Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clark hadn’t imagined that, among all the obstacles of dating and marrying Bruce—the legally insane exes, the crises of trust, the silences that stretched like shadows—one of the hardest would be witnessing the relentless way the man treated his own body.

Sleep? Only when his body gave out, overcome by exhaustion. Eating properly? Only under Alfred’s watchful eye, who turned every meal into a silent battle.

And the cruelest irony was that Clark already knew Batman’s habits. Ten years of friendship, shared missions, endless late nights in the League’s monitor room… But living with Bruce was different. It was seeing up close how he wore himself down, as if his body were just a tool to be used until the last drop of energy was spent.

At first, Clark even smiled, shaking his head with a hint of resignation. "It’s just another big case," he thought, watching Bruce immersed in digital screens, fingers flying over keyboards and files. But when the coffee cups multiplied like soldiers in a losing war and the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes looked like smudges of ink, something inside him shuddered.

There was something almost violent in that neglect. Bruce didn’t just ignore exhaustion—he defied it, as if it were an unforgivable weakness. And Clark, used to seeing beyond surfaces, witnessed the toll it took: the tense muscles, the faltering breath when he thought no one was looking, the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands after hours without rest.

And then came the question, echoing in Clark’s mind like a dull blow: "How is this man still standing?"

And the worst part? The entire Batfamily acted like it was normal. Dick patted him on the back, grinning as if Clark had volunteered to tame a hurricane. "Good luck, buddy. You’re gonna need it." As if it were funny.

Jason, at least, didn’t pretend. A tired glance, a whispered "Welcome to hell" before vanishing into the night—and Clark didn’t even want to imagine how many of Jason’s own scars came from that same bottomless pit of "push until you break."

Tim was the only one who tried to help, but even he was drowning in the same workaholic haze, typing like a maniac across three screens at once, eyes red with fatigue. "He’s actually better now, believe it or not," the kid muttered, as if that were any comfort—even as he cracked open his third energy drink.

Better? Clark almost laughed. If this was better, what were the bad days like? How many broken ribs had Bruce shrugged off? How many sleepless nights, how many skipped meals, how many times had he passed out from exhaustion only to wake up minutes later and get back to work like nothing had happened?

And what hurt the most was that Bruce didn’t even complain. It wasn’t drama, it wasn’t a tantrum—it was pure duty, as if his body were a necessary sacrifice, something to be consumed down to the last drop. And the family… the family just accepted it. Maybe because they were like that too. Maybe because, deep down, all the Robins had learned that this was what love demanded: letting yourself drain away until nothing remained.

Clark closed his eyes, his throat tight. He didn’t know how to fix it. But he knew he wouldn’t just stand by and watch.

Because someone had to remind Bruce Wayne he was still human.

And, apparently, that task fell to him alone.

When he and Bruce finally made their relationship official—after years of loaded glances and unspoken words, after the amicable divorce with Lois, after the entire League had already given up hope—what followed was less a celebration and more a whirlwind of accountability.

The entire League seemed to have bet on them. Literally. Money changed hands, laughter echoed through the monitor room, and Hal Jordan muttered something about "finally stopping the act like they weren’t obsessed with each other." But the real surprise was Diana, smiling like the cat that got the canary, counting a stack of bills with nimble fingers.

"I always knew," she declared proudly, her eyes gleaming as if she'd predicted the end of the universe. "You two were inevitable."

Clark stood there, slightly embarrassed, his ears burning, while Bruce beside him maintained his usual impassive expression—but Clark knew that man. He could read the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers tightened around his own elbow, as if holding himself back was the only way not to react.

"Since when has there been a betting pool?" Clark asked, bewildered.

"Since the day you called him 'stubborn' mid-battle and he fired back with 'at least I don’t wear a red cape,'" Barry answered, laughing. "That’s when we all realized you two had the romantic chemistry of a 90s sitcom couple."

Bruce let out a grunt, but Diana simply held up a bill like it was irrefutable evidence.

No one could say it had been easy.

Bruce Wayne didn’t surrender—he resisted, as if love were an enemy to be fought, a weakness to be conquered. Clark knew every one of those demons that haunted Bruce in the dark: the whispers that trust was dangerous, that opening his hands was an invitation to be stabbed, that nothing good in his life could ever last. He saw the scars that ran far deeper than skin—the nights Bruce woke with the taste of gunpowder in his mouth, the days his silence cut sharper than any blade.

But Clark waited.

Patient as the sun that insisted on rising every morning. Relentless as the light that, no matter how thick the darkness, always found a way back.

And then, on an ordinary day, it happened.

No warning. No grand gesture.

The kitchen of Wayne Manor smelled of apple pie and fresh coffee. Alfred was washing dishes with his usual impeccable precision, the running water creating a soft background hum. Tim and Damian were fighting over the cat—again—with the youngest Wayne declaring with all the gravitas of a tiny dictator:

"No, Drake, you are not allowed to bother Alfred!"

While the rest of the family watched the spectacle with the resignation of those who'd seen it a thousand times before, something extraordinary happened.

Amid this picture-perfect domestic scene, Bruce—Batman, the Dark Knight, the legend who knelt for no one—just... dropped to his knees.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned. It was just Bruce, suddenly on the kitchen floor, his eyes more vulnerable than Clark had seen in a decade of friendship and two years of dating.

"Marry me."

Not a request. A plea. A confession torn from the soul of a man who’d spent his entire life barricaded behind walls. This was Bruce Wayne, finally—finally—surrendering.

Clark said yes before the last syllable had even left Bruce’s lips. Before the air could fully carry the sound. Before his brain had processed what was happening.

Because there was no other possible answer. There never had been.

The world stopped. Alfred turned off the faucet. Tim and Damian froze mid-argument. Even the cat seemed to grasp the moment’s weight, letting out a quiet mrrp.

And Bruce—oh, Bruce—smiled. A real one. That rare smile Clark only saw in the dead of night, in the breaths between sighs, when Bruce thought no one was looking.

Except now?

Now everyone was watching.

"FINALLY!" Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands up like he'd just won the lottery.

Then came a muffled sniffle, followed by a wet sob. Everyone turned to Dick, who was—oh god—full-on ugly crying, tears streaming down his face as he clutched his chest like his heart might burst from sheer joy.

"AFTER 12 YEARS OF WAITING, THIS MIRACLE FINALLY HAPPENED!" Dick wailed, dropping to his knees and raising his hands to the heavens like a sinner granted divine redemption.

"Tt. It was obvious this would happen," Jason muttered, but even he couldn't fully suppress the corner of his mouth that insisted on twitching upward.

Alfred simply dried his hands on his apron, wearing that trademark "I knew from the beginning" expression only a Pennyworth could convey without uttering a single word.

And Clark?

Clark was too busy pulling Bruce into a kiss—and for the first time in his life, Bruce Wayne didn't resist. Didn't hesitate. Didn't calculate the risks. He simply yielded, letting himself be swept away like he'd finally found safe harbor after a lifetime of storms.

It was everything Clark had ever wanted.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Clark knew marrying Bruce meant gaining an entire family—and, apparently, a very specific list of creative threats. The BatFamily didn't joke around when it came to their patriarch's emotional well-being, and each had their own... unique way of welcoming him.

Jason arrived first, as expected. The door to Clark's study in Wayne Manor swung open without warning (because, of course, locks were mere suggestions to the likes of Todd), revealing the second Robin with that crooked grin that never heralded anything good and the relaxed posture of someone who knew exactly how much damage they could inflict.

Clark raised an eyebrow as Jason dragged over a chair and—in that familiar ritual Clark knew all too well—began loading the gun’s magazine, bullet by bullet, never breaking eye contact.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The metallic sound of each round was deliberately slow, calculated. A message as clear as if Jason had shouted it.

"Hurt him..." —Jason slid the magazine home with a satisfying click— "...and I won’t kill you."

He raised the gun, not as a direct threat, but like an artist showcasing a masterpiece.

"I’ll do worse."

As cliché as it sounded, Clark knew Jason well enough to understand the man held a PhD in making death seem merciful.

Tim was subtler, but no less terrifying. He showed up at Clark’s apartment with an impeccably organized dossier—"Methods for Neutralizing Kryptonians: A Practical Analysis"—and handed it over with a five-star-hotel concierge smile.

"Just for future reference."

The calm in his voice was almost more unsettling than Jason’s gun.

Then came Damian. The boy strode in like a tiny sovereign about to decree his edicts, crossed his arms, and lifted his chin with all the dignity his four-foot frame could muster.

"Betray my father’s trust," he declared, his voice dripping with a solemnity that would’ve been comical if it weren’t so deadly earnest, "and not even the Justice League will be able to stop my retribution."

Dick, at least, tried to be diplomatic—but even he couldn't resist a "You know they're not joking, right?" accompanied by that back-pat of his, half solidarity and half warning. It felt like he was preparing the Kryptonian for a future of metaphorical knives (and, given this family, possibly some very literal ones).

When Clark Kent officially moved into Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth didn't just gain a son-in-law—he gained a walking miracle. For the first time in decades, here was someone with:

Supernatural strength to drag Bruce to bed when he insisted on becoming a caffeine-fueled zombie

Moral authority to stare down the Batfamily with that "I also fought an intergalactic dictator today, don't test me" look

And—astonishingly—Bruce Wayne now slept. Six hours. SIX. Alfred nearly dropped the teapot the first morning he saw the master of the house wake up without resembling a sleep-deprived vampire. Before, even his dark circles had dark circles! Now? He looked borderline human. Well, almost—because Bruce still growled like a bear woken mid-hibernation if anyone dared suggest he shouldn’t leap off buildings with three broken ribs.

But Clark... Clark was Alfred’s secret weapon. The man knew exactly when to deploy:

The "puppy-dog eyes" that made Bruce swallow his pride

The tone of voice that convinced the Dark Knight to accept help

The Kryptonian stubbornness that matched Bruce’s own

Now Bruce even let his kids patch him up when injured—albeit grumbling like a cornered cat.

Clark celebrated these small victories in secret, hoarding each moment like rare gems:

In the stubborn late nights, when Bruce insisted on "just one more report," his body would betray him. His head would droop slowly onto Clark’s shoulder, fingers stalling on the keyboard. The Man of Steel would smile, scooping him up like a rom-com groom (and ignoring the inevitable sarcastic remark he’d get later). Bruce would mumble unintelligible threats—maybe to imaginary criminals, or to the "excessively comfortable" pillows—but he wouldn’t wake. Victory.

During tea rituals, when Bruce would wrinkle his nose at the first sip—"Not even close to Alfred’s"—yet drink every last drop. His scarred hands would cradle the mug as if that mediocre brew were somehow precious. Clark would watch silently, memorizing it all: the steam curling between them, Bruce’s near-soundless sigh, the way his shoulders relaxed after the third sip. Victory.

But on those rare pre-9AM mornings, Bruce Wayne transformed into something mythical—hair wild like a startled cat’s fur, eyes squinting against light he’d never admit he needed, voice rough from unfiltered cigarettes and orders barked in the night. And then, in a miracle that would make the sun jealous, it happened: he smiled. One of those small, real ones, blooming like concrete flowers—as if the weight of the cowl had briefly vanished. Clark would stop breathing in those moments, becoming a Kryptonian statue—one wrong move might scare the rarity away.

And it wasn’t just that. Bruce was—against all odds and Wayne DNA—learning the language of feelings. Words that echoed through the Manor like gunshots:

"I care" uttered not during emergency surgery

"I’m proud" not followed by "but you could’ve done better"

And, on especially miraculous days—an "I love you" released into the air like it wasn’t a confession, but a universal constant

The Batfamily’s first reaction? Sheer panic.

The Batcave froze when the words left Bruce’s mouth:

"I love you all."

Jason—whose hands never abandoned a weapon, not even in his nightmares—dropped the Glock he'd been cleaning. The metal clattered to the floor like muffled thunder, but he didn't even blink. His eyes, usually so cynical, were now as wide as the street kid Bruce had found years ago—the same boy who'd pretended not to care when given his own room for the first time.

Tim choked on his coffee, coughing like a cat with a hairball, and nearly sent his laptop flying—which, for the third Robin, constituted a full-blown panic attack. His fingers, normally nimble enough to hack the Pentagon before breakfast, froze for a full second before launching into a frenzied typing spree.

Dick, ever the most expressive, turned so pale Clark almost flew him to the League medic on the spot.

"You running a fever?" Jason's voice was rough, but the hand he pressed to Bruce's forehead was unexpectedly gentle.

"Fear Gas? Arkham breakout? Scarecrow testing new formulas?" Tim already had five databases open on the Batcomputer, fingers flying like Gotham depended on it.

"Father, is this a coded message?" Damian stood at attention like a soldier on inspection, brow furrowed in that expression he'd inherited from Bruce. "Or psychological resistance training?"

Even Alfred, the eternal master of British discretion, nearly fumbled the silver tray. Nearly. His steady hands betrayed the slightest tremor—the Pennyworth equivalent of a meltdown.

But it wasn't fever. Wasn't magic. Wasn't encrypted code or modified Fear Toxin.

It was just... Bruce. Trying.

And then, as gradually as Bruce had learned to trust, they began to adapt:

Jason stopped checking his weapons every time Bruce muttered "I care about you."

Tim cut down his Batcomputer searches for "mind control" to just three times a week. On Wednesday, he even archived a folder.

Damian replaced his usual "This is irrelevant" with an almost imperceptible nod. (If that nod came with suspiciously shiny eyes? Case closed.)

Dick, of course, was already a professional hugger. But now his embraces with Bruce lasted exactly 10 seconds longer—Clark timed them.

It was slow. It was messy. But the boys were learning too—each dismantling their own traps, piece by piece.

Dick Grayson was unlearning how to smile.

It felt like a living contradiction: the eternal poster boy of cheerfulness, the acrobat who balanced pain and hope like circus rings, was finally letting the mask slip.

For the first time, he didn’t bolt after his second therapy session.

For the first time, he didn’t turn his exhaustion into a joke.

For the first time, he didn’t fake "I’m fine" when he clearly wasn’t.

No one in Wayne Manor would forget the night Dick—between bites of mashed potatoes—dropped a quiet "Not feeling great today, gonna turn in early" instead of his rehearsed "Everything’s awesome!"

The silence that followed was so thick even the antique dining room clock seemed to pause for a second.

Jason choked on his soda.

Tim froze mid-forklift, brain short-circuiting.

Damian’s utensil clinked like a gunshot in the quiet.

"Who are you and what have you done with Dick Grayson?" Jason gaped like he was seeing a ghost (or worse: an emotionally honest Dick Grayson).

And then... Dick laughed. Not that performative "Team morale!" chuckle, but a tired, genuine, human sound.

Progress.

Jason Todd was a human hurricane—the fury of the Lazarus Pit still roared in his veins, ghosts of the past whispering in his ears during sleepless nights. But something was shifting.

Before, when the rage boiled over, he’d explode. Vanish for weeks. Return with more scars and fewer explanations. Now… now he breathed. Deep. Slow. Counted to ten like Alfred had taught him in another life, back when he was still a Robin.

And the most shocking part? He and Bruce talked. No knives, no shouting, no blood on the Batcave floor. Just… trying. Two stubborn men painstakingly learning to navigate the turbulent waters they’d created.

Clark watched it all with a quiet smile. He knew the secret behind the transformation—and it wore a red baseball cap.

“C’mon, Todd. Critical mission,” Roy lied shamelessly, already dragging Jason by the arm.

These so-called “missions” always ended the same way: the two of them on Jason’s battered safehouse couch, empty pizza boxes littering the floor, some trashy 90s movie playing on the TV. Roy didn’t do pep talks. Didn’t force Jason to “talk about his feelings.” He just… stayed. Present.

Like that night Jason woke up screaming, hands trembling uncontrollably, mouth still bitter with the taste of grave dirt and Lazarus chemicals. Roy didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer hollow comforts. Just shoved a glass of ice water into his grip and queued up Predator at full volume.

“Greatest film ever made,” he declared, with the conviction of someone who didn’t care they’d watched it three nights in a row.

Jason gulped the water down. Breathed. Looked at his boyfriend—at that accidental anchor keeping him grounded when memories tried to drag him under.

“You’ve got shit taste, Harper.”

Roy laughed, loud and unguarded, the sound echoing through the apartment. And something inside Jason—something wounded and ever-vigilant—finally stilled.

This was how Jason Todd found his way home. Not in a desperate sprint. Not in a blind leap. But step by step, scar by scar, like unraveling an ancient curse.

Like a battleship, marked by treacherous tides and countless wars, docking not at the edge of the world—but on a battered safehouse couch, among empty beer cans and the echo of easy laughter.

Damian Wayne remained, undeniably, Damian. A walking paradox of princely arrogance and lethal skill, packed into 1.5 meters of pure audacity—the kind of child who wore tailored suits and glared at adults with the disdain most reserved for irritating insects.

Yet between the lines of his insufferable behavior—if one knew to look with saintly patience and binoculars—subtle rebellions against his upbringing sprouted like weeds cracking concrete.

