s not like Bats makes it a secret that he likes you the most.” Flash says, walking on over at almost a normal pace. “You and Diana. Meanwhile Hal and I are scraping by on the fact we were here first to have any authority here.”

“Well that’s not true at all.” Superman knows how versalite both Flash and GL are at this, they’re not heros to underestimate. “Both of you are excellent team members who have a right to be at the head table.”

Flash throws up both hands. “Not as excellent as two gods and an angel, I’m okay with being just a little fish in a big pond Supes.”

Batman shifts, the man’s always sort of uncomfortable when people mention stuff like that around him. Clark decided a long time ago to help break those kinds of rumors- “Not a god, Flash. You wouldn’t call Shayera or Carter angels, don’t call B one either.”

Flash, clearly realizing his misstep here, winces. “Yikes, yeah, sorry. That- It’s been a long day.”

“No problem man.” Superman allows Flash to flash one more sorry expression before bolting off to go clean more disrupted parts of the tower.

Batman relaxes a bit when Flash goes, his shoulders tick downwards just a little bit and his stance eases. Superman has seen the footage, Batman is most at ease with him and Diana, nobody else has seen the man without the intention to pounce.

“They wouldn’t call you that if you were more of a man to them.” Superman says he has also thought about this. “A man with a name that’s not Bats or Spooky or B.”

“ No .”

“Yeah that’s what I figured.” Clark doesn’t lean into the console, because he’s not going to press a damn button before the all clear rings out. “It’s to protect your boys isn’t it? If we know you we know them , and that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous isn’t it?”

Fingers still on the holographic display still, just for a moment. “You’re smarter than anybody gives you credit for.”

Clark’s used to that though, used to people underestimating his intelligence in favor of seeing his strength.

“I’m not telling you all my identity for a various list of reasons, one of the top ones being my children.” Batman’s hands trail gently through the blue light of the hologram, moving information around but not editing it. “I’m not telling you because underneath all this I’m not who you think I am. I’m nowhere close.”

“I know you’re a good man.” Clark is quick to say, “A good man no matter what.”

Batman snorts what could be a laugh, but it’s not quite right. “I’m not nearly as good of a man as you seem to think.”

Clark takes a chance, just for a second. He grabs the wandering hand on the hologram, presses through the light display at just above what a human could move at naturally and links their fingers together.

Batman’s gauntlet is warm leather, the pads of strong armor across the back of his finger and palm are hard underneath Clark’s fingertips, the soft flexible material is gentle and soothing on Clark’s palm.

Batman doesn’t pull away.

“You can’t trick me, B.” Clark says, trying not to scare away the ever flighty Bat. “I’ve seen you in action, I know exactly what you’re willing to sacrifice for nothing in return. There’s a reason why we all defer to your judgement when everything’s on the line, there’s nobody else I’d rather follow.”

Batman doesn’t sigh like anybody else Clark has ever seen, he simply sags for a moment, a war within himself between two sides. Faster than most people could fathom, Batman makes a decision. “You’ve certainly got a way with words, don’t you?”

Batman’s grip gets tight, locked and dangerous.

Alarm bells go off in the back of Clark’s mind.

In Batman’s low rumbling register, “No wonder you’re so good at your day job.”

Clark goes stock still, his heart ticks up and his mind screams .

Batman knows .

Superman’s identity isn’t a known one, everybody in the League has had the option to keep their identity a secret, only files accessible after death have instruction on what to do with the body and even then Clark had made sure to put no identifying information on that- he was to be taken to his fortress in the arctic and from their his ship’s AI and robots would know what to do with him. There’s more secrets than truth in the lounge of this place, with most people preferring code names to actual ones. Superman wore no mask, but his face was nothing but another one in the crowd of thousands, there was nothing remarkable about him without the cape, there was nothing of any interest in his life, nothing but the side along reporter to Louis Lane.

Clark’s emotions flash through him, surprised, awe, questioning, and anger . Betrayal, because Clark had never attempted to go through Batman’s own life, respected the man enough not to look around at meta’s with his particular disposition. Clark hadn’t ruffled through the secrets of his teammates like-

Wait.

Batman’s figured it out but has kept it to himself until he needed it, there’s nothing that man does without thinking through it all first.

Clark squints. “Are you trying to get me mad at you?”

Batman’s three steps away within a half second.

Clark blinks, his hand is still held up halfway through the holographic display. Batman was trying to incite an emotion, that’s easy enough to figure out, it’s easier enough to figure out that the emotion Batman was trying to rile up in Clark was anger .

But why? Why would- “You wanted me to leave here with a certain opinion of you.” Clark realizes. “ Why .”

Lips pressed together, hard, hard enough to throw a scar on the left side up in a contracting purple color. “Yes.”

Clark steps forward, following the path that Batman traces backwards- “Why would you want me to think any less of you?” Superman is baffled, out of sorts, he doesn’t understand . “Bats, B, help me understand.”

Batman’s wings flare .

Clark steps back now, to catch the whole sight in front of him, the sight he barely gets to see outside of missions or interrogations, the sight he wants to see a hell of a lot more.

Wide, imposing, nearly touching the glass on either side of the observation deck. The bones underneath the membrane show stark and obvious, delicate in a way that undermines Batman’s strength. The way that they’re built into, around, the suit’s gorgeous, everything’s been thought of and tailored to fit the exact curve of Batman’s body. There’s nothing here that’s been forgotten, been left to chance, been hidden away. The flare of the wings cover the sunlight behind them, allowing Clark to nearly see through the thin skin that allows flight.

Batman’s beautiful, like this. His body is normally so hidden under his wings, his posture and expressions covered up by wings so tightly wound. Superman thanks Rao he doesn’t need to breathe, because the air in his lungs escapes at the sight of this meta.

Clark wants .

Batman’s lips pressed together even more, he folds himself back up within seconds of the flare, wrapped tightly up to his chin. He’s curled in a way that’s protected, that’s hiding something.

“I can’t let you fall for a lie, Kent .” Batman says low and dangerous. “It’s the same exact reason why you don’t simply let the reporter sleep with you, it would be deceitful .”

“What do you mean ?” Clark has to ask, has to know . Batman’s always been a bit of a bastard about everything, but-

Batman strides forward, past where Superman stands still flustered and trying to catch his breath. He taps out a command on the teleporting console, and disappears in a jarring distortion of light.

🦇

Clark sits with Louis in her home, late at night on a Tuesday with a gallon of icecream between them both and a sappy rom com on the TV. Clark is with Louis, not Superman, it’s not a Superman kind of night, it’s a cry in the bathroom while slamming down vodka at an alarming rate and trying not to drown in a bathbomb kind of night.

The rom-com is some kind of superhero spoof, it’s hopelessly romantic, full of kisses and deep confessions and the ability for everybody to talk about their damn feelings.

“You musta been real hung up on this dude.” Louis says around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip. “To be this broken up about it.”

“I am confused .” Clark tells her, his own spoon twirling around, a baton leading armies.

“This is a whole lot of confusion to feel over a friend from the internet.” Louis takes her spoon out of her mouth and passes the ice cream.

Taking the ice cream Clark digs his spoon in, “I don’t get why he won’t let me be real friends with him.”

The apartment is cozy, nice and warm, with too many blankets and too many throw pillows. It’s all in blues and creams and whites, all personal photos up on the wall and plates that don’t match. It’s a real homey place, Clark, Louis, and Jimmy have all broken down on this couch before, over various things.

“Well maybe he’s a huge catfish and is scared that you won’t like his real face?”

“How do I make it clearer that I don’t care who he turns out to be?”

Louis snatches the icecream back with her spoon, spearing it and dragging it close. “Well, you say that he’s uncomfortable about certain topics, maybe he’s lying about things in that vein, so avoid those-”

“He can’t be lying about what he’s uncomfortable about.” Clark hasn’t made any mentions about who he was talking about, so he can’t just casually let Louis know that Batman was uncomfortable with any mentions of his very real wings. “It’s a pretty good guess that it's more like- It’s more like a person with acne uncomfortable with mentions of how it looks.”

“This internet friend has admitted that he has acne but still won’t meet with you?”

“He’s … sorta met with me?” Clark has to figure out a better cover story for the Justice League. “We have dungeons and dragons sessions together.”

Louis laughs, like she always does when D&D comes up, but she always sobers up and gives pretty good advice. “Smallville, are you in love with him or this dude's character? ”

“ Love? ” Clark chokes on his bite of ice cream. “You think I’m asking after love advice?”

Louis nods, bobbing her head and tucking the blanket a little tighter to her chin.

“Louis, I’m not gay-”

“Never said that exactly-”

“We were talking about our intrapersonal relationships!”

Louis laughs even harder than she does about the dungeons and dragons thing.

🦇

“I think Jason’s going to try and be a crime lord.” Tim says over a quick meal in the batcave.

Dick has just taken a bite from the ham and cheese BLT sandwich which had been lovingly crafted by their quai-grandfather. Tim had timed this on purpose , the little shit.

Tim doesn’t take a bite of his own sandwich, he’s got a limited amount of time before he gets talked over, “I think he’s taking over the gang’s in Crime Alley to instill his own rules onto them.”

Dick swallows, the sandwich really was just a mid-patrol pick up, to bring them back to the cave and relook over the entirety of Gotham for a quick forty-five minutes before potentially heading back out, depending on the night.

“You’re gonna have to explain that a little better, PH.”

Tim winces a little bit at the nickname, but Jason’s been calling him ‘placeholder’ since day one and it’s a hard thing to shake.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him talking on the phone with people that I’ve backhacked to trace to Crime Alley, and we’ve heard rumors of that new player in the game.” Tim finally takes a bite of his turkey and cheese BLT, his preferred version, and chews slowly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.” Dick accuses, he’s only here for the weekend because Bruce has gone into a weird depressive slump and asked not to go on patrol for two days to get himself back in order.

An injured superhero is one who can’t patrol, and a hero who can’t patrol is useless. They’ve all been whipped into knowing their own body pretty well, knowing when they can’t be trusted to dart across rooftops or dodge bullets.

Tim, the bastard of a Robin he is, just shrugs.

Dick sighs, he’s gonna have to make everybody sit through various ‘how to emotion correctly in a family’ videos again.

Again .

He’s widely regarded the ‘ best ’ in the family at personal relationships and emotional intelligence, but he’s honestly just trying his damndest and recalling various wikihow articles every time somebody comes up to him with a furrow between their eyebrows and questions that nobody should ever have to answer.

He sends these wikihow articles to everybody in the cave, marked priority, with pictures, but he gets the sneaking suspicion that this whole family just skims those damn articles.

Dick sends a prayer to whoever might be listening up there. He’s too cynical to believe in god, not traditionally at any rate, but he knows too many entities and magical forces that could technically count so it’s better safe than sorry.

Dick stands, since he’s lost control of his life at this point, and heads on over to a well used corner of the cave.

The cave is as sprawling as it is deep, so there’s multiple levels with multiple sections- the most used ones are closer to the level that the car comes in at (level B-6) and the one closest to the house (B-1). There’s an area tucked away between the two on B-4 that Alfred works in more often than anybody else, but it’s very specific towards tailoring, maintaining, and updating the suits. It’s packed full of adjustable dress forms and testing area’s for bulletproof fabric, there’s four tables, two sewing machines, and various molds for remaking their domino masks, and a whole dedication to various feathers and dye.

Dick grabs ahold of one of the fireman poles that have been installed around the place, it warms under his hands and he inputs the correct press of his fingers to get to where he needs to go, quick like.

Tim follows along, teeter-tottering in Dick’s family colors and borrowed wings.

Dick can see that Jason’s been down here, because there’s just the most minor hint of a mess along the leather rolls- Bruce can’t sew without supervision and Tim puts things back to an Alfred level of neatness when in community spaces. Jason’s never been perfect at replicating the standards that their butler has pressed into the manor and cave, but he tries his darndest. There’s been life here, like everywhere else in the cave, but Dick didn’t come here for confirmation, he can here for revenge .

It’s been locked away, hidden into the darkest depths of this area where only Nightwing ever strays too in any frequency.

Tim’s footfalls are silent, as he’s been trained, but Dick knows that Tim’s not going to stray easily.

Underneath three layers of lead-lined boxes, Dick pulls out a box that’s no larger than a shoebox.

“This is to be used without anyone else’s knowledge.” Dick warns, as seriously as he can. “No matter what Jason is branching out to, and what his costume looks like-”

Dick passes the box, Tim gets his little hands underneath the lid almost faster than Dick can hand it to him.