The first time he botched a training maneuver—a flawed spin that would’ve earned him grave injury in the League—his body braced automatically for impact. Muscles tensed, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed as he calculated the angle of the coming strike.

But the blow never landed.

Instead, Bruce said the three most revolutionary words Damian had ever heard:

“It happens. Try again.”

Three syllables that echoed in Damian’s mind for days, defying his entire programming. It happens. As if error were human. As if it were allowed. As if he didn’t need perfection to deserve existence.

Slowly, with the caution of a wild creature testing unknown terrain, Damian began exploring these new borders:

A laugh escaped during a video game match with Jon—loud, unguarded, so childishly genuine Damian barely recognized his own voice. And the sky didn’t fall. No earthquakes. No apocalypse. Just Jon grinning like this was normal. Like Damian had a right to lightness.

A shouting match with Jason that devolved into increasingly creative curses (his Arabic insult repertoire even impressed the Red Hood).

A strategy debate with Tim that almost—almost—escalated to violence. Damian listed three dismemberment methods before stopping, breathing deep, and… rolling his eyes. Tim’s victorious smirk nearly made him reconsider nonviolence.

“You’re going soft, demon brat,” Jason grumbled after one such incident—but there was an odd gleam in his eye.

“Evolving, he means,” Tim corrected, prudently stepping out of stabbing range.

Damian, of course, responded with characteristic maturity:

“I am not a Pokémon to ‘evolve,’ Drake. Mention it again and I swear—”

“You’ll stab me, yes, we know,” Tim interrupted, laughing. “But at least you give warning now. That’s progress.”

Of course, old habits die hard—especially when carved into you with daggers since the cradle. Daily stabbing threats persisted (Rome wasn’t built in a day). His posture remained blade-straight, his vocabulary absurdly ornate, his need to win every minor interaction like it was mortal combat.

But in those rare moments when he thought no one was looking, Damian became a child again:

Asking Alfred for cookie recipes.

Watching cartoons with Titus curled in his lap.

Letting Jon drag him into "adventures" that were really just… kids being kids.

And when Bruce lifted him during a particularly rough night—for no reason, just because—Damian didn’t protest. Didn’t reach for a blade. Just buried his face in his father’s shoulder.

He was learning the hardest lesson of all:

He could just be Damian.

Not the Heir to the Demon. Not Batman’s successor.

Just himself.

Among the Batfamily, Cass, Steph, Duke, and Barbara were the closest to "emotional stability"—or at least, stable enough to avoid 24/7 surveillance. Which, given the family track record, was practically a miracle.

Cass was no longer the silent shadow who spoke only through precise strikes and micro-expressions. Now, she delivered deadpan jokes as sharp as her roundhouse kicks—jokes that left Jason genuinely stunned.

“You… made a joke?” Jason once asked, eyes wide as if witnessing a supernatural event.

“Yes. Problem?” Cass fired back, face impassible but voice glinting with amusement.

The outcome was predictable: Dick howled with laughter behind them.

She still read body language better than any book—the tension in Tim’s shoulders, the clench of Damian’s jaw, Bruce’s unconsciously balled fists. But now, she also asked, out loud and clear:

"Are you okay?"

Steph, who used to vanish for weeks just to prove she needed no one, now showed up at the Manor whenever she pleased, usually to:

Operation: Snack Heist

"Jason, is your name on this sandwich?" she’d ask, mouth already full, shamelessly holding the clearly labeled "TODD'S PROPERTY - DO NOT TOUCH" meal.

"YES, DAMMIT!" Jason would roar from the next room.

"Hmm... tastes good," she’d reply, taking another deliberately slow bite as furious footsteps stormed closer.

Meme Terrorism

Bruce once found in the Batcave’s high-tech printer:

A photo of his bedhead + Comic Sans caption: "PRE-COFFEE BAT (ENDANGERED SPECIES)"

Duke no longer felt like a permanent guest in his own home. As the self-dubbed "Newest Wayne" (a title he vehemently contested—"For God’s sake, I’m older than the Demon Brat!"), it took months to carve out his place among the bats.

Official Couch Rights

The spot between Jason and Steph—a traditional warzone—where territorial disputes were settled via rock-paper-scissors.

Initiation into Brotherly Rituals

Dick finally included him in the sacred "Older Brother Training," which consisted of:

✓ Gaming until dawn

✓ Arguing over Gotham’s best burger joint

✓ Solemnly ignoring the concept of bedtimes

Barbara was, unquestionably, the sanest family member—which, given the company, was like being the least injured patient in a circus accident. But even she had her moments of levity:

"If you don’t stop squabbling like children in five seconds, I’ll disable all Batcave systems for a week—and cut the Wi-Fi," she’d announce over comms, fingers hovering dramatically over her keyboard as she watched the chaos safely from the Clock Tower.

The miracle? It worked. Instantly.

She joked that Clark was the family’s "emotional janitor"—finally giving Alfred a chance to retire. (A bald-faced lie. Alfred Pennyworth likely had a pact with a cosmic entity or was an ancient deity who’d adopted the Waynes as his own. But nothing provable… yet.)

Chapter Text

Clark Kent had faced beings capable of bending reality with a single thought, dictators who ruled entire star systems, and even the absolute void of outer space. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the most exhausting challenge of all: getting Tim Drake to follow anything resembling a healthy routine.

The kid was a genius, sure, but he wielded that sharp intellect like a weapon against any attempt at self-care. Clark could swear Tim treated sleep schedules, meals, and breaks like an ultra-complex security system—and himself, the hacker determined to crack it.

Clark’s latest attempt still echoed in his mind like a humiliating defeat.

Round 1:

Clark (calm, paternal concern voice): "Tim, you need to sleep. It’s 2 a.m."

Tim (eyes glued to the seven Batcomputer screens, fingers flying over the keyboard like he was decoding doomsday ciphers):

"Technically, humans can survive on four hours of sleep if they optimize REM cycles. Besides, this—"

(He points to a graph that, to Clark, looks more like alien code than anything comprehensible)

"—is more important."

Clark (deep breath, equal parts patience and exasperation):

"Even Bruce has slept before."

Round 2: The Nutritional War

Clark thought he’d found the perfect solution. If Tim insisted on living off coffee and energy drinks, he’d simply swap the poison for something less… lethal. A green smoothie. Healthy. Innocent.

He’d barely set the glass on the table before Tim was eyeing the greenish liquid like it was a national security threat—or worse.

Tim (sniffing the suspicious drink with the expression of someone uncovering an assassination plot):

"If you’re trying to poison me, the League of Shadows has way more efficient methods."

Clark (arms crossed, unfazed):

"It’s kale, pineapple, and apple, Tim."

Tim (pushing the glass away like rejecting an ancient curse):

"Exactly."

Clark sighed. The green smoothie was exiled. But he wasn’t one to give up so easily.

The real victory came weeks later, when the entire family (read: Dick with his most annoyingly persuasive smile, Jason threatening to dismantle the coffee machines with his bare hands, and even Alfred raising that eyebrow no one dared challenge) managed to wrestle a solemn promise out of Tim: he’d finally cut back on the energy drinks.

It seemed like a win.

Oh, how naïve.

The silver cans had only been the beginning of the downfall. In a move that mixed genius and self-sabotage, Tim Drake hadn’t abandoned stimulants—he’d just evolved them to a new level of insanity.

Matcha in Heroic Doses

The first sign of the new addiction came in the form of matcha. Lots of matcha.

Tim (mixing a bowl that looked more like an alchemical experiment, green powder flying everywhere):

"It's healthy, Clark! Full of antioxidants!"

Clark (staring at the mountain of matcha Tim was about to consume in one go, as if defying the laws of biochemistry):

"Tim... antioxidants don’t mean 'immunity to overdose.'"

Clark, who knew the limits of the human body better than any doctor, watched in horror as the dark green paste formed in the cup. No earthly liver was prepared for that.

The kid ignored him and took a sip of the radioactive concoction with the calm of someone drinking water. Clark could’ve sworn he saw Tim’s eyes glow an unnatural shade of green for a second.

Coffee That Defied Physics

If the matcha was concerning, Tim’s coffee was a direct violation of natural law.

His new "premium brew" featured:

✔ Tar-like consistency

✔ Aroma strong enough to make eyes water from three meters away

Jason Todd (in an act of questionable bravery—or pure self-destruction):

"Okay, c’mon, it can’t be that bad."

One sip. A deadly silence.

Jason (voice hoarse, like he’d swallowed 80-grit sandpaper):

"...This isn’t coffee. This is a war crime."

Tim (proudly pouring another cup):

"And it works perfectly."

Dick (sniffing the air and recoiling instantly):

"Little brother, this violates the Geneva Convention."

The Guaraná Powder Era – Or: When Tim Drake Discovered That "Light" is a Relative Concept

On days when Tim "tried to be healthy" (read: when Dick deployed his Disappointed Older Brother™ Stare + the silent threat of Alfred looming in the air), he mixed the powder into water like a normal person.

Other days? Well…

Clark once caught him downing a heaping tablespoon of pure guaraná powder straight into his mouth, like a tequila shot at a frat party.

Clark (voice hitting dog-whistle frequencies, arm outstretched in vain):

"TIM, WHAT THE HELL—"

Tim (swallowing the powder without even flinching, like a soldier on a mission):

"It’s basically the same as an energy drink, but without the questionable preservatives!"

The Final Boss: The Death Pre-Workout

...And then Clark found an empty pre-workout packet in the Batcave.

The label had a bold red warning:

❝DO NOT CONSUME MORE THAN 1 SCOOP PER DAY.❞

But someone (read: Tim, the walking scientific experiment) had crossed it out with a pen and written below in his signature "psychopath-doctor handwriting":

❝CHALLENGE ACCEPTED :)❞

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Clark remembered with perfect clarity his first real attempt at an intervention—that moment when he thought that, with Bruce’s help, he could finally make Tim understand that no, the human body is not a machine that runs on caffeine and stubbornness alone.

He planted himself in front of the Batcomputer, arms crossed (in a pose that blended "disappointed dad" and "Superman about to drag you to bed by force"), and unleashed The Look™.

Clark (voice deep, "final warning before the Kryptonian comes out" tone):

"Tim. You know this is going to kill you, right?"

Tim (monotone, like an AI assistant stating the obvious):

"Technically, everything kills. Even too much water."

Clark pressed his lips together until they went white and turned to Bruce, who was watching from the shadows like a resigned ghost.

Clark ("Desperate Dad"™ expression):

"Bruce…"

A single name. A silent plea.

Translation: "Your son. Your responsibility. HELP ME."

Bruce crossed his arms, sighed like a man who’d lost this war long ago, and delivered the final verdict:

"I’ve tried. He won through sheer stubbornness."

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Clark was almost certain he’d cracked the secret behind Tim’s inhuman endurance. The kid could go days running on nothing but caffeine, spite, and pure contempt for well-being—until he hit the breaking point: bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, and judgment so impaired he once tried to use a coffee mug as a mouse.

And just when Clark thought the kid would finally faceplant onto the keyboard… he’d vanish.

For a few hours.

And when he returned? Reborn. Skin with color, sharp gaze, posture flawless—like he’d slept a full week cradled by angels.

It made no sense. (Not that "making sense" was a relevant concept in Gotham, but still.)

Clark was absolutely sure: Tim was going to Viktor—one of Gotham’s two inexplicable resident wizards.

And the weirdest part? The wizards were Bruce’s friends.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Clark Kent was a fair man. The kind who believed in giving everyone an equal chance—even villains who technically deserved to be yeeted into space.

But even he had to admit: it would be criminally unfair to compare any normal city-dweller to a Gothamite… or, worse, a Batfamily member.

Because Gothamites weren’t human. They were the result of some Darwinian "survive or become a statistic" experiment. Their genetic code was a direct insult to biology, and their lifestyles made doctors weep in the fetal position.

Gothamites' Innate Abilities (According to Clark):

1. Absurd Immune System

The Scarecrow had to develop new toxin variants every few months because Gotham’s population built resistance like it was a damn mutating virus.

2. Iron Metabolism

The average Gothamite could survive on day-old coffee, three-day-old pizza, and pure spite as their sole sources of nutrition.

3. Superhuman Psychological Resilience

Muggings, villain attacks, toxic gas clouds? Just a regular Tuesday.

If Gotham were an RPG, its citizens would have:

✔ +15 poison/toxin resistance

✔ +5 questionable sanity

✔ -10 self-preservation (optional)

If Gothamites were already outliers, the Waynes existed in a realm beyond logic—somewhere between "this shouldn’t be possible" and "science gave up trying to explain."

Clark, a literal alien who shot lasers from his eyes, admitted that nothing had prepared him for Wayne biology:

✔ Highest concentration of meta-human genes (active and dormant) in Gotham

✔ Toxin resistance 3x higher than the average Gothamite

✔ Abnormally accelerated healing

Clark knew stress could trigger latent genes, but with the Waynes, he was pretty sure one more exposure to Fear Gas would officially reclassify them as metahumans.

During their last battle, Clark’s X-ray vision caught something impossible for a non-metahuman:

Bruce’s cracked ribs—which hours earlier had looked like shattered glass—were already forming soft calluses, as if his body was repairing itself in real time.

Before Clark could scream, question, or enter denial, he was treated to a collective Wayne Biology™ lecture:

Dick (doing flips with a clearly dislocated shoulder):

"It’s like getting a vaccine, y’know? Your body builds antibodies. Except in our case—"

(Snaps his shoulder back into place with a fluid motion.)

"—the antibodies are for broken bones. After the thirtieth time, your skeleton’s just like, ‘Ugh, this again?’ and patches itself up real quick."

Bruce, the supposed voice of reason, just coughed—a wet, suspicious sound Clark swore came from a punctured lung—and muttered while bandaging a deep gash like it was a cat scratch:

"Leslie calls it ‘pathological adaptation to extreme environments.’ We call it... efficiency."

That’s when Clark noticed the most disturbing detail: None of them found this weird. To the Waynes, accelerated healing was as mundane as breakfast or changing uniforms.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

None of this, however, justified their complete disregard for self-preservation.

Clark tried. For Rao’s sake, he tried.

8 hours of sleep? Impossible. Tim laughed in his face like it was a joke.

6 hours? Total failure. The kid woke up looking like he was plotting homicide.

5 hours? Well, 5 hours was Tim’s bare minimum—where he’d rise with the demeanor of a soaked cat, attacking his first coffee like it owed him money.

At the limits of human (and Kryptonian) patience, Clark crossed his arms and delivered the most obvious warning in history:

"Tim—" He enunciated each word like he was speaking to a particularly stubborn alien, "you. Are going. To die. Before. Thirty."

The silence that followed was broken only by Tim’s furious typing. Then, with the casualness of someone discussing the weather, the youngest Wayne dropped:

"I’ve died once. Wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s not that bad."

(A strategic pause as his fingers kept dancing over the keyboard.)

"Death’s kinda nice, actually. You should try it."

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Clark let out a weary sigh, rubbing his tired eyes. Threatening a Wayne with death? Pathetic. Honestly, it was so ridiculous it bordered on comical.

Bruce had made it abundantly clear—with that infuriating half-smile that only appeared when he knew he had the upper hand—that the Waynes had a special relationship with two eternal constants: Death and Destiny.

Contrary to horror stories, Death wasn’t some impersonal shadow or a merciless reaper. Not to the Waynes. To them, she was kind.

Every time a Wayne closed their eyes for the "last time," there she was—materializing as a gentle presence, a soft smile on her lips, like someone greeting an old friend.

"Do you want to come back, or would you rather rest in my realm?"

It was the same question every time, asked with a tenderness that would make any mortal doubt their convictions.

And the Waynes? Well, they adored her. Every single one of them. They told stories about her warmth, her gentle touch—as if she were the only truly good thing at the end of everything.

Clark knew it wasn’t a lie. He’d been friends with her himself since Dick’s early Robin days. There was an understanding between them—after all, how many beings in the universe could say they knew Death personally?

It was his second year regularly appearing in Gotham, split between helping Bruce "tame" (or, let’s be honest, survive) the hurricane of energy and acrobatics named Dick Grayson, and stopping Robin from unleashing his inner gremlin and reducing the city to rubble.

Twice a week, he’d descend from the skies, weaving through Gothic skyscrapers, soaking in:

Dick’s wild laughter echoing between buildings

Those rare, genuine smiles from Bruce that were worth their weight in gold

The controlled chaos only the Waynes could call "night patrol"

It wasn’t much, but it was his ritual. An anchor in Gotham’s madness. And, of course, having X-ray vision never hurt when it came to preventing tragedies before they happened. (Even if he was forbidden from intervening.)

But that night... something was fundamentally wrong.

Clark felt it before he saw it. Bruce’s heart—usually an unshakable metronome—suddenly spiked. Not the controlled rhythm of a chase or the predictable cadence of a fight. This was pure, unfiltered panic.

And that meant only one thing: Dick was in danger.