Glitter .

Microfine, made out of eco-materials that dissolve in water, bought in bulk, designed to shimmer and shine like starry diamonds against anything that it gets put on.

The blue and black jars are very close to empty, Nightwing uses them pretty much bi-weekly, or after heavy thunderstorms.

“It’s your duty , as a younger brother, to wreak havoc on Jason's new designs.”

🦇

The new Robin’s thin, shorter than both previous iterations, paler and covered in freckles where Clark can see the kid’s skin.

Robin’s been brought up with Nightwing to go over both integration in the younger generation and to work with the computers up here. When asked about the previous Robin both of Batman’s brood got quiet, looking at one another and humming notes in certain tones that must have meant something.

Nightwing informs Superman that Robin II is currently trying something new, and would be back soon, probably.

Superman’s not super convinced about the situation.

But! With the third Robin sitting in the observation deck and looking over satellite images of his home city, now is the perfect time for Clark to observe the differences between this new one and the rest of Batman’s babies.

Not that the man has ever called the Robin’s his children, just partners or associates. Robin’s have never called the man dad, just ‘B’ or ‘Bats’ or any one of a variety of nicknames. They could be unrelated, they most likely are unrelated considering they all look different enough in the body shape and jawline.

But it's very clear to see that this group of meta’s are a family.

The boys all had dark hair, with Nightwing having dark, dark, dark brown, Robin II having a red like curling wine, and this new one’s got a true oil slick black .

This one’s wings are also weird, strangely translucent at the tips and dyed in faded pastel instead of the vibrant glow of the previous iterations.

Well okay calling them weird was probably not exactly politically correct here, so Clark vanishes the thought from his mind.

The kid is also stock still where his brothers were energy incarnate, so Clark only inspects Robin at a prefuncuarty few minutes before being slightly creeped out and having to leave.

He goes to visit where Batman is leaning against the founders table and talking with Nightwing. The two of them have visited at three thirty am EST, or according to the watchtowers universal time, about seven thirty. The only four people up here were Superman, who was on watch due to his lack of needing sleep, Batman, Nightwing, Robin, and Firestorm, acting as general backup and secondary watch.

Batman and Nightwing had said the visit was only going to last about an hour, before the tower got buisier, trying to ease the concept of the Justice League to a kid that doesn’t move for hours.

Superman waves, and Nightwing’s face bursts into a smile and he gestures for Clark to come on over.

“Anything interesting out there?” Nightwing asks, he’s sitting on the table cross legged, wings laid crisscross behind his back and limp on the table.

“Nothing more than a few minor things. Nothing that’s our business.”

A hum from Batman, soft and rumbling. Agreement, a sound that’s only heard when B’s in a good mood.

“Anything interesting with y’all?”

“Besides from your disastrous accent?” Batman’s in a very good mood, he’s almost smiling.

“Are you really going to make fun of my accent when you’ve been known to slip into a distinct Jersey one?” Clark huffs a laugh.

Nightwing cackles , a full throttle one that’s full of mirth and youth.

“I have not once slipped into a Jersey accent.” Batman’s a little offended, Clark can see it in the squaring of his shoulders.

“You’ve used every accent in America but the accent of the city you protect- while the second Robin might have spoken in dozens of languages but up here he’s always sounded like you picked him up from the streets of Gotham.” Clark lets his own midwestern accent drawl around his words like it would back home.

Nightwing laughs harder . The boy’s own accent has always been a mixture, much harder to pin down, faint around his vowels. He laughs so hard that his wings perk up and flare out behind him.

Batman rolls his eyes- a feat that’s hard to pull off without actually having eyes visible but Clark’s known Batman for a very long time.

They chat for another thirty minutes, all of the words kind and full of laughter, before it’s time for the winged meta’s to go home.

🦇

Jason meets with the people he’s been terrorizing through technology.

Jason’s wearing a thick leather jacket, padded in his shoulders and elbows, a full thick hood over a helmet that’s red .

The red’s the only color on him, the rest is blacks and greys, he’s meant to be eye-catching, meant to be vibrant in a way that’s aiming for terror in a distinctly different way than Batman and Robin can pull off. A face covered in nothing but a mask of blood, a full helmet to protect his still-healing skull, a flash of red the same shade on his gloves as well.

To distinguish himself as a totally separate entity from Batman and Nightwing and Robin, he wears visible holsters on his thigh, all four loaded with pistols that shine in the lowlights of the streetlamps. To distinguish himself as related to them, he still wears wings.

The villains that have gathered here know that he means serious business, that this is a new unknown player who’s got blackmail on every single one of them. A player who wears a mask and whose voice is distorted with mechanical coldness.

Jason hasn’t given himself a name yet, he’s going to let the people name him. There’s not been enough superheroes out there who have been given their names, most overcompensating assholes simply announce themselves as one thing or another.

He does , however, already have a backstory for himself.

Jason always wanted to be a theater kid, always wanted to play his part in a play and be an actor , memorize his lines and quote King Lear to his entire school. He never got to be apart of the drama club due to his previous role as Robin, so now before he turns seventeen he’s going to go absolutely buckwild - the most perfect way to make these villains both scared of ever going against him and in a double win make the myth of Batman even more terrifying.

Jason takes a step forward into the dim lighting, the warehouse’s flickering lighting throws even small shadows into sharp relief, making every soft curve sharp. “I see you all are smart enough to answer my summons.”

“ Robin .” The whisper starts up from the back, they echo forward through the crowd of low level villains and street thugs and drug dealers. These are the people who supply the big names in Arkham, these are the people who keep the city from progressing overall.

“ Wrong .” Jason gets his voice as low as he can, dark, dangerous, and with a promise of the pain he’s experienced. “ Wrong , Robin died, haven't you heard? Robin got its head beat in by a joke in a clown costume.”

The crowd shudders as one, looking back and forth to each other and falling back onto the myth of what Robin should be, what Robin is . Robin is the single bright burst of light in this fucking city, a burst of light that can’t go out-

“Do any of you know what Batman is? ” Jason asks the room at large, “Do you know where he came from, crawling out of the depths of hell by grasping onto the light of this world?”

The room of drug dealers lean forward again, they’re looking at Jason’s cape, Jason’s wings . There’s no information on Batman out there, nothing more than observable, now that Jason stands before these people that indisputable fact has changed . Whispers start back up again.

“Robin’s not an angel.” Jason cuts that train of thought off immediately. “Robin is a decision .”

He flares his cape, a new look and style, a new color . He steps into the dull light, just to show off a little.

The whispers cut off.

Some people actually drop to their knees.

The new wings are ragged by design, taken from one of Bruce’s own stash; the things are very clearly not the soft fluffy feathers of Robin. Bent and broken and jagged ribbing makes the bones appear wrong and uncanny , like they should hurt, like an arm twisted the wrong way around. No armour across the top like what comes standard on any other member of their flock, just taunting in its bareness. Thin membrane, the yellow fade that’s been Bruce’s look since Dick had been eleven had been taken off to be replaced with blackness . There are feathers, all of them dripping with a dark almost red synthetic oil that Jason hadn’t added himself, but they bunch up at the very back, the scapulars.

When the wings flare at full length- nearly eighteen feet- the remaining feathers that come from Jason’s back glow .

Hellfire, embers, sparking up in a deep yawning echo of the fury and pain that benched Jason for so long . A burn of rage that used to be channeled through the rooftops of the buildings.

Jason looks like a demon, a perfect showing of mankind's mistakes. Hubris personified.

(Tim had come up to Jason, nearly in tears, covered in glitter, apologizing that he couldn’t give Jason what he had given Dick, but he did add something special. Jason nearly killed the kid with the resulting hug, because he looks fucking terrorfying )

“Robin is shaped by this city, a nest egg, a child given wings unbidden.” Jason steps forward again, more drug dealers and low life kneal, bow their head and ask for forgiveness. “Robin is shaped by this city, her people, taken underneath the wing of a creature who sees everything and all. Robin is a reflection, shaped by the people around it.”

“Robin becomes what this world, what this city, what you make it.”

Jason snaps his wings back behind him, movement quick enough to kick up the dust here, in this abandoned unholy ground by the docks.

“Robin died, congratulations people of Gotham, you’ve wasted an opportunity for another protector-” Jason pulls out the gun on his thigh, aims at a predetermined spot in the crowd, and fires.

“So you’ve gained a villain instead.”

—

Family dinners are usually pretty tame. They don’t eat in the dining room, that’s much too formal most of the time, so they eat in a loosely gathered circle on the kitchen island. The dinners range from somebody picking up fast food to Alfred trying out a recipe he wants to have fun with. There’s very little expectation at family dinners, beside ‘ be there ’ when you could. The dinner’s aren’t even an everyday thing, just once or twice.

Tim’s here today, which only happens when his parents aren’t home and the housekeeper isn’t looking for him. Dick’s at college in New York, he’s close to midterms so he’s stressing out and living in the library with his friends. Bruce is here, as he always tends to be, but Alfred’s back in England because of an uncle’s death.

The meal is a relatively simple one prepared by Jason and Tim before Bruce got home- spaghetti with meat sauce and a salad. The bread is a little bit crispy on the edges but the middle still tastes great, the meal is large enough to support a high activity lifestyle.

It’s also a great opportunity for Bruce to get caught up with his children’s lives.

“So I hear you’ve started a minor religion.” Bruce says to his middle- and yet only legal- child.

Jason pulls a face, groaning. Tim busts out into pitched breathless laughter.

“I didn’t mean to.” Jason says. “I wanted to be dramatic-”

“Robin has shrines up on rooftops now.” Tim gets out through his laughter.

“And drug dealers don’t deal to anybody under 18 and they have to run their shipments through me first!”

“They’re calling you Phoenix .” Bruce tells Jason with no judgement or inflection in his voice.

Jason flushes, a proud blotchy red. “Fuck yeah.”

“Language.”

Jason repeats the exact same sentiment in French, because Bruce has lost control of his children when he let the first one go out in tights.

“I like that people are leaving out food for us now.” Tim eats like a bird during large meals, but he eats consistently throughout the day, always snacking on food in easy reach.

“Please don’t eat roof food.” Bruce and Jason say together, slightly out of time.

“I don’t eat roof food.” Tim’s still laughing a bit. “I eat the sealed things then I pack away the baked snacks and bring them back to the cave to test and if they’re not dangerous then I eat the roof food.”

Jason demands to know which roofs have the good snacks.

Bruce wonders how his life has come to this.

🦇

“Are you really a demon?” Kal-El asks Bruce the next meeting up in the watchtower.

“No.” Bruce says, ignoring how nearly the entire team is listening into this conversation. They’re on break, fifteen minutes of getting some food and taking a bathroom break halfway through the four hour discussion about what to do with the world government pushback to the Justice League.

It’s sorta humiliating to be asked this question by literal aliens and gods.

“I’ve been hearing some interesting things from Gotham.” Kal tries again, the man is infuriatingly midwestern sometimes, he works to pry information from people the same way grannies at Sunday church service would. “Some interesting things that pertain to you. I’d still like you if you were really a demon B.”

Bruce has, unsurprisingly, been hearing the same sentiment. Sometimes from people in high society who like to talk more than they think and sometimes from street level informants and sometimes from his children who send him memes.

(Commissioner Jim Gordon also sends memes, he has long since discovered that the Batman is just a tired father trying his best)

Superman seems to say it a little more sincerely, about the whole ‘ would still like you’ bit.

Bruce can’t just raise a perfectly plucked eyebrow, due to the cowl, so he cocks his head in the unspoken question instead.

Superman, Kal-El, just leans closer to Bruce where they’re leaning against the small kitchenette in the upper deck of the watchtower. He smiles, dashingly handsome and full of the great American dream. Fuck, why is Superman so attractive, the man’s an alien who lucked out in looking so close to human he’s able to get away with getting the awe and love instead of the fear that J’onn gets.

Bruce hates that he’s so attracted to Kal.

Bruce also knows that Superman’s going to get information no matter how much Bruce tries to put this off, with slightly more irritation each time he attempts. So instead of pissing off his best friend, Bruce simply says: “I’ll tell you what interesting things might be true, if you get rid of the peanut gallery.”

The peanut gallery makes noises as they all take dives to get out of the way and let Batman and Superman talk. Flash, Diana, Arthur, John, all scatter from where they’re hanging out right around the corner of the kitchenette, all of them attempting to use their very shaky views on stealth to act like they didn’t ask Superman to do this.

Kal laughs, bright and brilliant as he watches the rest of the upper leadership of the League scatter as casually as they can. Bruce just huffs a breath of amused air through his nose.

Kal cocks his own head, eyes half mast as he listens to his teammates move further away from where the two men stand.

Bruce trusts Kal enough to be truthful here, the man’s got an honor streak like nobody else in the whole League. Soon enough, Kal straightens back up and focuses his eyes again, finishing listening to whatever he can hear when he reaches out with his hearing.

“They’ve all scattered to the winds.” Superman says, “Tell me about this new information we’re hearing screaming across the criminal underbelly.”

“What have you heard?”

Clearly not a fan of having questions turned on him, Kal raises a brow, “I’ve heard that you’re a demon from hell and have been raising little hellions from Gotham’s soul.”

“I am raising little hellions.” Bruce admits that while technically the only hellion that belongs to him, fully, is the second one he half raised, but all three of those little assholes eat his food and sleep at his house so he claims them.

Kal laughs, this time much more contained and sarcastic. “ Actual hellions, not just your wonderful kids.”

“You only like two of them-”

“I’ll admit that the most recent one creeps me out a bit.”

“Robin’s a perfectly normal human child.”

“It doesn’t reassure me when you say it like that, B.”

Bruce doesn’t know how to make it more reassuring, he said it in very distinct and clear cut terms here. “All three of my children are normal human children.”

Superman sighs, but he’s smiling. “Bats, how are you so smart in everything else but terrible in reassuring me that you’re just a regular metahuman instead of something that shimmied up from below?”

Batman isn’t sure how to convince anybody with certainty of anything, anybody could be any sort of strange thing and hiding it under a veneer of a human facade. Kal himself was hiding behind a human facade, so how can Bruce simply say something and back it up with proof of everything without giving away his identity?

So Bruce decks Superman across the face.

Superman rolls with the hit, so as to not break Bruce’s fingers. Appreciated.

Superman just looks milly perturbed. “Batman, want to explain why you just did that?”

“If I was magic, I would affect you.”

Bruce is proud of his rather simple logic here, from one step to another. There was nothing to stop at and explain along the way. Superman was vulnerable to magic, not vulnerable to Bruce, therefore Bruce isn't magic.

Superman sighs fondly, with soft eyes.

“Only you.” Kal says, he’s smiling. “Why did you run a fake story in your city then? For intimidation?”

“Hood did.” Bruce has to fight the urge to rub his eyes now, calling Jason by the most identifying costume feature “He thought it was brilliant, he laughs when the goons take dives off roofs to avoid us. Robin also is having a great time with all the shrines that have popped up on the rooftops and windowsills.”

“Our lives are crazy.” Superman laughs, he throws an arm over Bruce’s shoulder and gets close, he smells like ozone and fresh cut fields, sunshine and summer. “But even if there’s a whole lot of crazy, I’m glad that we’re in it together.”

🦇

Phoenix Hood (what a fucking cool name, thank you random street thugs and drug dealers) quickly takes over the low lying criminals in Gotham. He’s still a crime lord, still oversees and overlooks the dealings of illegal substances and weaponry, but he’s got an iron grip on everything that passes through the formerly worst part of Gotham. Park Row is being referred to more and more as Park Row and not crime alley.

The drug dealers get basic benefits now, and a living hourly wage instead of a cut of their personal profits, which incentivizes them to not have to sell as much. Hood also offers night classes in his warehouses, from teachers who are willing and wanting some extra money on the side. Park Row blossoms as the lowest on the totem pole, the most poverty stricken in Gotham, and has a steady, constant influx of cash available. People fix up their apartments and cars, they get their kids things for school and buy better food. If Hood gets proof that their children are consistently at school then the hourly wage goes up by a whole dollar and a half, if the parents get into rehab facilities or addiction help clinics then the pay goes up another dollar. Hood also runs a daycare in an empty apartment he rents out and pays three local women to give the best care they can to the kids that aren’t old enough for school yet. Money goes directly from what these people are doing into their own pockets, because Jason doesn't need to take from the top.

Nobody sells to anybody under eighteen under pain of severe beatings via Batman, Robin, or Hood.

Jason also has badgered Bruce into staging fake fights, fake visible fights. Hood loses sometimes, as when these fights happen Batman actually uses these moments as for real spars, but Jason wins sometimes too.

Phoenix Hood and Batman are pretty evenly matched in pure head to head brawl, Bruce is bigger, taller and stronger, but Jason is younger, can take a hit better, and can predict his fathers movements. Jason still has the barest edge in speed, but every fight it’s more and more pure power.

Robin’s all quick movements, his bo-staff lending itself well to his naturally jerky motions and whip quick twitches. Tim’s fast as hell, as younger people tend to be, but if Jason gets one hand on Tim then the fight is over . It’s a war of attrition between them, Tim can outlast but can’t outright win .

It makes sure that his underlings follow him like ducklings, sticking to the only boss on the street that can resist the terrifying figure that is Batman.

They still scatter when they hear Robin’s echoey laughters come from above, ready to point out who’s been naughty and breaking rules. They run in fear when Batman lets his silhouette be seen in flashes of lighting, screaming to the rafters.

Tim loves combing through looking for anybody who steps out of line, he loves diving into it and micromanaging the finest details. Jason likes the bigger picture stuff, the ground level changes, the way this is shaping the neighborhood and the way people react to it. These are his former neighbors, the people who used to look out for him, and he is improving their lives.

Jason listens to the people under him, has no right hand men or trusted close allies but he tells people to input their complaints and then goes over those complaints every other night and then fixes what he can.

Bruce is proud of Jason, he tells Jason so at the cave one night.

Jason thinks the old man is reading right off those wikihow articles that Dick sends them all at four in the morning but he’s trying and that’s all that matters.

🦇

Superman has noticed that Batman is a hell of a lot happier these days. He’s practically a proud peacock whenever somebody mentions how Gotham seems to be doing really well nowadays.

The man is practically preening, he’s so proud.

Of course when Superman has to go to Gotham to inform one of the bats that one of Metropolis’s rouges has gone, well, rouge he doesn’t actually expect to see any real life preening.

But right there, on a ledge smaller than Clark’s shoulders sits three birdies in a line.

Nightwing sits up front, criss-cross applesauce with his hands on his ankles left wing spread over the side into the dizzy fall dozens of stories up while his right is fluffed up and leaned against the brick with his midnight tail tucked under him in a habit nobody else shares.

Robin sits right behind him, hands straightening and pulling out sticks from Nightwing's hair and feathers. Robin’s got quick deft hands, he sits close and his own wings are spread in a similar way, Robin’s tail is short and wide but it’s tucked flat behind him.

Phoenix Hood sits behind his brothers, gloved hands red as blood and a full facial helmet. Clark recognizes him by smell more so than sight now, the sound of his heart’s the same as it’s always been- just a little on the larger size.

The boys look like a wreck .

Hood has a whole new set of wings . What the fuck ? They look like Batman’s do, leather bat wings with a thin membrane and black paint splashed up on the bottom, the few feathers that are left stick stubbornly to his back-

“Are you hurt?!” Superman is not afraid of scaring these three, they probably knew he was coming by the changes in the air, but he can’t help but rushing to help a boy he considers his nephew. “What happened to your wings?!”

The wing membrane is ripped, torn a hole right at the bottom of the left wing.

Kal smells blood .

“Hi Uncle Kal!” Nightwing chimes from up front. “We’re just getting back from a fight with Poison Ivy. None of us are seriously injured.”

Hood pulls back his wings, snapping them closed and tight to his torso like Batman himself tends to do. Hood has the same metal tips to the thumbs of his wings- but the blood isn’t coming from his wings- the blood smell is coming from both Robin and Nightwing.

Clark has to know more, so he asks “What happened?”

Hood picks a twig out of Robin’s pale feathers, Robin snags leaves out of Nightwing's hair. Nightwing responds for all of them: “B took a bad fall two nights ago so he’s cave-bound for another two days. Poison Ivy took her shot at ruling the city parks sprinkler system tonight and halfway through we got a surprise visit from Mr. Robocop all the way from your side of town, Supes.”

Not at all what Clark wanted to hear about, and these assholes know it. Bat-training makes all of them insufferable .

“Ah.” Oh shit they’ve already encountered him then. “Metallo got out of Stryker's and headed for Metropolis’s border, I didn’t hear about this till tonight, he escaped two days ago. I was coming here to warn y’all”

Robin pulls out another few leaves out of his brother's feathers. Hood takes an entire stick out of Robin's secondaries.

“Consider us warned.” Nightwing’s sarcasm is not appreciated here.

“So you want to be warned two of you are bleeding then? Or should I leave?”

“Hold it right there, Uncle Kal.”

Superman watches all three of them, Nightwing’s got a finger up as a ‘ wait a second’ gesture, eyes narrowed behind his domino mask. Robin’s completely frozen, the only sound coming from him is a soft heartbeat, his hands clawed but unmoving in Nightwing’s glittery plumage. Hood’s already moving, hands pushing through the pale feathers in front of him and onto his brother's side.

Clark floats, his cape billowing around him as the flock begins accusing one another of hiding injury. Nightwing yells at Hood, who yells at Robin, who doesn’t say anything but furiously begins to rip away the last few remains of plants anywhere he can reach.

Hood eventually presses hard against Robin’s left hip, making the boy make a little gasp of air, then both brothers turn on Robin and begin to fuss.

“Come on, get on.” Nightwing demands, going from an easy siting into a more stable crouch. “You’re not allowed to fly when injured.”

“It’s a cut from one of Robocop’s stupid punches.” Robin pushes Hood’s hands away, but Hood’s a lot bigger and is trying to inspect the injury. “Barely a scratch.”

Hood’s right hand finally grips on, fully holding the entirety of his brother's side- Robin hisses out in a sharp inhale behind his teeth. Clark can smell the fresh blood ooze out from behind Hood’s gloves, the sharp spike of pain smell. That’s not just a scratch, it’s deep enough to freshly bleed a whole new gush when grabbed.

“Robin!” Hood can clearly feel the blood, the shape of the wound through the wings via touch. “That is not a scratch!”

The kid falters a little bit, wavering away from the touch. “It sure as hell hurts when you grab it.”

“Language.” Nightwing snaps- gesturing to his own back. “Get on we need to bring you to the cave-”

Robin says something in what sounds like Russian.

“Don’t be a smartass and climb on.” Hood picks up the youngest by his armpits and basically shoves him onto Nightwings back.

Nightwing’s still the tallest by a barest inch- he’s about to be surpassed by Phoenix Hood- so as the tallest, the biggest brother, he allows Robin to climb up between his shoulder blades and settle down safely.

Clark watches, he smells blood stronger when Robin moves. It doesn‘t smell like anything life threatening, it smells like a decent amount but not anything that would kill immediately. “Anything I can do to help?” It was his villain that did this, so he’s partially responsible. “If you can’t fly while injured- then Nightwing you shouldn’t be flying either.”

Hood dives at his brother, “You we’re gonna fly injured with a passenger?!”

Robin holds tighter, as if on instinct, as Nightwing dodges on a ledge that’s sixty stories above the asphalt and thinner than a foot and a half. “You can’t fly yet at all! What the fuck did you think I was going to do to get us all down safely to the car?”

The two older ones scrabble at one another, words spitting quick between multiple languages. They start in English, Clark mostly thinks for his own benefit, but tumbles into about three different passes before it slips back into English again.

“Safehouse on sixth.” Robin hisses into Nightwing’s hair. “We’ll sew up there and spend the night and go to the cave in the morning.”

All three brothers just give each other looks , back and forth for a moment before Nightwing sighs deeply. “Uncle Kal, We need a favor.”

🦇

The safehouse on sixth is perfectly functional. It's not anything special, in fact is so outstandingly not-special that it's that particular quality that Clark notices the most. The kitchen appliances are neither new or outdated, but somewhere perfectly in between, the whole place is in black and white with minor hints of blues and bronze that make the place feel like a home without anything actually having a personal touch. There’s no dust but there’s no smell that layers itself around, minor cleaning chemicals aside, it doesn’t smell like any of the bats do- it's more like a very clean hotel room.

There’s not any personal pictures, just art pieces in bold colors that are on blank walls.

There’s a guest book when you walk in, right by the bowl for the keys.