The icy Gotham air cut like a blade as Clark dove toward the sound of Bruce’s racing heart—that frantic, animalistic tempo that only happened when Dick was threatened.

But what he found was worse. So much worse.

Clark saw. Clark heard.

And then—something inside him shattered.

The mercenary didn’t even have time to celebrate. A blur of blue and red slammed him into the wall with brutal force, bricks cracking like bones under the impact. Clark hauled him up by the collar like he weighed nothing, a ragdoll in the grip of something primordial.

This wasn’t Superman. Not the one the world knew.

This fury came from a place Clark kept locked away—a chasm where nothing existed but the deafening roar of raw justice. No mercy. No restraint.

The first punch shattered the mercenary’s nose with a sickening crunch. The second split his jaw, sending blood and teeth spraying. The third caved in his ribs, and the man’s scream was drowned out by the sound of something snapping inside.

With every blow, Clark felt his strength grow, as if each heartbeat pumped more raw power into his muscles. Rage swelled inside him—a volcano on the verge of eruption, scorching away any rationality still clinging to his mind.

And then—the final strike. He knew. That punch would be fatal. No human could survive it. Nothing would remain intact. Just… pulp. A red smear on Gotham’s asphalt.

Then—

A voice, fragile but firm, cut through the red haze in his mind.

"Superman."

It was Dick.

That single word hit Clark like a bucket of ice water. He froze, fist still raised, breath ragged. Dick was there.

The boy didn’t panic at the sight of Bruce’s motionless body on the ground. No trembling, no screaming—just a calculated stare, his eyes scanning his fallen mentor like he was counting. One, two, three…

Because Bruce had warned him.

"If I go down, don’t worry. I’ll be back in five. Tops."

It was protocol. Dick knew not to worry.

But Clark? Clark didn’t know.

The Kryptonian was shattered. His eyes burned—not from sunlight, but from something darker, a fire eating him from within. Dick caught his expression in a split second and acted fast. No time for explanations—not when Clark was one breath away from breaking.

"Clark, put him in the Batmobile. Now."

Dick’s voice didn’t waver. No hesitation, no doubt. It was a clear order, as if he were the veteran and Clark the lost rookie. And Clark, still trapped between panic and denial, obeyed on reflex. His arms moved almost on their own, lifting Bruce’s limp body with reverent care.

Dick slid into the passenger seat, fingers flying over the dashboard. A command, another, and the Batmobile roared to life, engines growling like a freed beast before launching toward Wayne Manor.

Clark could barely breathe.

His eyes stayed locked on Bruce—still, slumped in the backseat, head lolling like a discarded doll’s. No rise and fall of his chest. No twitch of his lips. And the worst part? Clark knew. He’d heard it. With his superhuman hearing, he’d caught the exact moment Bruce’s heart stopped. That final, weak thump—then silence.

The quiet inside the Batmobile was so heavy Clark could almost hear his own blood rushing. He looked from Bruce to Dick, searching for grief, for despair—anything to match the knot in his throat.

But the boy just sat there, impassive, eyes fixed on the dashboard clock, fingers tapping a calm rhythm on his knee.

The Batcave greeted them with its usual technological hush. Alfred was already waiting like a veteran surgeon, his steady hands receiving Bruce’s body with the precision of someone who’d done this countless times before.

"How long since he 'passed out'?" Alfred asked, fingers already flying across monitors and connecting tubes with the precision of a watchmaker.

"4 minutes and 30 seconds," Dick replied, checking the Batmobile's clock with the casualness of someone timing a coffee brew.

The air in the Batcave weighed like lead in Clark's lungs. His hands trembled involuntarily as he stared at Bruce's motionless body on the gurney. He couldn't form words—how could he admit aloud that he'd witnessed the exact moment life left his best friend? That he'd seen Bruce's lips turn blue, his chest still, his heart stop—

And then—impossibly, miraculously—Bruce Wayne's heart started beating again.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The cardiac monitor lit up green.

The euphoria that slammed into Clark was so violent his legs gave out. He crashed to his knees on the Batcave's cold floor, fingers denting the steel table edge like it was paper. The metal groaned under his involuntary grip.

He's alive.

The heart monitor's rhythm echoed like a mantra, each beep proof Bruce was still there. But Clark couldn't tear his eyes from the Batman's chest—from that barely-there rise and fall.

Alfred—with that perfect tone (raised eyebrow, calm voice, the composure only decades of handling Waynes could teach)—finally broke the heavy silence:

"I believe we owe an explanation, don't we, Master Dick?"

Dick, who'd been monitoring Bruce's vitals with the calm of an ER doctor, froze. His eyes widened for a split second—the closest to panic anyone had ever seen on Robin—before slowly turning to Clark.

"Oooops... I kinda forgot to mention."

Bruce tried to sit up with a groan, but Alfred—with the precision of a neurosurgeon and the patience of a saint—pushed him back down with a single firm finger to the shoulder, like restraining a rebellious lion cub.

Dick shot Bruce a desperate look (wide eyes, mouth slightly open in a silent "Now what, boss?"). Bruce, still groggy with heavy-lidded eyes and uneven breaths, simply raised a hand in a clear "Screw it, the cat's out of the bag" gesture before letting it drop back onto the gurney.

"Well... it's like this..." Dick began, rubbing his neck like he could squeeze out the right words through pressure. "Death likes us. Like, REALLY likes us. Enough to always offer a do-over when we... y'know... die."

Clark's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You... die... and she just lets you come back?" His voice came out strangled, each word fighting to escape.

"Kinda?" Dick shrugged like he was explaining board game rules. "She always asks if we want to stay or return. So far, everyone picks return."

Bruce finally managed to sit up—but every movement was slow, weighted, like his body was made of lead. His fingers shook as he unclasped the suit, rough grunts of pain escaping through clenched teeth.

Clark's shell-shocked expression was still frozen in place when the unfiltered words slipped out:

"What the actual fuck?"

Superman cursing. Now he'd truly seen everything.

Alfred extended a glass of water with steady hands, and Bruce took it with fingers that still trembled slightly—an almost imperceptible detail that made Clark frown.

Batman didn't tremble.

Never.

Bruce took a measured sip of water before continuing, his voice regaining that deep, controlled tone:

"The first time I died, I was nine. Fell off the manor roof." A deliberate pause. "Death appeared, asked if I wanted to go with her or come back..."

"I came back that time without really understanding. Thought it was a dream." His gaze grew distant, fixed on some faraway memory. "Until I died again at ten—poisoning. Fifteen—internal bleeding. Twenty-two—hypothermia."

A chill ran down Clark's spine. There was something deeply unsettling about how casually Bruce listed his own deaths, as if they were mere scheduling conflicts. But what came next made him swallow hard.

"We Waynes... have an understanding." Bruce studied the water glass, tracing its rim with uncharacteristic delicacy. "When I asked why she kept choosing me after our second meeting, she simply said we knew each other... that we'd even become friends."

Dick stopped fidgeting with his batarang, eyes widening.

"Wait. She never told me that part."

Bruce did something rare—he smiled. Not the Bat's trademark smirk, but something genuine, almost nostalgic.

"It was during her brief stint as a human... I knew her as Sophia, a four-year-old with terminal cancer at Gotham General." A deep breath. "My first charity event after my parents died."

A soft sigh escaped him, but a real smile lit his face.

"We met in the hospital gardens when I slipped away from the gala." His eyes turned misty, reliving the memory. "We talked before her speech. Until that day, I'd never seen anyone—let alone a child—stand up to adults with such conviction."

Clark leaned forward, utterly captivated.

"Her speech broke all fundraising records for Gotham's pediatric oncology wing," Bruce continued, pride coloring his voice. "Still unbeaten."

Dick nearly fell off his chair.

"HOLD UP. The legendary 'Passionfruit Speech' was HER?!"

Bruce laughed—a true, light sound that made Alfred's left eyebrow twitch upward.

"Who else?"

Clark frowned.

"What in the world is the 'Passionfruit Speech'?"

Alfred, pouring more tea, explained with reverence:

"Imagine, Master Kent, a four-year-old climbing onto a stool to reach the microphone, facing Gotham's wealthiest families... and delivering this."

Bruce then perfectly mimicked Sophia's high, determined voice:

"Well, I'm gonna die, but... maybe you could help my clinic friends? I refuse to meet them in the afterlife looking like wrinkly old passionfruits or needing a bunch of surgeries to look new again!"

His own imitation made him chuckle—a rare, warm sound echoing through the Cave.

"We stayed friends until she passed a year later." His voice roughened almost imperceptibly. "That's when I founded the first 'Little Warrior' charity house."

Clark could picture it vividly: a nine-year-old Bruce, too small and too serious, cutting the inaugural ribbon with Alfred beside him, the building named for the friend who changed everything.

"I only discovered who she truly was during our second meeting—when I was ten, undergoing poison resistance training." Bruce paused meaningfully. "That's when I realized I was under her protection. And later... she extended it to Dick. Much to Alfred's and my relief."

Dick—who was balancing a batarang on his nose (because of course he was)—chimed in:

"First time I 'came back,' she yanked my ear and said, 'You're as stubborn as your father.'"

Alfred shook his head, as if every word about Death was an absolute truth he'd known for ages.

Bruce shot his son a look—rare and vulnerable—before turning to Clark:

"I should have told you sooner." A deep breath. "But it's hard to explain without sounding insane."

Clark stared at them—Bruce still pale from recent death with shadowed eyes, Dick so young yet so accustomed to this absurdity—and felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. Not from humor, but that sharp, graceless laughter born of pure desperation.

"So let me get this straight," Clark said, rubbing his face as if he could erase the last hour. "You essentially have infinite lives?"

Bruce shrugged, the motion almost taunting.

"Not infinite." He adjusted his gauntlet, avoiding Clark's gaze. "Just... negotiable."

And in that moment, Clark Kent—last son of Krypton, the Man of Steel—decided he'd never complain about his alien heritage again.

As if that weren't enough, Bruce then invited him to afternoon tea with Death herself.

"Clark, I've invited her for tea tomorrow. You're welcome to join."

So Clark Kent—last son of Krypton, the Man of Steel—not only attended but brought a homemade apple pie (because despite fighting the stereotype, sometimes he leaned into it).

Seated on the sunlit veranda of Wayne Manor, his fine porcelain teacup trembling slightly in hand, Clark found himself staring at the most ancient and feared entity in existence—who was currently debating Darjeeling quality with Alfred.

"I expected... more drama," Clark admitted, studying the figure before him.

Death—because what else do you call the embodiment of the end?—wasn't a hooded skeleton. Not a looming shadow. She was a young woman with warm brown skin and eyes that held the weight and lightness of existence itself. Dressed in a black sweater and jeans, she wore a silver ankh necklace and—why not?—a skull bracelet Dick had insisted on gifting her last Christmas.

"Drama's for amateurs or my siblings," she replied, spreading jam on a scone with the ease of a favorite aunt. "After your first billion souls, you learn simplicity is key."

Beside Clark, Bruce looked perfectly at ease—as if tea with Death was a standard Tuesday agenda item.

"She prefers cinnamon biscuits," he remarked, with the casualness of someone discussing the weather.

Clark glanced at the cookie in his hand, suddenly questioning all his past culinary choices.

Dick, of course, couldn't resist adding: "We tried convincing her to use a scythe, but she called it 'too cliché,'" he complained, shamelessly stealing a sandwich from Bruce's plate.

Death smiled, revealing perfect teeth that—for a fleeting moment—seemed to glow with their own light. Not eerie, but welcoming, like the last ray of sun before dusk.

"I went through my over-the-top Rococo phase," Death admitted, adjusting her ankh necklace with a touch of nostalgia. "Robe à la française, lace, frills, gold detailing, the whole dramatic production... Nowadays I prefer casual wear."

Clark spent the afternoon between steaming teacups, buttery biscuits, and stories that would make the Oans blush.

Death—or "Aunt Death," as Dick called her when he thought she wasn't listening—was the best storyteller he'd ever met. She regaled them with tales of:

Botched reincarnations ("Once, a monk came back as a hedgehog because he insisted on meditating mid-process")

Stubborn souls who refused to leave public restrooms

A pharaoh who tried to bring his cat to the afterlife and caused a dimensional incident

"And that’s how cats got seven lives," she concluded with a smirk.

Bruce, of course, listened with the expression of someone reviewing tax reports.

"Have you considered pre-signing a death certificate for me?" He tilted his head, dead serious. "It’d be efficient."

Death laughed—a sound that made the crystal glasses hum in harmony—and flicked a sugar cube at Bruce with sniper precision.

"Oh Bruce, you never change."

Clark felt his reporter’s instincts flare. An exclusive interview with Death herself would make Lois die of envy (then resurrect just to murder him). But more than that, he finally understood.

This wasn’t the grim reaper of legend. This was the eccentric aunt who:

Knew all the cosmic gossip ("Hades? Darling, he only grew that beard because Persephone said his chin looks like a peach")

Gave surprisingly good advice ("Never argue with ghosts. They have infinite time to be right")

Made you feel special just for existing ("You’re my favorite Kryptonian, you know? And I’ve met a few")

And though Clark now saw Death as a cherished friend (a resume bullet he’d never anticipated), none of this filled the quiet void that still lingered when the unspoken name hovered between them:

Jason Todd.

Bruce had shut down that day. Not the Batman’s calculated silence, not the tactical coldness he used on villains. Something deeper, more shattered—like he’d swallowed his own heart and let stomach acid dissolve it slowly.

Clark remembered those shadowed weeks after the circus, when Bruce couldn’t even glance at Robin’s display case in the Cave. As if the mere sight of red, green, and yellow would tear open wounds that never scabbed.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Today was that day. The first anniversary of Jason's death.

Clark wanted—needed—to hole up in his apartment, buried under blankets, speaking to no one. Maybe watch one of those trashy '80s movies Jason loved to mock, eating an entire pizza alone, pretending the outside world didn’t exist.

But he was Superman.

And Superman didn’t have the luxury of falling apart.

Yet as he flew over Metropolis, his ears catching every cry for help, every distant siren—his mind kept drifting to stolen memories:

Jason laughing, that wide, mischievous grin when he first donned the Robin suit. "Look, Uncle Clark, now I’m officially cooler than you!"

Jason joking, as he always did, about how Clark should "just marry Bruce already" to seal the deal as his second dad. "C’mon, I’ll help you pick the ring!"

It was just a joke, just a joke, but now it ached like a knife twist. Because Jason wasn’t here to laugh at it. To laugh at anything.

Clark landed atop the Daily Planet, breathing deep. Below, the city kept spinning, unaware—unburdened—that the Man of Steel had days when he just wanted to scream.

He closed his eyes for a second. Then opened them, steeled his jaw, and took off again.

Because heroes didn’t get to stop.

But God, how he wished he could.

"Milk, I swear to Rao—"

Clark sighed, plucking the white kitten from the treetop—again. The little menace had a habit of scaling every trunk whenever a dog appeared during their daily walks in Metropolis Park. Today, of course, was no exception.

"Keep this up, and I’ll have to ask your owner to keep you indoors," he grumbled, cradling the kitten as he floated down.

Milk responded with a haughty meow, nose in the air as if to say, "Better this than a mangy mutt." Clark couldn’t help a smile. Damn it. Impossible to stay mad at that arrogant fluffball.

He returned Milk to her owner—an elderly woman with thick glasses who always gushed, "Thank you, Superman, you’re an angel!"—when he saw her.

Amid the crowd snapping photos and begging autographs, one figure stood apart. Not seeking attention, but avoiding it, still under an oak’s shadow like the world around her didn’t matter.

Death, in her usual attire.

When their eyes met, she raised a hand in a subtle wave—an old friend spotting another at a café.

Clark Kent—thick glasses, slouched posture, cheap thermos in hand—found Death exactly where she said she'd be: beneath the oak's shadow.

"Hi, Kal-El," she said with that smile that knew all the universe's secrets.

"Hi, Death. How are you?"

Her grin was both comforting and ancient. "Oh, you know... busy. Always someone to visit, some destiny to fulfill." A dramatic pause, eyes glittering with amusement. "But today, I came specifically for coffee with you."

Clark adjusted his glasses, brow arched. "Coffee? I thought you were Team Tea."

Death's laugh startled a pair of pigeons from a nearby bench. "I like to mix it up. Besides—" Her chuckle filled the air with a lightness that clashed with her title. "—you don’t strike me as the porcelain teacup type."

They walked toward a distant kiosk, an absurd contrast—the Last Son of Krypton and the Embodiment of the End, passing moms with strollers and wobbly skateboarders.

"That was cute, rescuing the kitten," she remarked, watching fleeing pigeons.

"Least I could do," Clark shrugged with characteristic modesty.

"I know."

Leaves crunched underfoot as Death observed the world with a gaze that seemed to hold all existence at once.

"Why are you here?" Clark asked, feigning casualness. "Not that I’m complaining—you’re my friend, Death, but..." He raised four fingers. "Alfred and the Waynes are your declared favorites. I’m not even close."

Her dark eyes sparkled. "I won’t deny my favoritism," she admitted, unrepentant. "But this time, I came just for you."

Clark frowned, glasses slipping as he studied her enigmatic look. "Was Bruce rude?" Half-joking, half-serious. "Or was it... something like that?"

Death laughed loudly—a sound so bright it made an elderly couple turn their heads, puzzled by this cheerful woman in black.

"Clark, don’t worry." She waved a hand. "I’ve known Bruce for decades. Besides, he acts just like my brother Morpheus."

She made a face—equal parts irritation and affection—and Clark couldn’t help but smile. Strange, imagining Bruce compared to anyone, let alone Death’s sibling. Yet it fit: stubborn, dramatic, rule-obsessed.

Clark’s smile faded as the mood shifted.

The name " Jason" hung in the air like a ghost, and Clark felt the weight of it press against his ribs.

It was impossible not to think of the boy—of what happened, of what could have been different.

"Is this about Jason?" he asked, voice quieter now, heavy with a grief he didn’t bother to hide.

Her smile softened, and for a moment, something deeper—older—flickered in her eyes. As if behind that easygoing facade lay centuries of stories Clark would never fully grasp.

"Yes."

She stopped mid-step, turning to face him fully. The ankh at her chest swayed slightly, catching the light in a way that made the golden symbol seem to pulse with its own life.

"You know, Bruce never feared me." Her voice was soft, almost admiring. "Not for a single day of his life, not even in his darkest moments. He always looked me straight in the eye, like I was just... another part of the journey."

Clark knew Bruce well enough to know it was true.

But then she sighed, and something in the sound made Clark shiver.

"But even without fear... he knows what terrifies him most, Clark."

"Losing the people he loves," Clark murmured, so low it was almost inaudible. "Especially... his children."

Death looked at him, her dark eyes glimmering with ancient compassion.

"When Jason chose to stay with me instead of returning..." Her voice was gentle, trying to cushion the blow. "I think it was shame that kept him in that warehouse..."

The confession echoed in Clark’s mind like a funeral bell.

Jason chose to stay.

Those three words held a pain not even the Man of Steel could bear.

It hadn’t been cruel chance or Jason’s time. Just a choice—and that was the knife Bruce couldn’t pull from his own chest.

"...Bruce’s two greatest fears merged into one monster." Her fingers traced the ankh’s outline. "Being abandoned. And losing those he loves."

And then, the final blow:

"Now he drowns in guilt for every second since that night."

Clark swallowed hard. He knew Bruce too well not to recognize how it consumed him—every decision, every unspoken word, every moment he could have acted differently. An endless torture, a hellish loop.

"Bruce has always carried guilt that wasn’t his to bear," she whispered, a melancholy in her voice that made the air feel colder. "But this... this even he doesn’t know how to carry."

Clark closed his eyes.

And for a moment, he was back there.

The day the news hit like a gut punch. The icy Gotham air burning his lungs as he flew faster than ever, his heart hammering one thought: "It has to be a lie. It has to be."

And then, he’d found him.

Bruce.

Not Batman—not in that moment. Just a man hunched over the torn, bloodied uniform of a boy who should never have died. A man who looked hollowed out, as if someone had carved out everything human still left inside him.

His eyes... Gods, his eyes were empty in a way Clark had never seen before. As if someone had extinguished every light inside that already-shadowed soul.

And as if that weren’t enough, the vultures came.

The media smelled blood before the body was cold. Reporters swarmed Wayne Manor’s gates like it was a social event. Even using his Clark Kent bulk to shield Bruce—blocking camera angles, obstructing shots, becoming a human barricade—wasn’t enough.

The headlines screamed everywhere:

"BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED AT PSYCHIATRIC CLINIC—BREAKDOWN AFTER ADOPTED SON’S DEATH?"

"EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: BILLIONAIRE GRIEF—SEE GOTHAM’S RICHEST MAN IN TEARS"

Clark was used to sensationalism, but this? This was sadism disguised as journalism. Reporters competed for the most invasive, cruelest shot—grinning over "exclusive scoops" while stabbing a father on the worst day of his life.

One Gotham Gazette photographer was fired after posing as a gravedigger to snap funeral close-ups.

"Perry would’ve buried anyone at the Daily Planet who suggested coverage like this," Clark thought, equal parts pride and despair.

Clark swallowed hard, feeling tears burn behind his eyes—the ones that never dared fall. His voice was a raw whisper, carrying a pain that defied even Kryptonian strength:

"He was so... violent, Death." The words hurt like kryptonite shards lodged in his throat. "I had to stop him from killing the Joker. Even though—" A ragged breath escaped him, and for the first time in a year, Clark Kent admitted the truth: "Even though I wanted to strangle that monster with my bare hands."

Death didn’t judge. Just laid her hand—surprisingly warm—on his shoulder, a gesture that transcended time.

"Now he’s just rage and darkness," Clark continued, voice cracking. "I barely recognize Bruce anymore."

He closed his eyes, seeing Dick in his memory—the first Robin’s easy smile now gone, shoulders bowed under a loss Bruce seemed oblivious to.

"By Rao—" The Kryptonian curse came out a lament. "Dick just lost his brother, and Bruce acts like he’s the only one grieving. He won’t even look at the son he still has!"

Clark stared at Death, desperate for answers—for anything to explain how the strongest man he knew was shattering into pieces so sharp they cut everyone around him.

"Dick lost his brother, and Bruce does nothing—" Clark’s voice broke, each word a snapshot of failure that hurt worse than any battle. "Not a hug. Not a word. Nothing."

That was what cut deepest. Dick Grayson—always bright, always resilient, the boy who smiled even as the world collapsed—now looked like a ghost, drifting through the manor’s halls with hollow eyes.

Death studied Clark with a gaze that spanned eras, as if she’d watched this story replay endlessly.

"Bruce isn’t just grieving, Clark," she said softly. "He’s ashamed."

Clark frowned.

"Ashamed?"

"Ashamed to look at Dick and see his own failure. Ashamed to still be breathing when Jason isn’t. Ashamed of having no words—because no words can fix this."

It was cruel. It was human.

"He’s afraid of tainting him."

Death’s words hit Clark like a punch to the chest.

"Tainting him?" he echoed, voice hollow. "That’s—"

"Stupid?" Death finished, a thread of exasperation in her usually serene tone. "Yes. But Bruce has always been brilliant at believing his own lies—especially the ones that only serve to keep him suffering alone."

She crossed her arms, the ankh at her neck swaying slightly.

"He looks at Dick and sees light, Clark. And he thinks someone like him—scarred, dark, guilty—has no right to touch it. That he’ll stain it. That he’ll drag Dick down with him."

Clark’s heart raced. It was so Bruce. So like him—to turn love into isolation, protection into abandonment.

"But Dick needs him now more than ever," Clark protested, voice rough. "He doesn’t want Batman. He wants his father."

Death smiled, sorrowful and infinite.

"Do you really think Bruce doesn’t know that?" she asked. "He knows. He just thinks his love isn’t enough. That it never was." Her dark eyes glimmered with ancient memory. "Remember when Dick became Nightwing? Bruce panicked. Not because he didn’t trust Dick… but because he was terrified of losing him forever."

"Yes."

Clark pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could physically contain the overflowing pain. It was so Bruce—to twist love into distance, to suffer silently, convinced he was protecting others when he was only multiplying the hurt.

"And Dick?" Clark asked, lowering his voice like he feared being overheard. "Does he... understand any of this?"

Death’s smile was small, sad, never reaching her endless eyes.

"Of course not," she sighed. "All he sees is his father pulling away when he needs him most. The man who swore to protect him now turning his back in their darkest hour."

Her fingers brushed the skull bracelet—Dick’s gift—with tenderness.

"The boy who lost his parents once now feels he’s losing his father all over again. And the worst part?" She gazed toward Gotham’s skyline. "They’re both so drowned in their own grief, they can’t see how they’re hurting each other."

Tears threatened to fall, stubborn as Clark himself—but today, not even the Man of Steel could hold them back.

Death waited. Minutes? Centuries? Time meant nothing to her. Until Clark steadied.

"Everyone grieves differently, Clark," she said, voice soft as the silence before a scream, like the moment sand slips through an hourglass before the final grain falls. "The seven stages aren’t linear. And Bruce… well, he’s always been terrible at accepting help."

Clark laughed, a bitter sound that came out closer to a broken sigh.

"I know, Death." He studied his own hands—the same hands that had lifted mountains, stopped trains, held entire worlds. Yet powerless to reach a drowning friend. "Every time I try to get close, he recoils like my touch burns him."

His voice cracked, ice splitting under the weight of an unbearable truth.

"It hurts."

Death observed the Last Son of Krypton with an affection that would make stars envious. Here stood a man who could bend steel with his hands, yet whose true strength lay in that ridiculous stubbornness—that insistence on continuing to love even when love was returned in silence and distance.

She, who had witnessed the collapse of a thousand suns, knew a simple truth: in the grand theater of the universe, no cosmic force was more powerful than the obstinacy of a wounded Wayne... except, perhaps, the bottomless persistence of a Kent.

Death saw the resemblance between these two—and her brother and Hob Gadling. Two fools dancing in circles for centuries, each convinced they were protecting the other.

How had Morpheus never realized Hob bought the entire tavern just to preserve their meeting spot? To ensure that, no matter how many centuries passed, they’d always have a place to reunite.

She hoped her mortals wouldn’t follow the same path—spend the next 600 years insisting it was "friendship" while loving each other desperately.

"One step at a time, Clark," she murmured. "Bruce is pushing everyone away, thinking that if he doesn’t love, he won’t suffer."

A sad smile crossed her lips, weighted with millennia of witnessing the same lie repeated by countless souls.

"As if that’s ever worked for anyone."

Clark’s heart clenched. His blue eyes—usually brimming with solar strength—now seemed to plead for hope.

Death didn’t need words to understand. She, who knew the secrets of every heart that ever beat, saw clearer than starlight:

The Man of Steel was desperate to save the Dark Knight... from himself.

"My advice?" Her voice was soft as a funeral lullaby. "Stay. On nights he shouts at you to leave. On days he tries to hurt you to test your limits. When the storm passes—and it always does—he’ll need you more than ever."

The bitter taste of doubt burned Clark’s throat as he imagined Bruce below, in that damp cave, surrounded by empty suits echoing with children’s laughter that would never return.

How many nights had he spent like this? How many more would he endure, locked in that cycle of guilt and darkness?

"What if I’m not enough?" The question escaped before he could stop it, fragile as the Smallville boy still living somewhere inside him.

Death smiled then—not that smile full of cosmic mysteries, but something tender, almost human. The kind mothers give when their children fear imaginary failures.

"You already are, Clark," she said simply, as if announcing the color of the sky. "From the first day that scared Smallville boy decided he’d help, even without knowing how. Every time you reached out, even when he pushed you away. Every moment you chose to stay when leaving would’ve been easier."

The wind carried her words, but their weight remained, anchoring Clark like the old oak on the Kent farm.

"'Enough’ isn’t about fixing, Clark," she continued, adjusting her ankh with eternal hands. "It’s about showing up. Again. And again. Until he can believe he deserves it."

The lakeside kiosk looked like something from a postcard—twinkling lights, the sweet scent of waffles and fresh coffee hanging in the air. Death, with her casual elegance, ordered a latte and a to-go mocha as if she were just another mortal on a break.

When the steaming mocha reached Clark’s hands, its chocolatey warmth wrapped around him like an embrace.

They resumed their walk, the path beneath their feet now smoother, as if the universe had softened the world's edges just for this moment.

"Thank you for the advice," Clark said, the gratitude in his voice as genuine as the sunlight of his adopted planet.

Death smiled over the rim of her paper cup, her dark eyes glimmering with ancient knowing.

"You're welcome, Clark. That's why I'm here."

He rotated the cup between his hands, hesitating before asking the question that had burned in his chest all along:

"And... how is Jason? In your realm?"

"He was doing very well during his stay this past year."

Death's sidelong smile lingered in the air like steam from hot coffee, revealing nothing and everything at once. That "was" echoed in Clark's mind like a sigh left adrift—an answer that was, at its core, a new mystery.

He frowned, his reporter's instincts forming questions his lips knew better than to voice. Time works differently there, he thought. Or perhaps... there was something more she wasn't willing to share.

"Thank you for everything. How much do I owe you?"

Her laughter rang through the park like bells from an invisible cathedral, making a nearby child glance around, puzzled by the source of such inexplicable joy.

"I told you, Clark. You owe me nothing." Her smile softened into something more intimate. "But if you really want to help... just keep doing what you already do."

"Save people." Her lips curved, ironically tender. "I hate when accidents steal lives that still had so much left to live."

He nearly choked on his last sip of mocha.

"So... basically my normal job?"

"Exactly!" Death clapped like a child before a Christmas tree, the sound echoing oddly in the empty park. "And the best part? You don’t even need to text me after." Her eyes sparkled with cosmic amusement. "I see everything."

Clark couldn’t help but smile, even as a shiver ran down his spine.

"That’s simultaneously comforting and terrifying," he admitted, adjusting his glasses. Now he knew where Bruce learned that technique.

"Now go!" She mimed checking an imaginary wristwatch. "A certain reporter should be interviewing a corrupt mayor right about now." Her smile turned maternal.

Clark opened his mouth to reply—but she’d already dissolved into the air, leaving only the scent of coffee and a breeze that ruffled his curls. It wasn’t until he shoved his hands into his coat pockets that he found the note, folded perfectly:

P.S. Tell Bruce I hate when he skips dinner. The old man gets so (╥﹏╥).

The smile that spread across his face was involuntary. He could almost hear her tone in that emoji—a mix of supernatural dramatics and genuine affection for the universe’s oldest (and wisest) butler.

Chapter Text

Tim was exhausted. Every muscle in his body ached, his mind spun in endless loops of unresolved strategies, and all he wanted was to bury himself in work. As usual. But Kon-El—his boyfriend—with that stubborn streak and that smile that could melt even the worst of villains, kept getting in the way of his plans. Or rather, kept saving him from himself.

Kon’s latest move had been bold: locking him out of the Batcave like some grounded kid denied video game privileges. Tim would find out which of his siblings had teamed up with his boyfriend—and pay them back double.

Kon, of course, thought he’d won. There he stood, all confidence, Kryptonian muscles relaxed, with that easygoing look of someone who believed everything could be fixed with a kiss and a hug. Until Tim grabbed his collar, yanked him close until their noses almost touched, and dropped the bomb:

“Lock me out again, and you’re getting three months of no sex. No kisses. No touching. Not even a hug.”

His voice didn’t waver. Didn’t falter. It was steel-steady, as calculated as one of Batman’s plans. And the best part? He knew it would work. Because Kon, for all his Kryptonian might, had one glaring weakness: he was ridiculously clingy. A single day without physical contact left him antsy. A week? That would be torture.

The silence that followed was delicious. Kon swallowed hard, eyes wide, his confidence deflating like a punctured balloon. Clark—who’d just been in the kitchen grabbing a snack—averted his gaze and silently begged the heavens (and the Endless) that Bruce wouldn’t pick up this trick later. Otherwise, he’d be in deep trouble.

A chill ran down Kon’s spine. This wasn’t the Tim who got snippy after an all-nighter, or the stubborn Tim who worked himself to collapse. No. This Tim was dangerous. The soft voice, the unblinking stare, the calculated posture… it was like facing Batman on a bad day, only worse. Because unlike Bruce, Tim knew exactly where to press to make it hurt.

"That’s… cruel." Kon swallowed hard, his hands instinctively rising in surrender. His voice came out weaker than he’d have liked—almost a whisper. Him, a Kryptonian, one of Earth’s most powerful beings, standing there, paling before his own boyfriend.

But Tim took no pity. If anything, the corners of his lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a venomous smile, the kind Kon only ever saw when Robin was about to take down a villain with words alone.

"It’s effective."

The message was clear: he’d won. Kon was completely neutralized.

And the worst part? Tim knew it. Knew that, in the end, the Batmans would always call the shots over the Supers in their relationship.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The sun shone over Metropolis, birds chirped (or at least tried to, between the honking traffic), and Clark Kent was finally enjoying that rare feeling of normalcy. There he was, in Metropolis Central Park, with a blissfully happy Jon, ice cream in hand and zero interdimensional crises to solve. For one brief, glorious moment, they were just another father and son enjoying a lazy Saturday.

Almost.

Because of course the peace couldn’t last.

In the blink of an eye—or rather, in a supersonic whoosh—Kon-El, now going by Conner Kent, appeared out of nowhere in his civilian clothes and, in a move as natural as it was annoying, swiped a generous spoonful of Jon’s ice cream.

“Hey!” Jon protested, outraged, but it was too late. The crime had already been committed.

Kon chewed thoughtfully, making an exaggerated face. “Ugh, did it have to be strawberry?” he complained, as if Jon were personally responsible for the flavor choice. But he swallowed it all anyway, of course.