Clark carries both Robin and Nightwing, tucked under his arms, to the couch in the living room that sits on the sixth floor of a fifteen floor apartment building located in the smack middle of downtown Gotham. There’s two soft couches, so each injured boy gets one each. Robin lays down with perfect stillness, but Nightwing flings himself around to be comfortable. Their feathers were strangely stiff when Clark held them, there was a give but it wasn’t as much as downy chicken or duck would be.

Robin’s injury is on his side, but Nightwing’s is on his upper inner thigh- Clark’s not going to get anywhere near that.

Hood is coming with the car, Clark had dropped him off to drive the batmobile to wherever they can park it here, so Hood’s going to swing by and do the medical touchups.

If- okay if Robin’s not up and moving with a static kind of determination.

“What are you doing?” Clark has to ask. “You’re injured.”

“He’s getting the medkit.” Nightwing answers for his brother, “But he better not try and stitch himself up!”

“I did that one time!” Robin calls back from where he’s moving to what appears to be one of the two bathrooms. “The stitches held!”

Clark follows the kid, Robin moves in such a dedicatedly stiff way that Clark’s never seen a child act like before it’s so weird. Robin’s wings are tucked against his back, his tail folded and hanging to his ankles. Sure enough, in the bathroom under the sink there’s a rather large medical kit- a quick glance inside shows how well it's stocked. Clack takes it, not allowing Robin to bend down and agitate his wound further.

Robin heads back to the living room, Clark follows right after.

“How’s your injury, Nightwing?” Clark has to ask, “Do you need immediate attention?”

“Sluggish shallow tear, I got it when your metal asshole showed up and surprised me- Ivy has thorns I wasn’t careful of.” Nightwing’s always wiggling, his hands flash up to his neck to touch the hidden zippers in his suit. “Help me out-”

Clark does not want to do this, but Nightwing’s already got the zip flushed out. Clark sighs and begins to help Nightwing out of his tight fitted armour. The zipper is small and strong, it doesn’t snag once as it goes all the way down to-

There’s another zipper, two actually, on the back- on either side of the wings.

Clark pulls those down as well.

“Help Robin out of his own suit.” Nightwing says after Clark gets those two other zippers as far as they go. The suit falls down around him, revealing a tight black second skin underneath.

The black second skin underneath sucks itself to the body, revealing every line and every curve. There’s lines that flow up and down and around the torso, flowing into the palm and the back of the neck. Random circles of what looks like some kind of electronic system across the boy's torso.

Robin has a similar setup, a zipper down the front with two in the back that go down and around his wings.

There’s an interesting freckle pattern- more distinct than all of the kid’s other splatter paint freckles and hidden by Robin’s high armoured collar- right at the base of the kid’s throat. It’s like the constellation, Lyra, with the freckle where Vega is meant to be as a large almost black one in a sea of browns.

Robin’s also wearing an undersuit, but his armour is also in two pieces and not one like his older brothers. The black undersuit has the same pattern as his brothers, a living skin of electronic signals that travel from neck to hip.

Clark can hear the roar of a car coming up within three blocks, Hood is close enough that these two can figure themselves out without Clark’s immediate help.

“Hood is almost here.” He informs them, even though he can hear the electronic buzz of a voice through the coms that they wear. “Do you need anything else from me right now?”

Robin immediately shoots something in Russian, which makes Nightwing laugh.

Clark just raises an eyebrow, he doesn’t speak anything besides English, Kryptonian, and highschool level Spanish. He’s not incredible with languages, they escape him in a way that numbers just don’t.

“I said I wanted to be invincible.” Robin half mumbles into the couch he lays on, bleeding onto. “It would help cut back on these kinds of moments.”

If Clark could give it to others, he would have, he would give his abilities to the people he loves in an instant. If he could protect Batman from all the pain tha man carries he would . Batman carries the weight of the world on his winged shoulders and Clark wants to keep everything he can off that man’s plate if only to make it easier for Batman to breathe.

The car parks downstairs, the engine cuts off.

“Hood is here.” Clark says to the empty house, the one that nobody permanently lives in but has a stocked medkit anyway. “Do you have something that’s actually physically possible for me to help with?”

“Get Metallo off the streets?” Nightwing asks, “We killed all of Ivy's plants pretty well but couldn’t contain a villian used to dealing with you .”

🦇

Bruce sips carefully at the champagne and tries not to think about how much he wants to strangle the woman in front of him.

Her laugh is annoying, pitched in a way that's clearly aiming for ‘cute’ but missing by miles.

There’s a grand opening of a hospital tonight, in Metropolis of all places, but since the hospital is funded by Drake Industries and Wanye is one of their investors he has to make an effort to look like he vaguely gives a shit.

Tim and Jason have taken off into the crevices of the night- Dick’s not here right now to wrangle them so god help whoever gets caught up in their mischief. This is only the second large function the two of them have attended with knowing everything between them- the first one Dick was there to mitigate the injuries but now Bruce is fully expecting for somebody to lose a spleen tonight.

The upside is that it’s a small gathering of the upper class and more focused on the doctors who are going to work here and the research that’s going to be funded here. This is going to be a huge cancer treatment center, for both Metropolis and her sister city Gotham.

The woman in front of Bruce laughs again, pitched nasally. Ugh. Terrible.

“Bruce!” A voice calls, breaking through the one sided conversation-

Bruce turns, and sure enough it’s Drake, Jack Drake.

“Jack!” Bruce smiles and turns his whole body, effectively telling the woman that he was beginning to become uninterested. “A wonderful party, we haven’t been on this side of the bay for ages it feels like.”

Jack laughs, deep and full bellied. “I figured Metropolis would need a hospital, considering how many radioactive rocks are flying around.”

Bruce has done the research himself, Kryptonite only has harmful effects if exposed to for years at a distance of less than a foot and a half. It’s a rare enough mineral on its own- more pricey than jadeite- so it’s not going to get any kind of passive collection. There’s only person who has a comparable store of Kryptonite to Bruce himself, Lex Luthor. The only place to obtain samples of this shit is from meteorites, very specific metorities, so there’s really nobody just casually walking around with the rock that can kill Superman.

But Bruce has cultured a very specific public persona, “Thank god our weirdo in tights is just some random asshole.” He waves dismissively as the laughs start up around him, “It’s not like we have to do anything special to put that guy down.”

Jack holds out his champagne, Bruce toasts it, they both take a large drink from their flutes.

The woman snuggles closer, what the fuck was her name again? Mary-something?

“The only good thing about Superman is that he doesn’t get kids killed.” Drake snipes, low and vicious, the Drakes have been very vocal about their dislike of Batman ever since the photo that their own son took began to circulate across the media.

Batman’s okay with that, he didn’t do this to make friends. Bruce understands and ignores the public opinion of himself. He didn’t allow any of his Robins to get into the fray, they just ignored him saying ‘ no ’ and ran into the fight. Bruce might have well trained them not to die and keep an eye on them if his children run headfirst into gang wars.

“Speaking of kids-” Bruce gestures to where the kids are meant to be during this party- in a whole separate room. “How’s your own doing?”

Bruce knows how Tim Drake is doing, Tim spends eighty-five percent of his time at the manor. It’s just a shared talking piece between the two of them.

Drake looks startled, as if he’s either surprised that Bruce remembers he has a child or the man has just been reminded that he has one.

So Bruce throws another bone- “Your son is a few years younger than my youngest, right?”

Jack brightens up considerably. “Yeah, Timothy’s about eleven-” No. He’s twelve, almost thirteen. “- and your son is seventeen?”

“My youngest is, yes, he’s looking at colleges now-”

The conversation spirals into basic family talk between the two of them as the night goes on. The woman who thought that Bruce Wayne would be an easy lay tonight sulks off after she can’t pull attention back to herself (she’s Dick ’s age, which is a very hard no ).

They move on from family talk to business, Jack is incredibly proud of his company’s work in third world countries. Jack and Jannet are at heart good people, they try their best and they like to study history and archaeology on the side as their hobbies. They’re expanding medical equipment to make it more affordable for people who don’t have as much, they’re revolutionizing wheelchairs and prosthetics and treatment for maladies and disabilities all across the board. Wayne is proud to be a sponsor for Drake Industries, they’re making a real difference.

The heir to Drake's medical equipment empire is also on the ceiling,

Bruce catches the hint of movement in his periphery and glances up for a moment. The beautiful deep red-brown wooden beams in this venue are mostly to hang lights and banners on, but they’re also now home to two teenagers with too much time and not enough supervision. How did they even get up there? The way Bruce see’s would put him in plain view of the party at large, but clearly his two sons are hell of a lot sneakier than he is apparently.

The party peaks at just as night begins to fall, and begins to wind down before the press gets released to enter the fray.

The press is vicious, and will do anything to get a story, so if these parties didn’t allow the presses in at all they would find a way to wiggle in that was under the table and less than wholesome. The press is allowed in at the last two hours, so then the people who are having affairs know to go home.

It’s also a good point to leave himself, but Bruce has made several attempts to call his children down discreetly but they are up there sprinkling water onto guests and ignoring Bruce’s attempts to wrangle them.

Bruce is pretty sure it’s water, or champagne.

Bruce hopes it’s water or champagne.

The press that gets to filter into the party is full of nicer well established names, not any of those no-name hopefuls that stand outside with cameras and desperate to get a quote. There’s a few that mill around but most reporters go right to who they want to talk too.

There’s one that rocks right up to where Jack and Bruce have been chatting, a man who’s just a hair taller than Bruce himself with wider shoulders and a broad smile.

His press pass rests on a suit that’s not too gaudishly cheap but nowhere near the style and expense of the suits worn by the actual rich people. Black hair, darker than Bruce’s own, with huge glasses. Jack Drake seems to know- or at least expected- this reporter's presence because Jack reaches out with a handshake and a smile.

The press pass says “ Kent - Daily Planet ’, Bruce makes a note of it as the man asks to ask a few questions. As Superman asks to ask questions. Bruce had known Superman’s fake name, had seen a picture of the man before in this identity, but watching in real life technicolor is strange and new.

Jack Drake allows it, telling Kent to ask any questions about the new hospital they’re opening soon.

It’s a fairly standard set of questions, designed to get an in-depth look at how this new hospital is going to affect Metropolis and the surrounding areas and what kind of cancer research is going to be going on. It’s a good round, Kent’s obviously thrilled to be here and asking after this kind of information and Jack Drake is thrilled to be answering them.

Bruce just sips at his bubbling water and listens in, occasionally making a joke but mostly enjoying not being the one asked anything for once.

He looks up about halfway through the interview, and sure enough there’s no sign of either Tim or Jason up on the wooden beams.

Bruce scans the crowd, he doesn’t see any child hanging onto their parents legs. Or even just hanging out in the mingling mix underfoot.

Bruce wishes desperately that he had drunk more than two champagne flutes tonight. If he was at least tipsy then he wouldn’t even realize what kind of bullshittery those two can get up too unseen.

It’s almost to the end of the interview with Kent - Daily Planet - Superman that the two show back up. Jason’s hair is perfectly in place (the place where his skull was sewn back together after Joker cracked it has grown back a brilliant white-blonde, it draws attention when styled) and there’s not a wrinkle in Tim’s suit jacket.

Bruce claps Jason on the shoulder, discreetly dusting off the bit of dust right at the curve of Jason’s jacket. Too tall for Tim to see naturally and just in Jason’s blindspot. Tim doesn’t come up above Jason’s elbow but the two of them did a great job disguising the fact that they’ve been up to something.

The only really obvious tell is- “Where are your ties?”

Neither boy blinks, their bowties have disappeared, leaving their collar’s open.

Tim disengages from Jason and heads over to bump against his father’s hip, all soft smiles and innocent blinking. Jason rests his own head against Bruce’s own shoulder, linking their elbows together.

Oh they’ve done something dangerous, acting this sweet.

Kent blinks down at Tim, not focused on Bruce and his ward at all but entirely on the two Drakes in front of him. “Cute kid?”

Bruce doesn’t hold back a snort of laughter. That’s the exact tone of voice that Superman speaks to Robin in, Superman clearly isn’t used to children and it shows in such obvious ways. The poor man is out of his depth with people under sixteen.

It definitely doesn't help that Tim is particularly strange to interact with. Tim jerks his head up, staring at Kent with big, unblinking, pale eyes. There’s no fluidity in Tim’s movements, just a sudden pop from one to the next with no in between, it makes him a rather unsettling person to talk to if you’re not used to it, the fact that he’s so young only makes the uncanny factor that much more.