“HEY!” Jon huffed, trying to shield what was left of his poor, now noticeably smaller scoop of ice cream from further theft. But Kon, merciless, was already spoon-ready for his next attack.

“Relax, squirt, you don’t need that many calories,” Kon said, patting his little brother/nephew’s head condescendingly, as if doing him a favor.

Jon shot him a glare that could melt steel, but Kon—immune to everything, including social shame—just grinned with his mouth full.

By some miracle, the three of them managed to coexist peacefully for a few precious minutes:

Clark, serene, savoring his vanilla ice cream like there was no tomorrow.

Jon, glued to his strawberry tub like a dragon guarding its treasure.

Kon, of course, already plotting his next move.

The conversation actually flowed well—mostly because Kon, despite everything, had a natural talent for making Jon laugh with stories from "back when I was Superboy and you didn’t even exist." But when he caught the genuine hurt in the kid’s eyes — that droopy puppy look, the trembling lip (the same one that could melt even Bruce’s heart)—Kon caved.

"Alright, alright!" He sighed, vanishing and reappearing in a blink with two brand-new tubs from that ridiculously overpriced gelato place Tim had taken him to. "Fried Banana with Dulce de Leche for me," he announced, raising his prize, "and Belgian Truffle Chocolate for the brat."

Jon hesitated, still suspicious, but the smell of truffled chocolate was treacherous. Within five seconds, he was already devouring the new ice cream, his grudge evaporating as fast as the dessert melted under Metropolis’ sun.

"Still think you’re an idiot," Jon muttered—but without any real bite, his mouth already smeared with chocolate.

Kon shrugged, grinning. "Fair. But now I’m the idiot who got you chocolate."

Clark watched the scene, shaking his head. "You two are hopeless."

Then, as the two started chatting again, Clark just sat back—until Kon casually dropped the bomb on Jon:

"Told Beast Boy it was suicide to bet against Tim, but he didn’t listen." Kon shrugged, like he was commenting on traffic and not the imminent destruction of a teammate. "May Rao light his path in the afterlife, ‘cause Tim’s gonna obliterate him."

Clark choked on his spoonful of vanilla. "What?!" His eyes widened, scanning Kon's face for any hint this was a joke.

Kon didn’t just smile—he gleamed with pure mischief, like a cat who’d just knocked over a priceless vase and found the crash hilarious.

"Oh yeah." Kon took another leisurely bite of ice cream, as if he weren’t about to drop the final bomb. "Tim found out Beast Boy was betting on his work habits." A strategic pause, just to watch the horror dawn on Clark’s face. "Like… how long he could stay awake."

Jon stopped chewing. "Oh."

Clark felt the ghost of an impossible ulcer forming. "No."

Kon, of course, laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"Bet he couldn’t last 72 hours straight." Another spoonful. Another "I’m loving this show" grin. "Tim’s at 96 and a half now, chugging black coffee like water, and looking like a really hot zombie—dark circles and bad mood included."

Clark buried his face in his hands. Some things never change.

Jon kept eating his chocolate ice cream with the calm of someone who hadn’t just dropped the most alarming news possible.

"Damian’s worse," he added, casual as anything. "If I hadn’t held him back that time he visited my school, he’d have broken every bone in that idiot classmate’s body."

Kon choked on his fried banana scoop.

"WAIT. WHAT?!"

But Clark was already in full panicked dad mode, eyes wide like he’d just seen Jon get snatched by a Parademon.

"JON." His voice boomed with the unspoken "Superman is 0.3 seconds from calling the entire Justice League." "WHAT IDIOT? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? WHY DIDN’T I KNOW?!"

Jon grinned, his ice cream now completely forgotten.

"Relax, Dad," he said, with the serenity of someone who’d almost given Superman a heart attack. "Damian only broke one of his fingers. Maybe two. And hey—that’s progress! Besides, the jerk never bothered me again after that."

He fell silent for a moment, thoughtful, before finishing with a spark in his eyes:

"Now I get why some girls like reading those mafia romance books."

Kon, who had been thoroughly enjoying the chaos up until now, rolled his eyes at Jon glorifying Damian yet again (If this is how he acts when they're just friends, what's he gonna be like if they ever date—). He couldn't take it anymore.

"Yeah, keep dreaming," he cut in, jabbing an accusing finger at his little brother. "The Damian doesn’t even compare to Tim’s wrath. Damian’s scary—Tim? Tim is terror incarnate."

Jon frowned, ready for war, but Kon was already in full debate mode:

"Damian protects you at school? Cute. Tim would’ve made the guy quit his job, move countries, and handwrite an apology letter before breakfast."

"Damian tamed a dragon!" Jon shot back, arms crossed.

Kon didn’t even blink.

"Tim has fooled Batman."

Jon rolled his eyes.

"That doesn’t count! Bruce is their dad—they both have lied to him."

Kon knew the argument had merit, but he fired back with a triumphant grin:

"Tim once hacked a drug lord’s bank account and donated everything to orphanages while the guy watched."

Jon, stunned, raised a finger like a lawyer delivering the final blow:

"Damian was LITERALLY born and raised by the League of Assassins!" he declared, as if that settled it.

Kon flashed a razor-sharp smirk:

"Doesn't count. Jason, Tim, Cass, and Steph all trained with assassins too." Dramatic pause. "No points for you."

Jon gaped like a fish out of water:

"But... but Damian was raised there since he was a baby!"

Kon rolled his eyes so hard they might've gotten stuck:

"And Tim got adopted by Batman after FIGURING OUT his identity on his own. What's scarier?" He leaned in. "A guy trained to kill from birth... or one who CHOSE this madness and still outsmarts everyone?"

Jon turned to Clark with starry-eyed anticipation—as if his dad were the supreme referee of some Robin deathmatch tournament.

"Dad..." he whispered solemnly, "who'd win in a real fight? Tim or Damian?"

Kon froze mid-bite of his banana foster ice cream, eyebrows skyrocketing. Even he was invested now.

Clark—the man who'd faced Darkseid, Brainiac, and even Lois' wrath—felt cold sweat trickle down his neck. This question was a perfect trap. Any answer would haunt him for weeks: whether through Tim's calculated resentment, Damian's murderous rage, or (worse) Bruce's disappointed stare.

But decades as Superman had granted him the necessary wisdom.

With a sigh that echoed like the herald of a universal truth, he meticulously folded his napkin and delivered the only possible answer:

"Alfred."

Kon choked dramatically, nearly spitting out his fried banana ice cream. Jon frowned for half a second—until understanding hit him like a brick.

Then it happened. A simultaneous epiphany. As if Rao’s own voice echoed in their minds, the half-brothers locked eyes in reverent silence.

Because it was the absolute truth. None of the Robins—no being in the known universe—could even hope to measure up to Alfred Pennyworth.

Clark watched as the two immediately launched back into heated debate, now arguing over which Batfam member was the second scariest (since first place was indisputably taken). A resigned smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head.

He knew all too well that this innocent rivalry was just the tip of the iceberg.

Gotham’s bats were ferociously competitive. No matter the scenario—war, romance, or a simple game night—everything became a battlefield for them. And Clark? Clark still had vivid flashbacks to the first time he’d been "invited" (read: dragged against his will) to Game Night at Wayne Manor.

Bruce had elevated a simple game of Risk into a military strategy exercise that would give Hal Jordan nightmares for weeks. Dick had turned Twister into a showcase of human anatomical possibilities (and, consequently, public humiliation). Jason had rewritten the rules of Uno with criminal creativity—hidden cards, "adapted" rules mid-game, and a grin that only widened with every accusation.

The result? He’d nearly been stabbed.

Four times.

By four different family members.(And, shockingly, none of them were Damian).

Damian had transformed the Monopoly board into an economic warzone. Every purchase was calculated down to the cent, every rent payment extracted with surgical precision—his sharp smirk would’ve made Lex Luthor rethink his business tactics. When Stephanie protested his extortionate fees, he’d merely raised an eyebrow:

"Not my fault you can’t negotiate, Brown. Maybe you should’ve paid attention in economics."

It was then that the realization struck Clark like lightning.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Many forget that before becoming Superman, Clark Kent was an award-winning investigative journalist. Fluent in bureaucracy, contract law—and most importantly—creative legal maneuvering. And that’s how the perfect plan took shape.

Clark drafted a contract so airtight it would’ve made Lucius Fox raise his eyebrows. The document stipulated that Tim Drake must:

Sleep 7 full hours daily for 90 days (totaling 630 hours of actual rest)

Halve his daily caffeine intake

In exchange, he’d receive:

Unrestricted permission to punish Lex Luthor however he saw fit—no interference from Clark, Bruce, or the League—for three full days, within the contract’s legal bounds.

This wasn’t indulgence. This was calculated payback.

Clark remembered with painful clarity that night years ago, back when he still lived in his modest reporter’s apartment. 9:10 PM—the time was seared into his memory. The knock at his door still echoed in his ears like a gunshot.

When he opened it, his stomach dropped.

Kon-El—his Kon-El, the kid who lit up rooms just by walking into them—stood on his threshold, shattered inside. Not physically. Not in any way visible to the eye. But Clark knew that slumped posture, those shoulders carrying the weight of the world.

Without a word, Clark pulled him inside. The door clicked shut like the end of an era. Kon was shaking—not from cold (a Kryptonian never shivered from cold)—but from the black rage eating him alive.

"He... used everything, Clark." Kon swallowed hard, the words coming out in shards of glass. "All my weaknesses. Every fear."

His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened, veins throbbing beneath invulnerable skin.

"Made it sound like it was my fault. That I... that I was the problem."

Lex Luthor.

Of course.

After the Cadmus Project fallout, Luthor had scraped a pyrrhic victory from countless defeats—thanks to his army of lawyers. Using a technicality about genetic ownership, he’d turned Kon into a pawn in a sick game: a custody battle.

With the League’s best legal minds (and Bruce, of course), Clark had won primary guardianship. But Luthor kept visitation rights: alternating weekends, split holidays. Just enough to wage his private war.

Clark and Kon’s relationship had always defied simple labels. Father and son? Brothers? Some days they slipped into one role, some days the other—maybe that was the unique beauty of it.

But tonight, there was no room for doubt.

It didn’t matter if Clark still questioned his place in Kon’s life. Didn’t matter if he sometimes wavered between parenting and teasing like a sibling.

Tonight, he just was there.

Kon usually brushed off Luthor’s mind games. But today, the tyrant had found the one crack in his armor—and struck without mercy.

Clark felt Kryptonian heat surging in his veins, but he smothered the fury. Kon didn’t need his rage. He needed what Lex had never given him:

Patience. Shelter. Unconditional love.

"He lied."

Clark's voice was velvet-soft but unshakable as bedrock. His blue eyes locked onto Kon's, creating an anchor in the storm. "You know the truth, Kon-El. Every word from his mouth is pure poison."

Kon's fists clenched until his knuckles bleached white. His eyes—usually bright with sunlight—were glassy, fighting back stubborn moisture.

"But what if…" His voice cracked, thin as ice about to shatter. "...some of it's true? I’m reckless. I act without thinking. How many times has that almost ruined everything? How many times has Tim—"

Clark didn’t let him finish. His movement was swift but gentle—calloused hands cradling Kon’s sharp jawline.

"Tim loves you because of who you are." Each word drove the truth home like a nail. "And you’ve saved him more times than there are stars in the sky."

Kon swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. Words seemed to lodge in his throat, barbed and painful.

"Listen to me." Clark leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, electric silence crackling between them. "Lex Luthor doesn’t get to define your worth. He never did. He never will."

The air thickened, stretching like taffy—until, slowly but surely, Kon’s shoulders straightened. His breath, once ragged, evened out—deep and deliberate, like a man relearning how to live after nearly drowning.

In the hours that followed, on that worn-out couch that had witnessed too many secrets, Clark’s arm stayed wrapped around Kon’s shoulders like living armor—strong enough to hold shrapnel at bay, yet yielding as cloth to avoid crushing what was already fragile. On the TV, explosions from a B-list action movie rang hollow, while empty ice cream tubs piled up on the table like war casualties, their melted remains bearing silent witness to the battle fought and won.

With the surgical precision of a Pulitzer-winning reporter and the caution of a father shielding his son, Clark laid out the facts. He watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, as each word honed Tim into something lethally sharp. The boy didn’t erupt in rage—he imploded, collapsing inward until he became raw vengeance incarnate, so dense the air around him seemed to warp. A katana forged in slow-burning fire amid melted ice cream stains.

When the words ended, the silence that followed wasn’t absence—it was presence. A living thing that pressed against their chests like the universe itself holding its breath in anticipation.

Then Tim spoke.

“I’m going to make that son of a bitch regret every word that’s ever left his mouth.”

His voice was the snarl of a cornered beast, so thick with bloody promises it made Clark’s Kryptonian bones shudder. This wasn’t anger—it was something far more dangerous.

Clark knew Tim wouldn’t just deliver—he’d exceed. He’d follow every clause of the contract to the letter. Sleep seven hours religiously. Halve his caffeine intake exactly. Be flawless.

Because then, when Lex Luthor was dismantled—piece by piece, financially, digitally, morally—no one, absolutely no one, could point at Tim Drake and call him unhinged.

This wasn’t petty revenge.

This was justice measured to the last decimal point.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

It was one of those rare nights when Gotham decided to behave. No gunfire, no explosions, no muffled screams of criminals being tossed into alleys by Batman. Even the moon seemed calmer, spilling its silver light through the Wayne bedroom window as if rooting for a little peace.

Clark, sprawled across the bed like a contented cat, had already envisioned the perfect plan: Bruce curled in his arms, long hours of silence, and a good night’s sleep.

But the universe—especially the Bruce Wayne-shaped corner of it—rarely cooperated with simplicity.

Bruce emerged from the bathroom with his hair still damp, water trailing down his shoulder blades like a high-fashion photoshoot. His pajama pants—if you could even call those outrageously expensive silks pajamas—hung low on his hips with calculated nonchalance, making Clark forget his own name. And the bare torso, that landscape of defined muscle and storied scars, seemed like a direct assault on what remained of his Kryptonian self-control.

Normally, the sight of Bruce Wayne shirtless and dripping wet would steal Clark’s breath faster than concentrated kryptonite. But tonight, the spectacle was secondary.

Because in Bruce’s hands—those hands, firm and scarred, etched with stories even Clark didn’t fully know—rested the contract.

His blue eyes scanned the pages with the surgical precision that made Gotham’s top corporate lawyers sweat in their leather chairs. Clark could practically hear Bruce’s brain working, dissecting every clause, every comma, every possible linguistic loophole.

And then—

Bruce looked up.

And there it was.

That half-smile—the Wayne equivalent of a full grin.

"Flawless." Bruce's voice carried that particular roughness that only surfaced when he was genuinely impressed—and perhaps even a little proud. "How many drafts?"

Clark, sprawled across the bed with the smug satisfaction of a cat who’d claimed the sunniest spot, couldn’t suppress the victorious grin splitting his face—half triumph, half sheer cheek.

"Too many," he admitted, fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheets, savoring his own cunning. "I even had Constantine check for loopholes."

Bruce froze. His right eyebrow ascended in slow motion, as if his brain were processing this with the same gravity as a planetary defense strategy.

"You…" The pause was so heavy it had physical weight. "Consulted John Constantine about a… sleep schedule contract?"

Clark shrugged with faux nonchalance, but his eyes—those sun-capturing blues—glowed with a satisfaction that outshone the stars.

"He’s an expert at wriggling out of infernal bargains," he explained, grin widening until it threatened to split his face. "A mere sleep contract was child’s play."

And then—

Bruce laughed.

Not the polished society chuckle for galas. Not the tactical smirk to disarm rivals. But a real laugh, rough and warm, flooding the room until even Gotham’s shadows seemed to retreat. And Clark—oh, Clark felt like he’d just won every Pulitzer, Olympic gold, and Smallville’s Best Apple Pie ribbon in one go.

"Clever."

Just one word. But the way it slipped from Bruce—that gravel-deep voice, those winter-sky eyes—was enough to ignite every Kryptonian cell in Clark’s body.

Without hesitation, he shot back the grin:

"I had the best teacher in the world."

The contract landed on the nightstand with a thud, instantly forgotten. Bruce moved with the fluidity of a man who’d spent a lifetime mastering every muscle—a deliberate ballet of hips that made Clark swallow hard as his husband’s familiar weight settled perfectly into his lap.

Leaning in like a seductive shadow, Bruce began his campaign with watchmaker precision. His lips first touched Clark’s right shoulder, kissing sun-gold Smallville skin before applying teasing nips—just enough to draw a shiver. His mouth ascended in slow motion, blazing a trail up Clark’s neck, exploring every inch like uncharted territory.

Clark arched when Bruce’s mouth reached that sensitive spot under his jaw, lingering there to torture him.

"Bruce—" His groan was ragged, fingers clawing the sheets with enough force to tear the fabric.