Kent wants to take a step back, his body language goes stiff and panicked when he looks down to see a child randomly and simply there . This is hilarious. Jason gives a little tug, “Let’s go.” Jason asks into Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m tired and Dick’s gonna be at the house when we get back.”

Bruce downs the rest of his sparkling water. “Sure, call Alfred and get the car around.” Jason bolts, he’s gone faster than he normally darts out of these events.

To Jack Drake, Bruce gives a limp wave and bids his goodbyes.

He’s not going to be anywhere near here when whatever the boys have planned goes off.

🦇

Clark is kinda panicking.

He’s sort of accidentally stumbled upon Robin .

It takes a second to even realize the kid was there . Which was terrifying to just look down and realize a whole extra person was there, Clark can count on one hand the number of people who can sneak up on him and having one appear in full technicolor life while not in a super suit is kinda jarring.

Clark looked down when Jack Drake moved his arm, casually looking at the movement like all people tended to do when others moved around. It’s a simple reactionary habit long since evolved into prey animals. Nothing strange about it.

Until Clark had registered that there was a whole ass child there where a moment ago there was nobody at all.

Jesus Chirst.

There was nobody that could just very casually sneak up on super hearing, it was a certain kind of dedicated training to get away with it. While children naturally had lighter footfalls than adults, no untrained random individual would be able to startle Superman’s senses.

With that, Superman had taken a good hard look at what he assumes is Jack Drake’s kid, trying his best not to peel away and bolt.

Then Clark notices that right at the base of the kid's throat, mixed in with the rest of the kid's freckled face, is a very distinct freckling pattern.

Lyra, with the bright star Vega a black pin in a field of brown stars in a sky of translucent white. The same mark that Robin had had sitting in the same position at the base of his throat, right in the hollow.

So Clark instantly flares his senses, taking in every single molecule that occupies the spaces around them. The kid smells like Robin does- kevlar, that non-newtonian fluid that hardens with impact that sits in the Batsuits, dye packets and old blood, warm leather and wet rock.

But no wings .

Where the fuck are the wings. The pale colors and trailing feathers when he walks, the rustle of almost silent whistle of down, the whole extra appendages . People don’t just gain and lose whole fucking limbs without serious complications from it. The boy doesn’t smell like fresh blood- just an old wound from a week ago when Clark helped him to the safehouse. He moves with no pain, when he moves at all.

It’s just … a perfectly normal child.

Not a meta at all.

Just, a normal human.

What the fuck is going on here?

Jack Drake ruffles his kids hair. Clark looks back up at the father and immediately takes him in too.

Wrong shape, this isn’t Batman. It’s too heavy in the hips and lower half without nearly the same width in the shoulders, not the same skintone- the kind of tan that very pale people get when out in the sun for an extended time, not the naturally darker color that Batman’s jaw is.

This man, the father of Robin, isn’t Batman.

But Batman was here.

There’s the lingering scent of the man, both on Robin and Jack Drake, recent and new.

Why the fuck was Batman here? Why the-

Who was talking to Jack Drake while Clark was asking questions? It was a guy, tall, Clark had noticed the man was fit, low heart rate, but other than that he had been here to do a job and question Jack Drake about the new hospital he wasn’t focused on much anything here besides basic information gathering, his thoughts were a million miles away.

“Timothy here gets his looks from his mother.” Jack is saying, all smiles and chemically brightened teeth. “But his brains are all me, you got any of your own?”

Timothy doesn’t look much anything like Jack Drake, no reddish blonde hair and brown eyes and easy smooth movements. The kid’s all Robin, through and through now that Clark is looking at him, Clark knows that all three of the Robin boys are smarter than most but Clark hasn’t gotten the same idea about Jack during the interview.

Clark looks across the room to where Jannet Drake stands at the bar, a tall slim woman with black oil slick hair and translucent skin and freckles across her nose and shoulders. She’s got a quick small smile and it's rumored that she’s both the beauty and the brains of the whole medical company, no reporter can get anything out of her- Clark had tired earlier tonight but she had smiled brilliantly and blinked her pale blue eyes and had told Clark to go speak to her darling husband.

Clark had listened to her, because there’s nothing Clark will listen to faster than somebody who is so incredibly sure of themselves and their place in the world telling him exactly what to do.

If their glare can flay him in four seconds flat, that’s pretty incintiving as well, squared shoulders and a jawline like a knife, with a nice mouth.

Jannet Drake had fit Clark’s type to a capital T- she had told him off with such a sly and slick force that Clark had pivoted and decided to try and pry information from the weaker link.

Jannet, Louis, Lana, Batman. Clark sometimes thinks he's got a problem with who he takes a double look at, all people who can flay him open with a word and will put a hand on his chest and push him down even when they know they can’t physically move him.

“I don’t have any children of my own, sir.” Clark answers Jack’s question. He hasn’t interacted with any children besides the ones the Justice League bring around.

Jack just laughs. “More trouble than they’re worth, the little bastards, you gotta love 'em though!”

With that, Clark hears a sound from above.

A tinkling, glass sound, loud enough that it should be audible for a regular human. IT’s a hell of a lot of glass sounds that are echoing around the ceiling and banging it against other glass.

Everybody in the entire hall looks up, some seventy odd people all distracted momentarily by the noise.

Everybody but Robin, who ducks right under his father’s very nice suit jacket.

Champagne falls from the rafters, all at once, millions of raindrops of sweet smelling alcohol all falling down at once from every single piece of the wooden rafters that sit above the entire party. There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands of glasses filled to the brim with champagne up there.

Clark lets it hit him, like all of the other screaming rich guests.

🦇

Clark’s hair is full of champagne, he sits alone in his apartment looking at his laptop with a glare.

There’s almost no information on the Drake Heir, Timothy, but Clark has done his best anyway.

There’s minor mentions but not even a clear photograph, just slightly fuzzy ones that are years old of Jannet Drake holding onto her young son and smiling to the camera. Nothing definite, nothing that can be found legally or illegally. Clark digs up every single bit of information he possibly can, the only thing that comes up is nothing, but puff pieces and feel good articles every half a year.

This is Robin, and where Robin is Batman follows close behind.

Clark combs every bit of the Drake line, trying to find Batman through pure wit just like Batman did to him. The man’s a father figure to all three of his boys but- clearly not biologically related but there should have been some kind of connection here. There’s nothing . The kid doesn’t even have godparents to look into, every housekeeper has been the wrong age range, there for too short a time period, or a woman.

It’s not anyone close to the family, there’s no uncles or long lost brothers or friends that fit the profile. The Drakes are gone from Gotham more than they’re in it-

Clark blinks. That doesn’t make any sense. Robin’s in Gotham almost every night for patrol with two random days off a week. Hood and Nightwing are more sporadic, Nightwing mostly tied up with Bludhaven and Titans missions, the boy is rarely seen in his childhood stomping ground. Hood is off the books more than anything else, dealing with criminals either publicly by hanging them off buildings to scream into the night or privately by helping them get highschool diplomas.

But Robin is a constant pressure, a constant presence, at his fathers side.

So the Drakes aren’t in the country, but their son is?

Do they leave him alone at their home? A twelve year old boy all by himself? They can’t be, there has to be something that Batman has set up for his child when the boy isn’t being Robin-

Clark sighs, and begins to craft up permissions to send to Perry to get started on an article that nobody’s going to like.

🦇

Bruce gets cornered at the watchtower, it’s early enough in the morning that the tower is full of nothing but emptiness and Superman, apparently .

Bruce was up here for a routine maintenance check, easy enough to press the ‘run’ button on the watchtower computer and watch the world spin underneath you until the computer makes a noise to let you know it’s all done then you make sure everythings okay and call it a day. Takes about three hours and a bit of boredom.

Bruce’s children have Gotham for a while, he trusts them not to blow anything up that doesn't deserve it.

Well, he trusts Dick- no, there was that diamond store that the woman grabbed him inappropriately. He trusts Jason- no, there was that warehouse he got tortured in.

Tim hasn’t had anything terrible happen to him yet?

Tim’s the most likely to twitch to his toys during a fight however.

Bruce might come back to some buildings razed to the ground, but he trusts the boys to keep it minimal.

But now he’s up at the watchtower, about 3 am EST, with Superman floating in front of him, arms bracketing him in on either side of the kitchenette.

The red cape brushes like silk against Bruce’s shins, it’s a rather large cape made out of a material that Bruce has never been able to identify by sight alone. Kal’s eyes from this close show just how alien he is, with hexagon pupils blown wide and blue eyes a color unlike any human alive, dancing back and forth with colors that shift when Kal eyes shift through his visible spectrum.

“I know who Robin is.” Kal whispers, low and soft and confused . “I know who your son is by total mistake but I can’t figure out you .”

Bruce freezes, his blood goes cold in his heart. How did this happen? How did this happen? He’s been so careful, about every single damn thing, his children most of all. “ Were you looking ?” He can’t help but snarl out, his chest tight and panicked.

“No!”

But Bruce’s mind is already coming up with a million errors, a million ways this has all gone so wrong, a million fucking ways that his family is now in danger . He’s panicking, there’s all these contingency plans that spring from his mind, all from the darkness in his heart that tells Bruce to work constantly, the voice that tells Bruce to make all those plans and comb over every single bit of crime scene to know every single bit of information.

Bruce can’t- he knows normally how to deal with the stupid fucking voice in his heart screaming at all hours of the day that he needs to be doing something.

“What the fuck tipped you off?” Bruce hisses, in his chest. “How do I make everyone safe again?”

Kal’s hands come up, Bruce stiffens all at once but goes back into his normal stiff posture when Kal’s hands just slip around to hold Bruce’s shoulders. “It was a total freak accident.” Kal says, then proceeds to tell Bruce exactly how everything had happened.

A random chance at a party, a sight caught during an injury where the undersuit doesn’t cover up their necks.

Bruce’s brain is immediately jumping on him to tell the boys to wear makeup while they patrol too, not just to cover up scarring during parties and photographs. Fuck. He knew his boys had spots- Dick’s got moles and a beauty mark, Jason has scars more so than anything else, and Tim is head to toe covered with dots- but everything on his older boys were covered with their uniforms, their masks, shirts and jeans.

Dick’s beauty mark under his left eye was always covered, so Bruce never asked him to cover it with makeup during patrols. Four years later, Jason’s skin was free and clear besides a birthmark on his ankle, so Bruce had never worried about it. Four years after that Tim had come along, and after eight years of not being worried about the state of his son’s skin while patrolling Bruce had simply added opaque armor to Tim’s freckled legs and told Tim what he told the other two.

Any scars needed to be covered, any bruises needed to be covered, anything that affected medical history needed to have a story. Public appearances made Dick sew up a massive cut on his ear and keep his hair long enough to cover it. Public appearances made Bruce crash a car on his property and rush Jason to an emergency room with the story of driving practice. Public appearances made it so that Bruce himself got airbrushed makeup across his scarred torso before he staged paparazzi getting shirtless shots of him at clubs.

Nobody remembered the distinct pattern of Batman’s scar on his lip when Bruce had been fighting them. Nobody was chatting about Nightwing’s scarred ear. Not a criminal alive saw a scrap of flesh on Hood, but there was no chatting about how sometimes Hood walked with a limp.

The insane at Arkham didn’t chat about how Robin had freckles .

Bruce knew. He had been keeping track of what they talked about during their incracations.

But the people at the Justice League had seen Bruce’s whole family in brilliant white lights up at the watchtower, during meetings and gatherings and parties. Flash had commented on Bruce’s scar across his lip- asking if it affected how he ate. Diana had tsked when Dick- in his last few months as Robin- had come in with stitches in his ear and his hair tied back to help it heal.

“Your masks cover up nearly everything.” Kal is saying, Bruce latches onto the words trying to keep his panic at bay. “I only saw it because of crazy circumstances that are never going to be replicated again.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” Batman tells him.

Kal squeezes Bruce’s shoulders, brows furrowing, he looks so ready to argue, so ready to tell Bruce’s broken brain that everything is alright not to worry about a thing. But then he relaxes his grip and looks down. “I thought I was sure you had wings, but I’m wrong about that too aren’t I?”

Fuck .

Bruce surges forward, into the crook of Kal’s neck, there’s too much happening here on ground that’s not Bruce’s own. It makes his brain scream, panic, and surge for Bruce to find some kind of safety.

There’s nowhere safer than Kal’s arms.

Superman curls into a hug, allowing Bruce to take all the time he needs to quell the flare of desperate panic that beats against his chest.

Fuck.

Just- just fuck.

Bruce grips the fabric or Kal’s cape, the alien silk beneath thick very human armoured gloves.

“We need to leave.” Bruce says, quick and low so nobody can overhear him but Kal. “Come with me.”

Bruce can’t talk about this here, his mind won’t let him feel safe here, won’t let him breathe here.

Kal follows, easy as he ever does, like he always does.

From the kitchen they make their way to the teleporter, Bruce couldn’t give less of a shit about finishing the updates right now, and Bruce taps in his own coordinates.

Kal’s breath catches, his blue eyes impossibly, alien, wide. “B, you don’t have to reveal yourself to me just because-”

The zeta beam cuts him off.

🦇

Clark is sort of panicking. He screwed his eyes tightly shut when the zeta had gotten ahold of him.

Batman, whoever he was under the hood, had snagged him and dragged him somewhere presumably in Gotham where he had tapped out specific coordinates that weren't built into the teleporter. Batman’s zeta let him out on the big Wayne building, like Clark’s own let him out on the Daily Planet, but this was- this was probably Batman’s home .

He couldn’t see anything through his own eyelids- not without conscious effort- but he could still hear, he could still smell.

Hear the way that the sound echoes around, high ceilings with many offshoots. Somewhere with tunneling lines of impossibly long winding chambers that had animals in the corners. Chittering animals that talked amongst themselves with layered amusement. Water, somewhere, a rushing river of freshwater and below that there’s a mildly brackish bay, drops of water all around- distantly, constantly. The hum of electricity much closer, the whirring of air circulation, the temperature down here cooler than regular outdoor temperatures. There’s sounds of actual wind, real life and sputtering in a way that’s definitely not controlled by any kind of man made device.

There’s the smell of blood, kevlar, and leather, the pounding heartbeat of his best friend, the sound of movement, a tug on his wrist to lead him forward.

The smell of food here, somebody’s got some kind of baked goods close by, old blood from a sterile clean bleached area- medical bay?- general cleaning supplies, wet warmed stone. There’s no smell of polished wood here, all metal alloys and glass. Amazingly clean in the lived in area, for how many bat’s must live in this same cave system. The smell of dye and of chemicals and of people, there’s two slow roaming heartbeats by what must be the computer, a heart a little on the larger side and a heartbeat that sticks slightly on every third ba-thump . Hood and Nightwing.

“B!” Nightwing moves, the fabric on him doesn’t sound like his uniform does- there’s no sounds of leather pulling as he twists, just the soft rustle of cotton.

“We’ve been had.” Batman rumbles, low and deep from his chest, there’s the sound of more fabric rustling and then when Batman continues with a “I needed to have this conversation someplace more secure than the watchtower . ” There’s no sound of electronics in his voice.

Clark is very happy to report that he won the bet between him and Diana, B’s voice really is that deep.

“Where’s Robin?” Batman asks. Stopping. Clark follows the stop, halting as soon as Batman halts his forward momentum. “I need all of you down here for this.”

“Even A?” Nightwing sounds worried. “Boss what happened ?”

“A’s going to get revealed tonight if he’s here or not, let the man stress bake.” Batman says, then more movement. “You can open your eyes, Kal.”

Kal shakes his head. “I only figured out one of you- not everybody.” He can’t betray Batman’s trust, it’s been so ingrained into his head that it just keeps replaying on repeat. “You figured me out fair and square, but I haven’t done the same to you.”

A gasp, that’s from Nightwing. “He figured out Robin? ”

“Couldn’t have been either of us.” Hood agrees, “We’re a sure shot to B, you figure out any of us and the game’s over, but Robin’s not publicly connected to the three of us. It’s got to be Robin.”

“He’s with his parents.” Nightwing informs the room. “Dinner- they’re leaving tonight, just in town for a few hours while passing through.”

Clark winces, he didn’t want to believe that Robin really was left alone that often but from the very casual way that Nightwing spits the word parents Clark assumes that everyone is aware of the situation that’s happening in Robin’s real life.

“How’d he make us?” Hood asks. “Jesus Uncle Kal, you can open your eyes. If B brought you down here and took off the cowl he clearly trusts you.”

Holy shit Batman took off his cowl?

“Are you sure?” Clark has to ask, “Once I open my eyes and you introduce yourselves I can’t take it back.”

Another sound of movement, Batman squeezes Kal’s wrist. Hood laughs, Nightwing gives a giggle. “ Introduce ourselves?” He whispers quietly to his brother.

Kal opens his eyes.

He looks down at first, to see his own feet in the dim light of the cave. He slowly, carefully begins to look up to meet his best friends, his crushes, eyes catching Batman, backlit by computer screens and-

Oh .

Batman is beautiful .

Black hair, a patch of grey at his temple, blue eyes like the ocean at midnight.

Clark doesn’t think he can breathe .

Batman’s got cheekbones to die for, his short hair is slicked back and pushed out of his face, but stray strands fall down around his forehead where they’ve been disturbed by the cowl. God, Batman’s got ears, which shouldn’t surprise Clark at all but he’s never seen them and there’s a silver studded earring in both and they’re pink flushed at the top. Batman has eyebrows , thick and dark and so perfectly manicured. It’s Batman’s eyes that catch Clark the most, all dark deep blue that just pull him under the ocean waves even further and make Clark want to lean forward and just-

Batman looks expectant, a small smile on his lips and one of those polished eyebrows quirked up.

Clark’s never seen this man before in his life why would Batman look expectant , like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Clark to jump up and gasp something ridiculous like the heroes in the movies always did when the veil between them was stripped away.

But now that Clark’s looking for something, Batman does sort of …. No. No, that’s not possible.

Clark looks at the two boys behind their father, the same height even with three and a half years between them, with their incredibly distinct faces.

The Hood never showed his hair because that streak of white that follows his hairline is in the exact same place as Jason Todd’s new looks that are all over instagram and twitter- it’s become a trend. Nightwing has a mole right under his left eye, blue and shining with mischief and exactly like how Richard Grayson shows up in the news on fashion walkways and gala’s.

Bruce Wayne- the very famous Bruce fucking Wayne stands tall wearing the Batman suit right in front of Clark.

The Wayne family who are constantly in the background of every news station, the royal family of America, their faces are on every single news outlet on every single moment of every single day. They’re happy-go-lucky morons who tweet out things like ‘ we’ve run out of banana’s for bread i will pay somebody 100$ right now ’ and ‘ stupid positions we’ve found out dad sleeping in a thread 1/27 ’.

The Wayne family, who might be handsome and fit, but don’t have wings .

“Has anybody told you three you look remarkably like the Wayne’s?” Clark manages to squeak out, desperately hoping to be wrong.

Batman- Bruce Fucking Wayne - just smiles wide, and laughs.

🦇

Tim’s pretty happy. His family had a nice dinner, his mother had kissed his head and told him to be a good boy, and his parents had left to go to Central America.

Tim was always a good boy, never causing trouble and protecting the streets of Gotham.

He might have gotten a few broken ribs and has had three dental replacements and major damage to his liver and kidneys with all the poison, but he’s been very good!

He puts his shoes away in the foyer, tucking them under Jason’s and right next to Dick’s. There’s voices coming from the preferred parlor, Jason’s loud laugh and Dick’s softer giggles. It was just about time to head down to the cave for the evening to get patrols and look into the new shipment of drugs at the dock, but Tim’s willing to go to where everybody was for now instead of heading right for the computer.

The room was one of the smaller parlors, and when Tim opens the door he sees Dick and Jason, pushed up together on the couch and sniping at one another, Bruce on the armchair smiling at-

Who was this?

He’s wearing Bruce’s workout clothes, looking slightly awkward in clothes that are just a little oversized on Bruce but undersized on this new man-

Superman, this is Uncle Kal, sitting very casually on a loveseat and looking like he always does when Tim see’s him- vaguely lovesick at Bruce.

(Which is gross, ew, old people love.)

Jason pats the couch. “We’ve been had Timmy.”

Tim’s blood goes cold. They’ve been had? “By whom? Do we need to go into lockdown protocols? Are they going to attack the manor?” Tim hops up to sit next to Jason. If Superman is here then they’ve been had by somebody real bad-

“Superman played connect the dots with your freckles asshole.” Jason tells him. “We’re here to gently break the news to him that B’s a rich bitch.”

Dick hits Jason in the arms, slugging him. “That’s how you had to say it?”

Uncle Kal winces, “It wasn’t that simple-”

Bruce cuts him off “Tim, we’re going to get back to using waterproof makeup while on patrol, but for now don’t worry about it.”

Tim doesn’t clasp his hands over his cheeks, it wouldn’t do any good now anyway, but he feels the urge to hide away anyway.

“Kal, has promised not to tell anybody in the League.” Bruce says. “Our identities are still fairly safe, we’re going to update some of our contingency plans and talk about what this means going forward.”

“You mean you’re going to talk about it with Uncle Kal while we go on patrol.” Dick makes wild motions with his hands, gesturing between the older two men and the younger kids. “Jason and I did nothing wrong, we’re taking Tim with us because we all sit at the kid table together, solidarity.”

“You haven’t sat in the kids room during gala’s in years.” Bruce tells him. “This involves everyone, it’s a family conversation.”

Dick stands anyway. “You can fill me in later.”

“ Richard Grayson .”

“I’m going to do dangerous things with criminals!” Dick says, his hands up in the air. “I am one semester away from graduation and twenty years old! I refuse to be full named here.”

“We need to smooth over misconceptions before they can affect us on the field-”

Jason stands too, hands going under Tim’s armpits and lifting him up with only a minor grunt. “Only one guy needed to explain everything, we’re outta here.”

🦇

Bruce was using his children as buffers.

It was easier to talk with them around, easier to talk in his own safe haven than someplace like the watchtower or in public.

Now it’s almost dawn, the sky’s lightening over Gotham in the distance, all pinks and purples and hazy midnight blues. The huge bay windows let in every single hint of light from the forest outside, they had come up from the cave to make Kal a little more on even ground with everyone else. They also had to convince him that this house was under pretty constant barrage from surprise cameras so Superman, Kal-El couldn’t sit and causally have a conversation in the middle of the Wayne manor without potential hitbacks from the media, so instead it had to be mild-mannered Clark Kent sitting on the couch and talking about what they both knew now.

“Why’d you let us believe for so long you were a meta?” Super- Clark asks, very little emotion in his voice.

Bruce winces, he’s not sure how much shows on his face, “I never said I was a metahuman.”

Oh that wasn’t the right thing to say, as soon as the words are out Bruce wants to die a little. He holds up a single finger, wait .

Clark allows the time, letting Batman find the exact words he wants to say.

This isn’t a practiced speech, this isn’t the careless public persona where words don’t matter . Bruce has to choose each word so fucking careful , each weighed with meaning, some of them not even English, there’s thousands of words and all of them aren’t right for this. LIfe doesn’t give you second chances, once something is said it’s out there and forever in somebody’s else’s mind.

So Bruce starts at the beginning.

It started as a joke, and evolved into something more.

By the time Batman had entered the Justice League it was already a well established part of the costume, the wings.

Everybody had just assumed and Flash felt more at ease with Batman and other meta’s than people like Superman and Wonder Woman and it was easier just to go along with the assumptions then to correct and explain and give away that he didn’t just have a lot of resources to be well equipped but he also could design, make, and keep under wraps the fact he made single powered flight possible-

“I bet I look weird to you without it.” Bruce says, shifting his shoulders that always feel a little too light without the cape and cowl.

Clark actually blushes, that ruddy red-purple color he turns when embarrassed. “You- uh- it’s a change, but you don’t actually look like Batman right now?”

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce just waits for an explanation.

Clark seems really embarrassed now, sitting in Bruce’s soft clothes in his parlor and listening to the sounds of the forest outside wake up. “You look like a celebrity, so it’s sort of weird to see you not in a magazine or on the TV. It… I know in my brain that you’re my best friend of nearly ten years but my eyes are seeing ... “

Bruce sighs, this is why he hasn’t told anybody in the League. They wouldn’t believe him, then once they did believe him they would freak out and treat him differently.

“It’s not a bad thing!” Clark tries to back up, throws his hands palms up. “I’m just getting used to the … to seeing you without wings. Without the costume.”