Bruce’s smile against his skin was downright wicked, his tongue tracing slow spirals over Clark’s now-throbbing jugular.

"Problem, Superman?" The whisper, laced with hot breath, sent shockwaves through Clark’s nervous system.

He tried to form words, but they dissolved when Bruce’s teeth closed just so behind his ear.

The sound Clark made was an indecent mix of moan and prayer, his hands hovering mid-air like an aborted reflex—already halfway to touching the skin driving him mad.

Bruce’s answer came in a whisper that seared the shell of his ear, stealing his breath:

"I didn’t say you could touch me... yet."

"Bastard."

A guttural moan tore from Clark’s throat—half frustration, half rapture—every muscle trembling under the Herculean effort of keeping his hands off the body hypnotizing him. He hated—oh, how he hated and adored—when Bruce wielded control like this, turning every millimeter of distance into sublime agony.

And Bruce knew. Oh, how he knew.

Bruce lived for these moments. For reducing the Last Son of Krypton, Earth’s mightiest being, to a shuddering mess of restrained desire.

"Wouldn’t be fair…"

Bruce’s hands glided like silk over Clark’s skin, his touch tracing a torturously slow path down the Kryptonian’s chest.

His fingers knew every inch of that torso like a general knows his battlefield, yet explored with a discoverer’s curiosity—retracing invisible scars, reliving battles that left no physical marks, until they found the exact spot Clark craved most.

And then—

Finally.

Bruce’s hand closed exactly where Clark’s body begged for it, and the Last Son of Krypton arched like a bow at full draw, a ragged groan escaping his lips.

But Bruce—the relentless tactician—was in no hurry.

Bruce's smirk—that infuriating half-smile that made Clark oscillate between devouring him and murdering him—curved as his hips began a slow, calculated roll. Each movement was precision-engineered, each press of his body a promise unfulfilled, keeping Clark suspended between ecstasy and agony.

"Bruce—" Clark growled, muscles coiled like steel beneath sun-gold skin, fingers twitching with the need to dig into his husband’s hips like claws.

"This is just the appetizer," Bruce murmured against Clark’s throat, savoring his skin like a rare vintage. "The full course won’t be served... until Tim signs that contract."

Clark nearly lost his grip on control. His body bowed like a drawn longbow, fists clenched hard enough to crush steel. Every muscle trembled at the precipice between Herculean restraint and total surrender.

"You’re a tyrant," Clark accused, his voice a raw rasp of want, hips pressing up in silent, desperate plea for more, always more.

Bruce laughed—a deep, triumphant sound that crackled against Clark’s skin like live wires.

"And you love it."

And the worst part?

The worst part was that Bruce was absolutely right.

"Have your fill," were the last coherent words Bruce managed before language dissolved into gasps, teeth, and the slick, fevered sound of bodies forgetting restraint entirely.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The room breathed slowly in the dawn's afterglow, still thick with the entwined warmth of two bodies that had become one through the night.

Morning light seeped through the curtains, painting amber stripes across Bruce's bare torso, revealing ancient scars like star maps only Clark knew how to decipher and touch.

Clark woke first—as always—and lay perfectly still, intoxicated by the rare sight: Bruce surrendered to sleep with a vulnerability he'd never acknowledge while awake. His relaxed face glowed like polished marble in the diffused light, the usual war-and-time etched into his forehead smoothed away in rest. Those fingers—which hours earlier had carved possession into Clark's ribs—now rested in a loose embrace around his torso, as if Bruce's sleeping body knew this Kryptonian warmth was its safe harbor.

Clark moved with the reverence of an archaeologist handling a millennia-old artifact, every fiber of his superhuman body working in perfect sync to preserve Bruce's rare peace. Muscles capable of lifting mountains now tensed in the delicate balance of not disturbing a single air molecule around them.

"Mmmrph."

The muffled protest emerged like a lion's grumble at disturbed rest. Bruce turned with a movement that was pure contradiction—half sleep-softened languor, half combat reflex honed by a thousand Gotham nights. His body, even asleep, automatically sought the retreating warmth, fingers closing futilely on sheets still imprinted with Kryptonian heat.

It took the hypnotic sound of running shower water—the promise of renewed warmth—to finally overcome the Dark Knight's stubborn resistance. Bruce's muscles arched in perfect tension, his senses razor-sharp even through waking haze, as if his body knew instinctively: where there was hot water, Clark Kent wouldn't be far.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Alfred Pennyworth, unflappable as ever, was putting the final touches on breakfast with the precision of a general preparing his battlefield. The table was set like a culinary masterpiece:

Fluffy omelets that would make French chefs weep with envy,

Golden toast with the perfect crunch—not a second over or underdone,

Bacon that crackled between teeth like a symphony of fat and salt,

Fresh fruit arranged like museum sculptures (watermelon cut into flawless cubes, grapes without a single stray stem),

And, of course, a generous batch of pão de leite—the sacred carbohydrate that kept the family functional (or, as Alfred put it, "the only reason you all haven’t murdered each other before noon").

One by one, the bats and associates trickled in, each adhering to their morning rituals with the same dedication they reserved for patrolling Gotham and Metropolis.

Kon, his Kryptonian metabolism in full swing, was already demolishing a pão de leite stuffed with a mountain of cheese and ham that defied physics. His first bite was punctuated by a sigh of satisfaction loud enough to echo through the room.

Damian observed the feast with pure disdain, his fingers gripping his oatmeal spoon like a surgical instrument. The fruit in his bowl had been diced into perfect cubes—no uneven edges tolerated.

Jon, seated beside his partner, ignored this model of healthy eating entirely. His plate was a masterpiece of excess: an omelet overstuffed with bacon (at least eight slices).

Duke assembled his plate with the same moderation he applied to life: three precisely toasted slices, paired with his personal jar of homemade raspberry jam—the one Alfred made just for him after learning his preference. His coffee was the epitome of balance: strong enough to function, but without the corrosive potential of the black sludge Tim called "coffee."

Cassandra and Stephanie held their strategic positions—Cass with the impeccable posture of someone trained to rule the world, Steph slumped like a college student after an all-nighter. Both clutched glasses of swamp-green liquid (a "health smoothie") and drank it with unsettling calm.

Dick and Jason made their entrance like zombie apocalypse survivors—Dick swaying with the grace of a sleep-deprived baby giraffe, Jason dragging himself like a condemned man walking the plank.

Dick, operating on roughly 12% brain capacity, automatically grabbed his buttered pão de leite—the only food his system tolerated before 10 AM. Even in a vegetative state, his acrobat reflexes let him swipe a watermelon cube from Damian’s bowl mid-stumble.

Jason looked like he’d crawled straight out of an ‘80s slasher flick. His coffee was so black it bent light around the cup, creating a caffeinated singularity. His dead-eyed stare suggested he was three seconds away from committing butter-knife homicide. He picked up a pão de leite and inspected it like a junkie detective analyzing a crime scene, weighing if chewing was worth the caloric payoff.

Tim Drake crossed the kitchen threshold with a posture that defied all known laws of sleep deprivation—no tripping over his own shadow, no cursing in dead languages, and (most impressively) none of the homicidal glares he usually reserved for living beings before noon.

With movements too fluid for his usual coffee-zombie state, Tim picked up a pristine cup (without spilling the sugar, without bumping into anyone) and poured himself a perfectly normal coffee. Black. Steaming. Radically... adequate.

The silence that followed was so thick you could cut it with a Batarang.

The chain reaction was instantaneous and chaotic—peak Wayne family meltdown:

Jason spat out his black coffee like a cursed lawn sprinkler.

Dick dropped his buttered bread in slow motion, jaw unhinged like a cartoon character’s.

Steph leaned forward, examining Tim like a scientist inspecting an alien specimen.

Damian, ever pragmatic, already had his knife drawn—standard protocol for potential dimensional invaders.

Kon choked on his monster sandwich, eyes bulging as if witnessing the apocalypse.

"You... slept?" Dick’s voice was strangled, like a man beholding a biblical miracle.

The air froze. Tim Drake. Sleeping. Seven consecutive hours. And now, instead of that radioactive sludge dubbed "Fuel of the Undead," he was holding... coffee? Just coffee? No suspicious additives?

The origin of Tim’s legendary energy drink was a heated family debate—after all, no one claimed responsibility for creating such chemical heresy:

Jason insisted Tim first brewed it during the Riddler case, after 96 sleepless hours needing "something stronger than pure adrenaline."

Tim, who refused to admit any involvement, countered: "I just refined the recipe. After watching you chug sewer water that—and I quote—'tasted like death and despair.'"

Bruce swore up and down he had nothing to do with creating the "Fuel of the Undead"—a bald-faced lie, since Alfred had photographic evidence of him tinkering with suspicious vials in the Batcave at 3 AM during his first year as Batman.

Every family member had their own affectionate nickname for these energy potions that defied not just biochemistry, but perhaps humanity itself:

Jason Todd: "Lazarus Pit in a Cup"

Catchphrase: "One sip either resurrects you... or sends you straight to the coffin."

Infamous Incident: After one swig, Jason lost his sense of taste for 48 hours—and instead of panicking, cheered: "Now I can eat Dick’s cooking without suffering!"

Dick Grayson: "Heart Attack in a Glass"

Catchphrase: "If your heart doesn’t stop for three seconds, you didn’t drink enough."

Infamous Incident: After two back-to-back cups, Dick allegedly performed a triple somersault in the foyer before yeeting himself out a window—without breaking a single vase. Alfred still hasn’t forgiven the scare.

Tim Drake: "Corpse Fuel"

Catchphrase: "97% effective... the other 3% are hallucinations we consider a bonus."

Infamous Incident: Post-"ultra-concentrated" brew, Tim hacked the Pentagon in two minutes—but swore he saw talking ponies in the source code.

Stephanie Brown: "Yikes, My Heart"

Catchphrase: "Either fixes your life or makes you forget it exists."

Infamous Incident: Steph chugged three cups pre-mission and forgot how doors worked. She spent 20 minutes wrestling with a push-door before ripping it off its hinges.

Bruce Wayne’s:“Unholy Trinity”

In a rare moment of true gallows humor (read: after 72 sleepless hours and two unsolved cases), Bruce stared at the three mugs lined up on the Batcave table—Jason’s, Dick’s, and Tim’s lethal brews—and, with the solemnity of a priest at a funeral, declared:

"The Unholy Trinity."

The Most Profane Holy Trinity

1st Profanity – "The Initiate"

(For "light" nights when you just need to stay awake till 5 AM.)

Ingredients:

2 shots of espresso (because regular coffee is for amateurs)

2 scoops of matcha (for that false "this is healthy" feeling)

Side Effects:

✔ Mild heart palpitations (just a friendly reminder your heart still works)

✔ False sense of control (you think you’re fine, but you’re already on the brink of madness)

✔ Ability to hysterically laugh at cat memes at 4 AM (while your brain melts)

2nd Profanity – "Controlled Desperation"

(For when Gotham’s on fire, Joker’s escaped again, and you promised Barbara "I’ll sleep this time" (lie).)

Ingredients:

3 shots of double espresso (because a single shot doesn’t shred your soul enough)

3 tbsp concentrated guarana powder (the "safe" dosage)

Side Effects:

✔ Cold sweats (your body trying to escape itself)

✔ Hearing so sharp you can literally hear Penguin bitching at the Iceberg Lounge from 5 km away

✔ Ability to type 500 words per minute without blinking (Barbara tested it. It works.)

✔ Auditory hallucinations (especially whispers of "sleep… sleeeep…")

3rd Profanity – "Last Attempt Before Death"

(For when you’re already dead inside, but crime never sleeps (and neither does Bruce).)

Ingredients:

4 shots of double espresso (at this point, fear is irrelevant)

1 can of Monster or Red Bull (flavor: "regret")

1 tbsp guarana powder (to ensure your heart doesn’t quit)

10 mL concentrated guarana syrup (because excess is a lifestyle)

1 scoop matcha (to pretend this has anything "natural" in it)

Side Effects:

✔ Slow-motion vision (and the ability to see atoms vibrating)

✔ Mind-reading abilities (or at least the delusion you can)

✔ Temporary Batman-level deduction skills (lasts until you pass out)

✔ Psychic powers (like knowing where Jason hid the last pizza slice)

✔ Useful hallucinations (e.g., seeing Riddler solve his own puzzles out of sheer rage)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Jason Todd gripped his coffee mug like a sacred relic, fingers drumming the table with the restless energy of a man about to commit either a crime or a miracle (the line was always thin at Wayne Manor). His eyes gleamed with that dangerous spark that only appeared when he was one step away from suggesting something between genius and outright criminal.

"If we could mass-produce this stuff and just tweak the taste a little..." His grin spread slowly, like a Bond villain unveiling a death ray. "College kids would pay fortunes for it."

Tim—who immediately recognized this as a reference to the family’s "energy drinks"—arched a brow with the skepticism of a man who’d stared into the abyss (and the abyss had vomited).

"The problem isn’t production scale, Jason. It’s the flavor." He grimaced, as if the mere thought was painful. "No one survives the first sip."

"Oh, stop being dramatic!" Jason rolled his eyes like Tim was overreacting. "Just dump in sugar, food coloring, and dilute the hell out of it. People’ll drink anything if it tastes like fake fruit."

Then Dick—ever the visionary (and most prone to terrible ideas)—dropped the finishing touch. Between bites of bacon stolen from Jon’s plate, he declared:

"We could call it Bat-Energy." A pause for dramatic effect. *"Slogan: 'Because the night is dark and full of deadlines.'"

Steph crossed her arms with the resolve of a general declaring war. Her glare could’ve laser-cut Dick in half.

"We don’t know how normal people would react to that..." Her voice was sweet as poison. "...since someone stopped us from testing it."

The "someone" in question was sitting right there, failing miserably at looking innocent. Dick raised his hands like that would shield him from Steph’s scientific wrath. The problem? His shit-eating grin. That damn grin that turned even the most serious defense into a punchline.

"In my defense..." he began, as if about to deliver a brilliant justification. (Spoiler: It wasn’t.) "Wally’s my boyfriend, not a lab rat!"

…

The Incident Report: How Wally West Almost Became a Test Subject

It all started during Wally’s last visit to the manor.

Dick, in a rare moment of distraction—five minutes, just five minutes to grab his phone from the living room couch—left Wally West, a speedster, alone in the kitchen with his siblings.

When Dick returned, the scene belonged in a horror movie:

Jason held the Third Profanity like a weapon—that thick, black liquid defying the laws of chemistry. With the delicacy of a polar bear performing surgery, he tried to pry Wally’s mouth open.

"Open up, West, this is liquid gold!" he growled, grinning like a sadistic barista.

Internally, Jason was thrilled. A speedster as a test subject? This was the chaos lottery jackpot.

Tim, in full mad-scientist mode, typed observations on his tablet:

"Subject #01: Abnormal resistance to 'stimulant' administration. Note: Jason sucks at persuasion. Suggestion: Restraints or funnel."

His eyes gleamed—the same look he got when solving a complex problem. Except this "problem" was his almost-brother-in-law on the verge of caffeine poisoning.

Steph worked her magic with siren efficiency. Her "hypnotic" gaze was a honed weapon—Wally could outrun light, but nothing could save him from those dangerous blue eyes.

"C’mon, Wally," she purred, swirling the steaming cup. "Aren’t you the fastest Flash? What’s one little sip?"

Wally gulped. His darting eyes locked onto the inky liquid, then the predatory smiles surrounding him. Speed was useless here—he was cornered by three chaos experts with full kitchen access.

The cup trembled in Jason’s grip, the sludge inside gleaming like crude oil under the kitchen lights. Wally’s breath hitched, pupils blown wide like a rabbit facing three starving foxes.

"At worst, a mild tachycardia!" Jason insisted, shoving the cup against Wally’s lips with all the finesse of a butcher tenderizing meat. "Or a very slight heart attack. Barely noticeable."

Tim, utterly unfazed, kept typing on his tablet.

"Science requires sacrifices," he intoned, like he was quoting a textbook. "And you heal fast."

Wally let out a high-pitched squeak, sounding more like a panicked hamster than the Fastest Man Alive.

Then—Dick froze in the kitchen doorway. His face cycled through horror, disbelief, and a resignation so deep it bordered on existential exhaustion.

"WHAT. THE. HELL," he boomed, voice echoing like the wrath of God, "ARE YOU DOING TO MY BOYFRIEND?!"

Steph shrugged with the casualness of someone explaining why the sky is blue:

"Science?"—as if that single word excused everything from questionable experiments to culinary war crimes.

Wally, seizing the distraction (and the advantage of being the fastest man alive), literally vanished into thin air—only to reappear behind Dick in a blink, clinging to his back like a koala fleeing a wildfire.

"SAVE ME," he whispered, voice shrill, arms locked around Dick in a death grip (which, given the radioactive coffee sludge Jason was still holding, was justified).