“I’m not used to seeing you without the big red ‘S’ either.” Bruce had given the face in the file a good long look when he had first discovered- on accident- who Superman was underneath the cape. But he wasn’t used to talking just one on one with no leather between them.

Clark huffs a laugh. “What a pair we make, too used to Halloween costumes. It’s weird to be able to look one another in the eye.”

It is weird, for both of them.

Bruce think’s Clark looks smaller without the red alien silk cape around his shoulders, the instinctive puff of his chest and the confident stance. Clark and Kal-El are two separate ways of standing, of sitting, Clark curls in on himself and tucks his feet together, one over the other while Superman hasn’t ever apologized for taking up too much space.

“Would it be better, if you knew how it worked?” Bruce has to ask, that always made him feel better about things. He liked taking things apart and finding out why each part was what it was, filled into the blanks of his knowledge, eased the tightness in Bruce’s chest.

Clark smiles, weakly. “A little bit?”

🦇

Clark is going to have a heart attack .

Batman- Bruce , Clark knows B’s name now and he’s not over that fact yet- stands in the cave for the second time tonight. He’s wearing such a thin black undershirt, the underlayer that has all those nodes and wires that bunched up around his waist just a bit and trailed up enough to see a sliver of skin before the soft sweatpants.

Bruce is explaining, he doesn’t meet Clark’s eyes very often but that’s okay. Each node apparently is a haptic sensor, relaying information across the entirety of Bruce’s torso in varying degrees according to a complicated system of information that nobody but a man as fastidious as Batman would bother with memorizing and then training into three other people.

Bruce turns, his back facing Clark, brushing up the wisps of hair on his neck to really show off the system. He’s still talking, rattling off numbers and ohms and how it was all connected and how far apart each haptic had to be to be recognizable. Clark has stopped paying attention, all focused on Batman’s back , they’re only two feet apart, Clark can see each swell of muscles underneath the skin, muscles that have never been seen before.

The curve of B’s spine, not hidden at all and exposed to Clark’s hungry gaze.

“-the haptics right at the base of my skull also acts as the activation and deactivation button, easily reachable. Want to turn on the haptics?”

Clark swallows. “Sure?”

Bruce twists his head back, the viens in his neck stand stark, eyes such a fucking pretty color. “If you’re uncomfortable-”

“Sorry! I want to, yes. Please.”

Bruce blinks, slowly, before he twists back to expose the back of his neck.

Clark reaches out, using one hand to brush up the hair on the back of Bruce’s neck like Bruce himself had done, and the other reaches out and gently as he can manage, presses the button.

The button gives a soft pulse of vibration, then like a waterfall the rest of the haptics pulse out across Bruce’s torso. Bruce shivers at the feeling, Clark is way too close.

There’s lights on, pulsing through the suit a soft blue.

“For them to continue being active I need to put on the actual set within two minutes. The main battery pack is in the backpiece of the cape.” Bruce’ voice is quiet, it doesn’t need to be loud when they’re so close together. “They buzz when turning on and off to let me know if any of them are broken or in need of minor repairs.”

Clark can hear the steady heartbeat, the heartbeat he can recognize and latch onto from anywhere on the globe if he wanted to listen for it, underneath a soft buzz of electronics. He can feel the soft pulse underneath his fingers that tangle up in Bruce’s soft hair.

“You’re amazing.” Clark breathes, too close, way to close, holy shit is it hot in here?

Bruce warms under his touch, just a little bit. “It was a personal project.”

“You managed to put yourself, as a regular simple human, through enough rigorous training that you got into a League of the strongest people in the entire world.” Clark inches close, he hasn’t removed either hand yet, “I think that’s really worth something a little more than just ‘a personal product’, B.”

“You flatter me.”

Clark laughs, finally gives in and leans as close as he’s always wanted to lean. Presses his forehead right under the curve of Bruce’s skull. It smells like Batman here, in a way that Clark has never allowed himself to explore before. Warmth, leather, the sharp spark of electronics, shampoo, hair gel, sweat, old expensive cologne, the kind of stuff made from real extract not just processed chemicals, and hormones underneath it all.

Bruce leans back, humming softly deep in his chest.

“I think I respect you more now than I did before.” Clark tells him, into the back of Batman’s neck, into his hair. “How is that even possible?”

Bruce’s hand twitches, it would be impossible not to notice the minute movement, just a hair before he actually shrugs. “I’m glad you’re taking this so well.”

Clark still isn’t processing this correctly, still hasn’t really accepted the fact he’s been best friends with Bruce Wayne all these years. “Oh I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.” Clark informs B, aiming for humor. “I must have the best luck ever , I have two billionaires who are obsessed with me.”

Batman- Bruce- laughs . Bright and deep without the muffling of all those electronics he normally has in that cowl of his. “Don’t compare me to Lex.”

“Jealous?”

“I have much better hair.”

Clark huffs, he uses every single bit of strength to pull himself away from Bruce’s space. “You’re absolutely right.”

🦇

Now that he knows, Clark can tell that the wings aren’t natural.

The ticks of Batman’s hands, the twitching, corresponds to some movements in his cape.

There’s a kind of stiffness that Clark never noticed before he has watched Bruce Wayne walk without it, the weight of responsibility, the weight of heavy armour on shoulders trained since birth.

Clark keeps his secret, because Bruce asked him too, but it’s something that he’s in awe of still every time that B puts trust into Clark.

The first time that Batman had asked Clark carefully to watch the door as he showered off the latest goo-themed monster, turning around and pulling up his short hair and tapping the zipper down the middle of his spine.

The way that sometimes, after a big battle, when it’s just Clark in the room with him Batman will power down for a moment, clicking that power button and unhooking the claws from the hollow of his throat manually.

The way that when he gets injured now he’ll allow Clark to get close to help treat him.

Clark can’t quite mesh ‘ Bruce Wayne ’ with his long term fascination, but he’s getting there with every stolen moment.

🦇

Bruce needs to get out a press statement about his new charity project- feeding kids across america by paying for their school meals- but his usual trusted press are wary of operating outside of the trusted realm of Gotham.

Wayne Enterprise is located all across the nation and in several other countries, it’s just its home base is in Gotham. When Gotham runs out of safe locations to put places then of course Bruce expands outwards into other places, it’s not like he owns the entire city. While he would love to put people in employment in his own city he’s also helping Jason clean up Crime Alley with smaller, more local businesses and the easiest locations are snatched up from underneath his nose.

When he complains about this Jason and Tim simply high five one another and snicker.

He sets up the charity right across the bay without even really thinking about it, but now he’s trying to find somebody that won’t twist his words and bring up his boys and will just focus on the actual news instead of the gossip around his life.

Bruce leans back, there is one person who could help him here. It’s sort of cheating, but it’s not unprecedented.

Kal had said he was working on something that had to pass Bruce’s approval before he published it- but maybe Bruce could give him something easy to publish in the meantime?

He reaches for his phone, sitting right beside the plate, and sends a message through an encrypted number.

It’s cheating to ask a friend a favor like this, but it’s the easiest way to do things.

🦇

Clark is getting laughed at by Louis again.

The woman is losing her mind laughing, she’s curled up on the couch, leaning into Jimmy and wiping away tears from her eyes. “T-tell me again!”

Clark huffs, gently pressing his feet into her thighs to move her further into poor Jimmy’s space. Jimmy’s eating his too-thick milkshake and is half over the arm of the couch, while Clark’s on the other side stretched out and telling his friends his woes. “You don’t have to be mean about it!”

Louis snorts another unattractive breath of laughter. “Only you , smallville, can have a life this wild.”

It’s not his most wild secret, that’s definitely the fact he’s an alien, but he lets Louis laugh at him.

“I think it’s really sweet that your D&D friend finally revealed himself to you.” Jimmy says, over Louis’s head.

“His dungeons and dragons boyfriend, who is also rich .” Louis is too happy about this. “Who was so weird all this time because he was too rich and didn’t want anybody else to feel uncomfortable about it.”

Clark blushes, bright ruddy over his ears, “I did not phrase it like that.”

“You sorta did.” Jimmy says over Louis breathless wheezes. “More delicately, sure, but you pretty much said the reason he didn’t want you to know his name was that he was a high society figure.”

Clark is about to snap back, tell his friends to lay off, when his phone rings on the coffee table.

Clark sighs, he recognizes that particular ringtone, slightly different than his normal one. Somebody in the League is trying to get his opinion on something without using the emergency line. They’ve all got dummy numbers tied to their personal phones so they can be contacted easily and without having to make some wacky excuse.

Louis and Jimmy, unfortunately, are close enough that they can tell when Clark’s got a particular ringtone he uses for his ‘internet dungeons and dragons’ friends.

Louis lights up , she reaches out to make a grab at Clark’s phone- she’s been drinking wine and she’s a hell of a lot bolder four glasses in than she normally is- but Clark is much faster than either of his boozed up friends.

He glances at the unlisted number, focused on the last four digits- 0002, Batman -and picks up. “Hello?”

“Tell your friends we say hi!” Jimmy calls, loud around his spoon.

“Is this your crush!?” Louis screeches in happiness.

Clark. Wants. To. Die.

“Please ignore any words you might be hearing, These are my annoying coworkers whom I hate.” Clark tells the silent line, both informing Batman that he’s with people at the moment and his friends that they’re being assholes . “What’s up?”

“Tell your annoying coworkers, whom you hate, I say hello back.” Bruce’s warm deep voice comes from the line. “And I have a question about potentially being in civilian contact.”

Clark uses his foot to stop Louis from lunging over and stealing his phone right from his ear, she’s way too excited about this. “He says hello back.” He tells her and Jimmy.

The two of them fist bump, excited noises coming from their tispy brains.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t hang out.” Clark tells Bruce over the line, trying to be a little discrete about it. “Text me more information about it? I’m kinda wrangling Louis and Jimmy right now.”

“This is a bitch session!” Louis tries to talk as close to the phone as she can, but she’s mostly still being deflected by Clark’s legs. “Smallville talks about how he wants you to like-like him-!”

Clark hangs up, that is enough of that.

🦇

The opening of a new charity isn’t as fancy as some of the gala’s are. Bruce is just dressed in a simple suit, no tuxedo in sight, with all three children in the main room and giving each other significant looks throughout the night. Tim’s here ‘on behalf’ of Drake industries, a show of good faith between companies, while Dick and Jason are here to show ‘the full force’ of the Wayne Empire. They’re the only four of any real status, everyone else is going to be working in the new charity, working with other charities and will help support this new one, or the press.

Bruce smiles at another photographer, pausing for a moment to allow them to get a great shot of him at a beautiful venue in Metropolis overlooking the bay.

Exhausting.

Bruce looks over the crowd again, these people are here to do good, to try their best, and help in the ways available to them. It’s a much more exciting crowd than his normal parties hold.

“A moment, Mr. Wayne?” A familiar voice says.

Bruce smirks, let’s his head roll smooth and polished and seductive over to where the voice had come from. Sure enough, there’s Clark Kent, fitting in much more nicely here than at their previous encounter. There’s also, right by his side, a pretty woman whose smile is too sharp to be anybody but Louis Lane.

Bruce is a little offended that Clark brought his co-worker, but Clark had also said that he might have to bring the woman along to something like this because she had smelt blood in the water and had gone through Clark’s computer to find the files he was working on.

So Bruce lets himself be petty, just a little bit. “Sure!” Dazzlingly bright, with way too much emphasis on the end of the word. Bruce lets his eyes trali obviously over Clark’s form, and his smirk grows wider. “I’ll give you a few moments, if you want them.”

Clark doesn’t look impressed, but Louis seems unsure on how to move forward. Bruce puts on an aggressively blank face, domicile but with nothing behind the eyes that could indicate higher thought, he’s put off more than one interview with this expression, more than one conversation by looking like he’s never had a spark of thought at all.

Clark nods his head to a more private area, the balcony of the venue, overlooking the bay, Bruce smiles wide.

The three of them disentangle from the crowd, Clark using his bulk to carve a path that Louis and Bruce follow.

The balcony is beautiful, and empty. Just turning into fall there’s a chill in the air that most people don't want to tolerate for more than a few minutes to get pictures of the bay and head back inside. The bay that separates Jersey and Delaware is expansive, you can see the lights of Gotham from here but make out none of the buildings.