…

The judgmental stares simmered down as Bruce and Clark crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

Bruce moved to his usual spot with calculated precision—one sugar (exactly one), black coffee (no exceptions), perfectly golden toast. As he prepared his breakfast, his ice-blue eyes—cold and analytical—swept over the scene:

Jason, with that "terrible idea" glint in his eyes.

Steph, wearing her "fake innocence" expression like a crown.

Tim, clutching his mug like it was the last bastion of sanity in the Wayne madness.

Clark observed it all with a reporter’s smile—the kind that said "I know something you don’t" and "this’ll be fun" at the same time. His fingers adjusted his glasses out of habit, because some instincts never die—not even for a superpowered alien on a day off.

"Tim."

Tim lifted his head with the sluggishness of a man under 2x gravity, fingers still glued to his mug like it was a life-support system. His eyes narrowed, paranoid detective instincts firing faster than the Batcomputer during a crisis.

"Yes, Clark?" His voice dragged, laced with suspicion—and just a hint of "this is a trap, isn’t it?"

Clark adjusted his glasses again, his smile sharpening—the smile Lex Luthor knew too well. The "I have a plan, and you won’t like it" smile.

"I have a challenge for you."

The air froze.

Every eye in the room snapped to the Kryptonian, abandoning all other activities. Because when Clark Kent says "challenge," you pay attention—this was the man who’d convinced Bruce to sleep and take vacations.

The document slid across the marble counter with batarang-like precision, stopping exactly in front of Tim as if obeying an unspoken command. The sound of paper against stone echoed in the now-silent kitchen.

Tim pulled the contract toward him with the practiced motions of someone who’d reviewed thousands of documents in the Batcave. His fingers flipped through the pages before his brain even finished processing the question, eyes scanning lines at a speed that’d dizzy any normal reader:

"What is this?"

Clark smiled. That smile. A masterpiece of facial expression only a Kryptonian raised in Smallville and married to Bruce Wayne could perfect—50% farm-boy sweetness, 50% Metropolis sharpness, 100% effective at unnerving seasoned vigilantes.

"An opportunity," he replied, with the perfect cadence of a man who’d already won.

Dick lunged forward so fast his coffee cup toppled, dark liquid spilling across the table like blood at a crime scene—a detail no one noticed, the tension was so thick.

Stephanie shot up with enough force to send her chair flying backward, crashing to the floor with a BANG! that would’ve made Michael Bay proud. Her eyes sparkled with the glee of someone already envisioning the chaos.

Duke—normally the embodiment of sanity—abandoned his coffee like it was poison, joining the circle of spectators forming behind Tim—a makeshift family tribunal ready for judgment.

Even Damian, who was masterfully pretending disinterest, had subtly leaned in, his body betraying the curiosity his stoic face denied.

Clark let the heavy silence linger after Stephanie’s chair hit the ground. His gaze swept the ring of stunned faces before locking onto Tim.

"If you manage," he emphasized, drawing out the words like a gambler laying down his final card, "seven hours of sleep. Daily. For ninety days..." A theatrical pause as minds raced. "...totaling six hundred and thirty verified hours... you get something special."

Dick whipped his head toward Bruce, desperately searching for some sign this was a sick joke. But the Dark Knight remained unmoved, sipping his coffee with the calm of a man considering this the most peaceful part of his day—as if the madness around him was just white noise.

Tim, meanwhile, looked like he’d been hit with a freeze-ray. Seven hours. Of sleep. Daily. For ninety consecutive days. The numbers echoed in his mind like a death sentence.

"You can skip to the last page," Clark finished, eyes gleaming.

Tim obeyed with robotic precision, flipping pages at Wayne-Enterprise-report-between-battles speed. His fingers—usually so steady—trembled slightly as he turned to the final sheet.

And then…

The last page.

The final clause.

When Tim’s eyes scanned the words, a terrifying transformation overtook his expression. Something ignited in his gaze—not a spark, but something metallic. His blue eyes turned cold as tempered steel, sharp as unsheathed blades.

Clark didn’t miss his cue.

"You’ll have free rein to handle Lex Luthor… exactly as you see fit."

The air left everyone’s lungs at once, as if an invisible fist had punched the entire group in the gut.

"Each completed month earns you one day of 'creative action.'" His voice was soft, but loaded with promise. "No interference from me or Bruce… provided you stick to the contract."

The silence lasted exactly 2.03 seconds—a record for the Batfamily processing betrayal of this magnitude.

Then, chaos erupted like a powder keg.

Jason slammed his hands on the table hard enough to make the cups tremble, coffee nearly sloshing over like a miniature tsunami.

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!" His voice boomed through the kitchen like cannon fire. "Why does Drake get a free pass to torture Luthor and I don’t?! I have at least FIVE personal enemies who deserve special treatment!"

Stephanie, never one to be left behind:

"I slept twelve hours this whole week!" she declared, as if this were an achievement. "Where’s MY revenge contract?! I deserve—"

Damian, ever the deadliest even in protest, crossed his arms with his best "offended dictator" glare. His fingers tapped against his elbow, each tap a silent threat.

"This is blatant favoritism," he stated with the chill of someone who’d plotted murders for less. "I demand equal retribution rights. I have a list of 37 names in need of… adjustments."

Dick, never one to shy from Oscar-worthy drama, clutched his chest as if Clark had stabbed his acrobat heart. His eyes shimmered with phantom tears, voice trembling like a soap opera lead:

"Clark…" he began, like a betrayed hero. "How dare you bribe only one of us? I, too, have a list of… special people." Dramatic pause. "Slade’s at the top." (Lie. It was Joker. But he’d never admit that.)

Bruce, meanwhile, remained unshaken in his corner, his posture relaxed—the kind of calm that comes from a man who controls pandemonium with a glance. His long fingers curled around his cup like a scepter, bringing it to his lips with the poise of a king watching peasants revolt.

The sip was slow. Calculated. Deadly silent.

Clink.

The cup returned to its saucer, and the sound cut through the air like a gavel. Everyone fell quiet.

"I'll consider it," Bruce murmured, his voice low and deliberate, as if each word were a reluctant concession. "But it depends more on you... than on me."

The silence that followed was loaded. Everyone understood the unspoken subtext hanging in the air like smoke:

"Act like functional adults—or even functional teenagers—first. Then, maybe, we’ll discuss revenge."

Jason froze mid-motion, his arm locked in the air like he’d been paused mid-yell. His muscles coiled like springs about to snap, fingers tightening around his glass until his knuckles whitened.

Clink.

The glass was set down—gently.

Jason closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply—a sound that made Dick instinctively lean back, recognizing the anger-management breathing technique from therapy.

One... two... three... His voice, once raw with fury, steadied into tempered steel. By ten, his eyes opened—and the transformation was terrifying.

The blind rage had evaporated, replaced by something far more dangerous: absolute focus.

"Fine, old man," Jason nodded, his voice eerily calm—like the silence before detonation. "We’ll do it your way."

Tim held the contract like an ancient manuscript filled with forbidden secrets. His fingers trembled faintly as he turned each page, eyes scanning lines with supercomputer precision. The others crowded around him like vultures at a feast:

Jason, looming over his right shoulder, analyzing every clause like a tiger sizing up prey.

Steph, biting her lip like she was about to unwrap a gift—or open Pandora’s box, depending on how this played out.

Dick, grinning as if he already saw Slade strung upside down.

Damian, too quiet (a glaring red flag).

Tim looked up, his eyes now carrying the dangerous glint of a hacker who’d just cracked the Pentagon’s master password:

"What can and can’t I do?"

Clark, the architect of this entire mess, leaned against the table with the calm of someone who’d brokered peace between warring planets. His smile was almost paternal—if fathers were capable of engineering their children’s moral downfall with legally airtight paperwork.

"Pages 3 through 8." He made a magnanimous gesture with his hand. "Every legal, illegal, and semi-legal act is listed. With specific limitations, of course."(The smile said: "Good luck finding a loophole.")

Tim flipped to the section with Flash-worthy speed, his eyes scanning the lines at near-supersonic pace.

Dick, draped over his shoulder like a lemur with ADHD, dug his chin into Tim’s shoulder.

Steph—always the subtlest of the group—was already yanking at the contract with a "Gimme that!" so eager she might as well have spit on the paper from sheer excitement. Tim held firm, his fingers bone-white from gripping it.

"Steph, I swear on everything holy—"

"Holy? You?" Jason laughed, already tallying how many international laws he could break in 24 hours if he got his hands on it. (The current count was 40. Forty. And that was just the first round.)

"And what situations pause the clock?" Tim pressed, his brain shifting into Bat-Computer mode as he dissected every comma of the document.

"Pages 11 through 20," Clark announced, like a professor pleased with his lecture. "Every known scenario the League has faced is cataloged. From the simplest to the... most peculiar."

That word rang like a warning bell.

Tim frowned. Dick, hovering behind him, froze mid-fidget. Even Jason—who normally treated warnings like optional suggestions—raised an eyebrow.

Of course, Clark ignored the collective "this will backfire spectacularly" vibe and continued, ticking off points on his fingers like he was listing a menu of catastrophes:

"Zombie apocalypse." (✓)

(Steph let out an impressed "whoa.")

"Alien invasion." (✓)

(Damian rolled his eyes. "Obviously." As if it were as routine as morning coffee.)

"One of you getting shrunk to ant-size." (✓)

(Dick pointed at Tim. "That was you." Tim shot back: "That was Barry." Barry, somewhere in the multiverse, sneezed.)

"Time travel." (✓✓✓) (Especially if it involves Barry.)

A chorus of "ugh, of course" echoed through the room.

"Barry, Barry, Barry…" Jason sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. "The guy turns a 'let’s fix this quick' into a time paradox in three seconds flat. It’s a talent.”

Jason, with zero regard for the concept of "personal property," yanked the contract out of Tim’s hands to inspect a clause that caught his eye.

"Case 14.8: Uncontrollable Clone Outbreak (Origin: Lab/Alien Tech/Dark Magic)" he read aloud, before looking up at Clark. "Holy shit, Kent. You even included a clause for 'evil clone attacks'?!"

Steph, peeking over his shoulder, snorted.

"Look down there! There’s a sub-section for 'clones with false memories' and 'clones romantically involved with team members'!" She grinned. "How’d you even think of this?!"

Clark adjusted his glasses slowly. The glare on the lenses hid, for just a second, that glint—the one that only appeared when he was about to drop a truth bomb.

"After twelve years of friendship with your father…" He paused dramatically, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "...Two years of dating, and two more of marriage? What did you expect?”

Tim, having reclaimed the contract from Jason’s grip, drummed his fingers on the table in a rhythm oscillating between "genius calculating" and "caffeine addict on the verge of collapse." The sound echoed through the room like a ticking time bomb—if anxiety had a BPM, this was its soundtrack.

"What if I sleep more than seven hours?" The question came out sharp, laced with that "I already have a loophole plan" tone only Robins could perfect.

Clark didn’t flinch. In fact, his smile widened—that "Oh sweetie, you think I was born yesterday?" look only seasoned parents and League lawyers could pull off.

"Overtime becomes credit." He flipped a page, revealing a complex table that would make an accountant weep. "Slept nine hours today? You bank two. Need to pull a 48-hour emergency stint?" Dramatic pause. "Spend your credits.”

Dick let out an exasperated huff, arms crossed like he wanted to crush his own indignation.

"That’s cheating!" he accused, pointing at Tim, whose "time to hack the system" glare was already at full throttle. "He’ll stockpile 40 hours in a week and stay awake for days after! Are you seeing this?!"

But Clark didn’t blink. With the calm of a chessmaster who’d predicted every move:

"20-hour monthly cap."

And before another protest could erupt, he delivered the killing blow in that soft voice of someone who’d rehearsed this:

"No consecutive credit days. Page 20, paragraph 4: ‘Max 2 compensated days per week."

Tim tuned out the chaos—Dick and Steph now furiously debating the ethics of "sleep banking." He went straight for the jugular, flipping pages with the focus of a battlefield surgeon.

"What voids the contract?"

"Pages 21 and 22."

Then—the question everyone, Bruce included, was waiting for:

"And caffeine?"

Clark took a breath. A deep breath. The kind reserved for days you’d fought Darkseid and Brainiac before lunch. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could prepare a soul for the impossible task of regulating a Robin’s coffee addiction.

"You all consume at least 8,000 mg a day," Clark said, voice flat. "Which is basically a war crime against biology."

He raised a hand before the protests could detonate—because of course they were about to detonate.

"I’m only asking Tim to cut his intake in half.”

Jason clutched his coffee mug like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic, fingers twitching with possessive rage. The black liquid inside wasn’t just a drink—it was a lifestyle, a sacred right. His murderous glare flicked between the contract and Clark, like a tiger deciding if pouncing was worth it.

Dick, meanwhile, had no filter.

"HALF?!" His voice cracked like a battle cry as he literally dropped to his knees, hands clutching his head in theatrical despair. "CLARK, DO YOU WANT US TO SLEEP OR TURN INTO ZOMBIES?!" Wide-eyed, panting—he looked like someone had just announced the apocalypse.

Tim observed the chaos around him with icy detachment. The Robin pandemonium, Clark’s unshakable stance, Dick’s hysterics, Jason’s death grip on caffeine—all of it was just background noise.

He’d already done the math.

He’d already dissected the clauses.

He’d already accepted the inevitable.

When Tim finally looked up from the contract, no one recognized what they saw.

Those eyes—usually so analytical, so Tim—now burned with predatory intensity. Somewhere between a CEO about to devour the competition and a hacker who’d just found the system’s flaw. It was so unsettling that even Bruce, lurking behind his coffee cup in the corner, raised an eyebrow.

Tim’s voice was a blade.

"Pass me the pen.”

Tim’s voice was soft. Calm. But laced with a determination so sharp that Jason Todd—the guy who’d fought the Joker bare-handed—instinctively took half a step back.

No one breathed.

Clark, slowly, slid the pen toward him.

Tim took it. Flipped the contract. And signed.

It wasn’t a signature. It was an attack. The pen tore through the paper with the urgency of a general declaring war, every stroke of his name a silent vow of meticulously planned vengeance.

When he finished, he lifted his head and locked eyes with Clark.

"Done."

And then... he smiled.

It was a small smile. Almost imperceptible. But everyone in that kitchen felt a chill crawl down their spine.

Jason was the first to break the silence.

"...Damn, Tim." He stared at the contract, then at his brother’s murderous grin. "You’re scaring me."

Clark signed next, his Kryptonian calm a stark contrast to the frenzy around him. His signature flowed across the page with the ease of someone drafting a bland Daily Planet article—not authorizing what might well become the most creative diplomatic incident of the century.

And then, the document reached Bruce.

The air froze.

For a moment that stretched into eternity, he examined the contract. His eyes scanned every line, every clause, every comma, with the precision of an algorithm programmed to find flaws.

The room held its breath.

Finally, Bruce lifted the pen.

The sound of its tip touching paper echoed like thunder.

Signed.

His signature—bold, unmistakable, the same one that graced million-dollar checks and mission reports that altered history—slashed across the page with final authority.

The sound of the pen being set down rang out like a starting gun.

Chapter Text

The first thirty days had been a nightmare. Tim Drake wouldn’t use that word lightly—he’d faced killers, monsters, even alternate versions of himself, but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the torture of going without coffee. If anyone said he was "handling it well," they were either a pathological liar or had never seen a caffeine addict in withdrawal.

He was a pitiful sight: a zombie with dark circles, sluggish reflexes, and a mood swinging between "I want to die" and "I will murder someone." Even Damian, the king of snark, seemed to hesitate before dropping his usual remarks. The kid just stood there in the corner, watching Tim like he was a bomb about to go off—and honestly, it wasn’t that far off.

It was in this atmosphere of chronic desperation and irritation that the Challenge Diary was born: a meticulous, dramatic, and at times downright disturbing record of his journey toward coffee sobriety.

CHALLENGE DIARY - FIRST 30 DAYS (I WILL MURDER SOMEONE)

DAY 1

Woke up before my alarm. This has never happened in the history of my life. Me, Tim Drake, the human who once slept standing up, just opened my eyes five minutes before the obnoxious beeping. Coincidence? Or the first sign of the apocalypse again?

Turned down an espresso. An. Espresso. The barista looked shocked and asked if I was okay. Jason, the traitorous idiot, TOOK A PICTURE of my teary eyes and sent it to the family group chat with the caption: "Look at this, Replacement’s getting sentimental." I swear on everything holy—and unholy—I’m turning his helmet into a plant pot. Or a dog bowl for Titus.

Hours of sleep: 8 (!!!)

Yes, you read that right. EIGHT. I didn’t know my body was capable of that. Guess it went into self-preservation mode, like, "If we don’t sleep, he’s gonna make us drink herbal tea."

Daily Note:

I think my body is in shock.

Jason is officially on my list of "people who will wake up to a cat in their underwear."

Damian looked at me with respect today. Or fear. Hard to tell.

Day 5:

Bruce is SABOTAGING me.