“You picked somewhere pretty cold!” Brucie tells them, slipping into the most annoying part of his persona he can, just to watch Clark’s entire body wince. Hilarious. “I thought this was headed somewhere much more fun than this.”

Clark rolls his eyes, “I was here last time your children managed to sabotage the party, I still haven’t gotten the champagne out of that shirt, so I decided not to risk an attack from above.”

Louis jerks her head, from looking at Bruce Wayne to Clark. “What?”

Bruce can’t let his smile sharpen, no matter how much he wants to, “Last time I was here there was only Jason here, Dick was in New York studying for something or other. He’s doing great in his classes, studying to be one of those cop scientists.”

Louis looked actually pained to be talking to this man. Clark looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Louis, can you give us a minute?” Clark asks her, all small town country smiles and dimples.

“Yeah, sure.” Louis agrees, “I’m just going to talk to a few people, the Drake boy, see you later.”’ With that she squeezes Clark’s first two fingers and darts away from what had been shaping up to be a rather horrific conversation.

When she goes back inside both men relax, just a little bit, and turn to each other.

“That was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen you do.” Clark says, mildly horrified.

Bruce huffs a laugh of air. “It’s incredibly helpful in my daily life.”

“You have to act like you aren’t one of the smartest men alive on a daily basis?”

“It sets expectations on my interactions at an all time low.” Bruce has explained this three times, it’s not hard to do it a fourth. “I can say anything, do anything and nobody bats an eye. The stories the press run are ten minutes, at most, with no real quotes from me. My words don’t matter when I’m out here, like this. It’s rather enjoyable.”

An exhale, deep and rattling. Clark understands, he’s one of the few people who probably does.

“I asked the Daily Planet to come here because you’re a known person that I can say anything to and not have to worry about how my words will affect my company, my image, and my boys. You’re not going to make my life harder without a damn good reason.”

“Oh now I feel bad.” Clark’s tone is full of humor, but there’s an edge in his tone that’s hard underneath it all. “Because I was writing up a draft that had the potential to make your life complicated, but I was going to delete it before Louis went through my C-drive and got into a holy rage-”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Bruce’s voice is half hum; it's so low and breathless.

Clark hesitates, “I … might have written up a story about Robin getting abandoned by his parents for months at a time and how the upper crust of Gotham wasn’t as beautiful as it appeared.”

Well.

Well .

Bruce sighs.

That could cause complications for him, but nobody can say that he isn’t a huge part of his children’s lives, and in fact-

“Publish it.” Bruce tells Clark. “Tim loves his parents, they don’t hurt him, but having him put into my care- even just temporarily when his parents are gone- will ease everybodies worries right now.”

Tim’s going to raise all holy hell, the teenager really did love his parents from the bottom of his heart, he wasn’t left alone anymore when they were gone because he came to Bruce’s house all the time. He technically had a room at the manor but would always run back over to his own home to sleep, arriving back in the morning to go to school with Jason or to go into the cave for training on the weekends. The story’s going to be slammed down immediately, the Drake’s have enough money and power to squash any allegations of neglect into the dust, but Bruce could absolutely casually mention to the Drakes that he’s willing to look after their kid when the two of them are gone.

Clark raises an eyebrow, a look Batman has seen on Superman more than once.

“Get your story, both of them. Publish it.”

🦇

Clark publishes the story, Louis Lane as a co-writer.

They win two awards for it, very prestigious.

It gets buried artificially three days after it’s published, sucked down the black hole that’s the media powerhouse of the rich and famous. Nobody talks about it within the week- an abandoned child of Gotham, raised in riches, still managing to not get a single shred of sympathy.

Clark considers writing another piece, about how Gotham City expects its children- all of them, rich to poor to black to white and every single thing in between- to grow up without a figure to guide them.

Louis just tells him that Gotham would respond how it always does, they would look to the sky for that damnable Bat-Signal.

🦇

Another robotic uprising, courtesy of some crazed lunatic in eastern Europe.

The entire League was called in, everybody all hands on board to help take down thousands of buzzing swarms of battle bots armed to the teeth with deadly weapons.

Bruce goes down, one of those robots take a suicide nosedive into Batman’s wings and explodes into fiery-hot heat right at the base of the cape’s wings.

Bruce says nothing but a soft grunt of pain, but Clark’s entire mind blanks .

Spiraling down, Bruce grasps at the sky, his grapple had snapped earlier in the fight, his backup grapple had gotten damaged in the first fall. There’s nothing below him but jagged rocky debris, hundreds of robots ready to tear him to shreds if he’s too injured to keep going.

Bruce falls probably fifty, sixty feet, not reaching anywhere close to terminal velocity.

The ground would still break his back if he hit it.

Strong arms, a chest, curl themselves around Bruce’s back, the feel of alien silk on the back of his legs. Superman can’t just stop a fall, he has to slow down before stopping or reversing momentum so he doesn’t hurt anybody.

Bruce allows himself to fall into Clark’s chest, rest his head into the curve of Clark’s neck, hear the whisper of Superman fervently repeating over and over, “I got you, I have you, I got you.”

Superman slows them down, Bruce’s entire right side is full of popping shocks telling him that his right wing is out of commission, not able to be used.

They can’t land, but Superman twirls them in such a way that he’s holding onto Batman’s thighs, one on either side of his waist, chest to chest.

“Thanks.” Bruce rumbles out, “Would have been a pancake without you.”

Superman leans close, nosing into Bruce’s jawline and smelling that spike in adrenaline. “Fuck, don’t scare me like that.”

Bruce slips a hand into his utility belt, grabbing one of his last EMP’s. He tosses it over Superman’s shoulder. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

🦇

The watchtower technically has rooms for anybody to use, but they’re mostly bunk rooms for large numbers to rest before the next round of whatever they were dealing with happened to attack them. There’s only two rooms that have one bed in them- isolation rooms for dealing with potential infectious diseases or some kind of mind control.

Batman had to tell everybody that he was fine , don’t worry about his wings, he’s not going to the medical ward. There’s a huge meeting of everybody who had jumped at the call to battle, a debriefing that took several hours over multiple people delegating multiple teams. They had multiple injuries, with a few very serious ones, and one casualty.

Batman grabbed Superman after everything had been dealt with, after hours of dealing with their own team, the government, the UN, and the public, and told everyone plainly under pain of grievous injury that if they had a question to talk to Diana about it- he was going to make Superman fly him home.

Clark had followed after Batman, easy as he ever does, and only pipes up for a second after they pass the Zeta room. “Hey- aren’t we- we just passed-”

Clark shuts right up when his mental maps tell him exactly where they’re going, a huge smile on his face and his steps speeding up.

The iso-wards are soundproof, have various protocols in place, and can be locked.

There’s only one woman in the whole Tower who can override Batman’s own codes, and she’s not going to open the locked door without the entire world being on fire.

The door to the iso-ward gets closed, locked, and the soundproofing goes up, the windows get blocked, and the temperature grows comfortable with a simple command Bruce barks as soon as he walks in.

Clark is on him within nanoseconds.

“Get me out of this suit.” Bruce says into Clarks mouth, red lips brushing against one another as they talk.

Clark does as he is told.

Bruce really does look horrible, soot on his face and trailing his jawline, his right wing limp and the armour torn off, clearly broken in multiple places. There’s chunks of Bruce’s main armour that have also taken heavy blows, Bruce rips off his cowl and Clark is just taken back by the sheer beauty that hides under there.

Clark’s own suit is easy to take off, pressing against his crest, but Batman’s takes time to peel away.

The rough fabric makes Clark’s skin shiver in excitement where they brush against one another, kissing as Bruce starts unbuckling, unzipping, and ripping himself out of the outer shell. His cape is a little tricker, Clark marvels at being able to peel away the system that anchors the thin leather wing membrane to Bruce’s sides, down his back, all the way to his knees. It’s like unwrapping a christmas present, like peeling a person out of lingerie, like getting your fingernails underneath a stubborn sticker and pulling .

Bruce is full of scars, beautifully stark and pink across his weaponized body, but he’s still able to flush so pink in just the right places.

🦇

They don’t put themselves into words.

Bruce hates words, how limiting they are, how they’re never exactly right for what he wants them to be, how words can be used like double-triple-infinitely bladed weapons coming from directions he can’t block.

Clark finds he can wax on about what they are, what they can be, what they can be called, for pages and pages and pages. Clark’s whole job is words and how they’re strung together to make something more than themselves.

They have fights, they have makeups, they have sex. They kiss one another when they need reassurances that they’re both alive, when they become overcome with emotion, when they get irritated.

Bruce doesn’t want the media to find out about them, Clark doesn’t want that either. They like being able to live relatively in peace, without the constant barrage of the press. Bruce likes having his kids where they are and not having to fight off more comments about him taking them in than he already does.

They’re content.

They’re happy.

🦇

“Do you see that?” Robin asks, pointing out over the rooftops of Gotham.

Batman squints in that direction, trying to see what Robin had caught onto.

There’s somebody pretty small on a rooftop, curled around what appears to be a bag and leaning up against an air conditioning unit. There’s no rooftop access there, so the kid must have climbed the fire escape or something to get there.

“Runaway?” Robin asks, “They look pretty haggard.”

That they do, curled up tight and tired in the almost winter air.

“You continue on, catch up to where Hood is going to meet us at the docks. I’m going to go check it out.” Batman tells Robin, already moving to make the leap between buildings.

Robin just gives a cheeky salute and takes off in the exact opposite direction, a whirl of grappling line to get some real height under him and the flurry of feathers beating.

Batman moves silently, the distance between him and the child closes rapidly.

It’s a boy, maybe about seven or eight, with dark skin and darker hair. He’s holding onto a single half full duffle bag with a tight grip, wearing-

League of Assasin garments, Batman can see three hidden blades and five not-so hidden ones at first glance.

Not a runaway then.

Batman lets his shadow be seen, flaring his wings wide and waiting for the child to actually drag his gaze over before moving forward again.

Not here to fight, clearly, from the posture and the way the clothing looks worn and stained, the dirt around the child’s fingernails. He’s tired , bone weary, exhausted and looking at Batman like a death sentence.

Batman settles on the roof, wraps his wings around himself and waits.

The child is expecting him, clearly, it’s why he’s up here and oh-so visible. Who knows how long the kid has been hanging out on the rooftops of Gotham waiting to be noticed, Batman doesn’t often patrol the same route. When Bruce lands, then doesn’t move forward or speak, the child uncurls himself, stands as straight as what has probably been beaten into him to do, and begins to speak.

“My mother is Talia al Ghul.” He starts with, and Bruce can see how strong the resemblance between the two are. They have the same grass green eyes, the same elegant nose, the same high cheekbones, the same curl to their upper lip, but the shape of the face, the shape of the eyes.... “Eight years ago she had the league collect the DNA of the Batman-”

The shape of this child’s eyes is his own .

“She made me .” The child’s got narrow shoulders but he throws them back away in an attempt to seem bigger than he is. “The grandson of Ra’s al Ghul, the demon head of the League of Assassins and former heir.”

The words are spit out, Batman and Ra’s have gone head to head before, Batman had thought that Ra’s held some kind of respect for him but apparently not. This was a huge violation, but there’s nothing that Bruce can do about it now .

“They wanted me to be like you .” The child continues, his shoulders start creeping up, defensively, Bruce is never going to hit him but he’s seen how the League treats it’s members. “But I was a f-failure-”

Bruce is moving before he consciously is aware of it. Faster than you can blink Bruce is scooping up the small child in front of him- his own flesh and blood what the hell- and pressing him into a bone deep hug.

The child hisses, immediately begins to fail and curse and claw his little sharp nails along Bruce’s armour.

The League didn’t know he was Bruce Wayne, Ra’s had complimented him multiple times on his ability to fight, to move, to operate ‘as a meta’. If this boy was bred and born to be like him then the League must have been expecting a child to look like Batman. All winged fury and black shadows.

Winged .

A factual point that this child is very much not .

The League of Assassins had wanted a bat, not a boy, to raise and do horrible things with, to train up just like Batman himself and send in to kill people.

“What’s your name?” Bruce has to ask, putting the child back down before the boy can reach for the knives.

As much as the kid had put up a fuss, when Bruce peels away the boy unconsciously seems to follow his fathers embrace.

He quickly seems to catch himself, however, because he resquares his shoulders and says with all the confidence in the world- “My name is Damian al Ghul, I am an experimental failure to recreate the Batman, and I was sent away before my grandfather killed me.”