Turns out Batman hacked my own systems to shut them down at 11 PM. Hypocrite. The same guy who stays up until 2 AM reviewing case files with three cups of coffee in his bloodstream suddenly wants to play Dr. Healthy Sleep with me? Unacceptable. (Though Clark’s been blocking him. I’m officially his biggest ally now.)

The last straw was when I shattered a mug just by looking at the coffee pot. It exploded in my hand like it was made of fragile hopes. Jason laughed—until I glared at him. The laughter died in his throat. Good. If I can’t have caffeine, no one gets joy. (He called me a Dementor.)

Damian, the "Nighttime Angel of Death," decided to help me go to bed.

With a katana at my throat.

— "Sleep, or I’ll make you sleep, Drake."

…Well. It worked.

💤 Hours of sleep: 7 (counted under mortal threat. Would this count as murder if I died? Philosophical questions.)

Day 15:

CAFFEINE WITHDRAWAL IS REAL.

My hands are shaking.

My soul is empty.

The void consumes me like a black hole devours stars.

I am a hollow shell of a man.

Dick had the audacity to compare the way I looked at the coffee pot to "a widow at a funeral."

I considered murder.Then I remembered that killing family voids the contract. Damn you, Clark, and your meticulous fine print.

Steph, the traitor, left an open Monster Energy on my chair.

I sniffed it. Like a junkie huffing cocaine.

She filmed it. Posted it in the Family Group Chat. Laughed.

I will remember this on Judgment Day.

💤 Hours of sleep: 7 (interrupted by nightmares where I drowned Bruce in decaf and he thanked me. Traumatic.)

Day 23:

Alfred gave me a heated blanket.

I suspect it contains:

☑️ Alien technology

☑️ Dark magic

☑️ Pure British power

Because NOBODY sleeps 9h14min naturally. Me, Tim Drake, the Master of Sleep Deprivation, just broke my personal record. And I am TERRIFIED.

SLEEP CREDITS ACCRUED: 2h14min

DAILY NOTE:

Alfred is an angel sent from heaven. Or a warlock. Or a higher being we mere mortals will never comprehend.

If I survive to Day 30, I’m suing Starbucks for:

✧ Emotional damages

P.S.: Found a chamomile tea bag in my pocket. This is a declaration of war

Day 25

DICK TRIED TO "HELP" ME WITH BREATHING EXERCISES

Scene: Your older brother striking a "spiritual guru" pose in your room:

"Breathe in… Breathe out…"

My face: "I’m calculating 37 ways to hide a body."

If he’d dared say "Namaste," we would’ve had:

☑️ 1 justifiable homicide

☑️ 1 Dick Grayson strangled with his own yoga leggings

☑️ 0 regrets

Cass, the only sane person in this house, took efficient action:

🔹 Punched my arm (lovingly).

🔹 Pointed at the bed (translation: "Go to sleep or I’ll drop you").

🔹 I complied.

Kon showed up to "help me relax." Methods used:

Massage (…okay, it worked).

Hot bath (…okay, worked very well).

Result: 8 hours of sleep (…Thanks, Kon. But if you tell anyone, I’ll lace you with kryptonite.).

Day 30 - Bitter Victory:

*Goal achieved: 210h/210h*

Luthor tweeted motivational nonsense.

"Success comes to those who persevere."

GROUNDBREAKING SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY:

*"Hate capacity increases by 37% when well-rested."*

🔬 Researcher's Note: I’ll make Luthor hate his own existence at 200% efficiency.

Final Notes:

Bruce looked at me with pride today.

Jason is still alive (currently weighing options between "plant pot" and "laxative-laced coffee").

4,000 mg of caffeine and pure torture.

SURREAL OBSERVATIONS:

THE BIZARRE DREAMS (Or: "My Subconscious Needs Professional Help")

ALFRED, THE VAMPIRE BARISTA

Scene: Serving "blood in a martini glass" with a polite smile.

Iconic quote: "The O-negative is particularly full-bodied today, Master Timothy. I recommend a pinch of cinnamon."

Post-wakeup confusion: WHY DID THIS MAKE SENSE IN THE MOMENT?

BRUCE, THE GOTH BALLET STAR

Scene: Black tutu. Pirouettes on the Batmobile. Tchaikovsky playing.

Unexpected supporting cast: Joker as an enthusiastic ballet critic. ("Bravo! Your arabesque is as lethal as your moralizing!")

Existential threat: If this leaks, I’m a dead man. Or worse—disowned.

ME, THE HYPOCRITE

Scene: Smiling, drinking chamomile tea. Voluntarily.

VERDICT: That was the most disturbing nightmare of all.

CHALLENGE DIARY - NEXT 60 DAYS (STRATEGIC REVENGE EDITION)

(Or: "How I Survived and Became Gotham’s Plague")

Day 35: Luthor’s Hypocrisy

Shocking Discovery: Lex sponsors an orphanage in Metropolis.

HYPOTHESES (WITH SCIENTIFICALLY IRREFUTABLE PERCENTAGES)

A (87%): Money laundering (classic Luthor).

B (12%): Kids are test subjects ("Project: Mini-Lex"?).

C (0%): "Does he have a heart?" → CALCULATION ERROR. (System crashed. Rebooting logic...)

POST-SLEEP PLAN

If it’s fake (which it 100% is):

Redirect all LexCorp funding to an orphanage that isn’t a front.

Bonus: Dick tried to negotiate his own revenge plot and failed miserably.

Day 42: IMPOSSIBLE FEAT

8 HOURS OF UNINTERRUPTED SLEEP

(No katana threats. No alien intervention. NOTHING.)

Self-Analysis: Either I’m evolving… or this is the prelude to an existential crisis.

FAMILY REACTIONS (Or: "Why Is Everyone Acting Weird?")

Alfred: Got emotional.

Bruce: "Finally."

Jason: "This isn’t natural."

My mental reply: Agreed, but I won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing it.

Steph: "Where’s the real Tim Drake?"

Response: "Dead. I’m the upgraded version."

Kon, the Traitor: Brought decaf coffee as a "gift."

My reaction: Yeeted it out the window. Zero regrets.

Day 53: I MET LAURA(Or: "Shazam, But With More Attitude and a PhD in Terrorizing Me")

Official Title: Living representative of all Indigenous pantheons of Brazil and protector of Latin America.

Profession: Linguist, finishing a thesis that would make Bruce academically proud:

"Contrastive Analysis of Phonetic and Structural Differences in Native North American Languages Compared to Guarani Kaiowá and Tikuna."

THE MOMENT THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

Laura, noticing my love for guaraná, introduced me to the real Guaraná da Amazônia—a popular Northern Brazilian drink, delicious and packed with caffeine.

⚠ LAURA’S DEATH WARNING ⚠

She stared at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes (that classic "you look fragile, so I’ll give you one chance" look) and said:

"If you add a SINGLE MILLIGRAM of corn syrup, artificial flavoring, coloring, or any industrial crap to this drink..." (dramatic pause) "...I will beat you into pulp. Understood? 🙂"

TRANSLATION FOR THE UNINITIATED:

"Beat you into pulp" = Turn your body into a human punching bag.

Reality: She absolutely would. (And I believed her. Instantly.)

👉 NEW GOLDEN RULE:

NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, ALTER ANY RECIPE FROM BRAZIL (unless you want to get your ass handed to you)

COSMIC UPDATE: THE GODS WANT TO BLESS US

After making me solemnly swear not to ruin the recipe, Laura casually dropped:

"Are you guys under the protection of any pantheon or deity? Besides the Endless, of course."

BEFORE I COULD EVEN ANSWER, she concluded:

"Because some of my gods are interested in blessing you."

THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC (according to her) about blessing the Batfam:

Ticê (Goddess of the Underworld & Magic)

Anhangá (Spirit Protector of Forests & Hunters)

Jaci (Moon Goddess of Magic & Love)

Guaraci (Sun God of Life & Justice)

Sumé (The Hero Who Brought Knowledge)

Reason: They liked our efforts to protect the world.

My Reaction:

"Bruce is gonna lose his shit when he finds out we have divine sponsors now."

DAY 60:

FINAL RESULT: *420h/420h COMPLETED*

PARTIAL REWARD: 2 days of accumulated revenge (And I’m gonna USE them well.)

LEX LUTHOR ATTACK PLAN (PHASE 2):

🔹 LexCorp Sound System Hacked → Every time Luthor praises himself ("Genius," "Superior," "Splendid"), it’ll play: 🎵 "BABY SHARK" 🎵 (*10-hour loop on ALL speakers*).

Expected effect: Luthor smashing his own sound equipment in 3... 2... 1... (Little does he know...)

🔹 Auto-Corrected Emails → All his "brilliant" memos will be edited to:

"Signed: Lex Luthor, Superman’s #1 Fan."

(Including auto-replies and international contracts. Oops. 🙂)

🔹 GLITTER CURSE (IN NEGOTIATIONS WITH ZATANNA) →

Effect: All of Luthor’s clothes instantly get coated in glitter when someone looks at him.

Fine print: Glitter does NOT come off. Ever. (Unless in a very specific color pattern.)

OBSERVATIONS:

Steph compiled 30 days of my yawns into a montage and posted it in the family group chat with the caption: "Tim Drake: From Bat to Sleepy Bear."

→ RETALIATION SCHEDULED.

Jason laughed so hard he spit out his coffee.

→ RETALIATION SCHEDULED.

CHALLENGE DIARY - FINAL PHASE

Day 65:

Event: Luthor tried to sabotage Wayne Enterprises.

Result:

Bruce moved before I could even blink. (Batman doesn’t sleep. Batman doesn’t blink. Batman preempts.)

I watched from the sidelines, with popcorn. Pure schadenfreude. Sweet, sweet indirect revenge.

Slept 9 hours of pure, malicious bliss. (Zero remorse. Zero regrets.)

Daily Note:

Bruce smiled. So did I. It was terrifyingly therapeutic.

Lex, you really thought you could outplay Batman? Pathetic.

DAY 73: I ALMOST BROKE.

Trigger: Oracle showed me photos of Luthor eating pineapple pizza.

Immediate reaction:

Almost downed a triple espresso. (My sleep streak would’ve been obliterated. But hatred won.)

Unexpected salvation:

Kon showed up with sparkling water and lemon. (??? But okay.)

And a kiss. (It worked. Damn him.)

Post-crisis observation:

Kon is manipulating me—and I’m letting him. (Where did I go wrong?)

DAY 85: KON’S "THERAPEUTIC KIDNAPPING"

Location: Luxury spa "La Vengeance" (charged to Luthor’s corporate card).

Kon’s justification: "Pre-revenge gift."

TRAUMATIC/REVELATORY TREATMENTS:

Hot stone massage → Discovered my body has been holding tension since birth.

Mud bath → Became one with the Clayface aesthetic.

Herbal tea → …And liked it. What have I become?

Kon, whispering in my ear: "Relaxing is winning too, detective."

If I didn’t love this idiot so much, I’d kryptonite uppercut him into orbit.

Mental Note: If this leaks, my reputation is dead.

…But worth it.

DAY 89: BRUCE'S ANTI-LUTHOR THERAPY SESSION

Event: Bruce, the king of dark humor, showed me a compilation of Luthor’s most ridiculous moments.

Album Highlights:

Lex slipping on a banana peel (2012).

Lex wearing a child's party hat at a gala (unexplained).

Lex being chased by a goose (yes, A GOOSE) in Berlin → Video set to "Mission: Impossible" theme.

Side Effect: Slept 12 hours straight. PERSONAL RECORD.

(Batman heals. Through blackmail files and schadenfreude.)

DAY 90: FINAL RESULT

630h/630h COMPLETED.

REVENGE PLAN (PHASE 3 – FINAL TOUCHES)

🔹 Glitter Curse (Zatanna approved) → Lex’s clothes now sparkle like a Twilight vampire when observed.

🔹 Baby Shark Sound System → Voice-activated (keywords: "genius," "superior," "undeniably perfect").

Bonus: If he yells "STOP," volume increases. (Thanks, Oracle.)

🔹 Auto-Emails → Signature updated: "Lex Luthor, Superman’s #1 Fan."

🔹 Lex’s AI Assistant → Now has Lois Lane’s voice (she laughed and provided audio clips like, "Lex, are you sure about this?").

🔹 Special Gift → Shipping a ¼-scale action figure of Luthor’s most humiliating defeat.

FINAL OBSERVATIONS:

✅ Alfred made me a decaf coffee cake in my honor. I cried.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The Batcave was wrapped in its usual electronic hum, broken only by the soft clatter of Tim's keyboard and the contented purring of Alfred the cat—who, at that moment, had claimed his throne on the Robin's lap like a general surveying his domain.

Then Clark appeared in the entrance, wearing that "reporter about to ruin someone’s day" grin—the same one that had preceded headlines like "LexCorp Denies Waste Dumping Despite Evidence."

"Tim…" he began, voice too light to be casual. "You know LexCorp’s big gala is tonight at 8, right?"

Tim swiveled his chair slowly, fingers trailing through Alfred’s fur like a villain petting his malevolent Persian. The scene belonged in a mob movie—him, reclined, feline in lap, staring at Clark like he already knew exactly where this was going.

"You want me to scare Lex before my official revenge even starts?" His fingers tapped the armrest, rhythmic, calculated. "That’s… diabolically cruel

Clark didn't deny it. Instead, his eyes gleamed with that particular blend of hope and mischief that only appeared when the Man of Steel was 100% willing to play dirty—usually a prelude to devastating headlines or Lex Luthor losing his voice from screaming.

"I’d say it’s more… psychologically strategic," he replied, with a smile that didn’t bother hiding his scheming side.

Tim let out a low, almost sinister chuckle.

"You’re learning. Welcome to the family’s dark side."

Alfred the cat meowed in agreement, lifting a tiny paw like a co-conspirator giving his seal of approval—or a mafioso signing off on a hit.

"Now… where are you going with this?" Tim asked, voice laced with curiosity and just a hint of suspicion.

Clark leaned in. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but loaded with that kind of promise—the kind only a man who could bend steel with his hands could deliver credibly:

"How about… we play with Lex’s paranoia and his ego?"

A pause. The air in the Batcave crackled. Even the bats in the shadows seemed to freeze, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

Tim stayed perfectly still for exactly two seconds—just long enough for his brain to process every possibility, implication, and, most importantly, the sheer entertainment potential.

"Go on." The words came out in a whisper, his eyes burning with cruel anticipation.

Clark continued, his smile now less "Superman" and more "about to do something gloriously vicious"—the same one Lois had once described as "career-ending."

"Imagine if Superman suddenly appeared at the event," Clark said, his eyes gleaming with pure Kryptonian mischief, "and said: 'Good evening, Lex. I'm sure you weren't expecting me here. But don't worry... I just came to inform you that Batman has granted special permission for one of his associates to deal with you as they see fit. Good luck... you'll need it.'"

Tim froze. Then smiled. It was a slow, calculated, dangerous smile - the kind that made Gotham's villains reconsider their life choices.

"Clark Kent..." he murmured, his fingers pausing their petting of the cat. "You're an evil genius disguised as a Boy Scout."

Clark raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eyes was pure trickery.

"I prefer the term 'investigative journalist,'" he replied.

Tim swiveled back to the screens in one fluid motion, his fingers dancing across the keyboard like a conductor leading a digital symphony of chaos. The frantic rhythm of keystrokes echoed through the Batcave, accompanied by the satisfied purring of Alfred the cat, who watched everything with the air of a supervisor approving the mayhem.

Within seconds, LexCorp's systems surrendered to him:

✔ Security schematics — including Lex's "secret" escape route (which, surprise, wasn't so secret after all. "Emergency exit through the executive bathroom? Really, Lex?").

✔ Exact schedule — speech at 8:15 PM, champagne break at 8:30 PM ("Clear priorities," Tim thought sarcastically).

✔ All live feeds — even the one hidden in the executive bathroom (because of course Lex would have one).

"Done." Tim pointed at the main screen, where Lex's face appeared in a rehearsal feed, the tycoon meticulously practicing his "I’m the smartest man alive" smirk in the mirror. "You make your entrance the exact moment he’s about to unveil the car. I want every camera catching his microexpressions in HD."

Clark tilted his head, but his eyes—blue as the sky and now sharp as ice—gleamed with something between admiration and well-disguised terror.

"And then?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

The corners of Tim’s lips curled into a smile that would make the Joker think twice—the kind that only appeared when he already saw checkmate ten moves ahead.

"Then?" He let the suspense hang like cigarette smoke in a noir film. "We... watch. We wait until 8 AM..." Another calculated pause, because Tim Drake could never resist good theatrics. "And we watch his house of cards collapse."

That flicker of pity hung in the air for one second. Just one.

And evaporated the moment his mind flashed through Lex's "gifts" to humanity:

The fiery speeches on national TV branding Superman a "threat to mankind";

The assassination attempts (so frequent Clark scribbled them in his planner between reporter gigs and cat rescues);

The elaborate kryptonite schemes—because nothing says "I hate you" like intergalactic radioactive minerals;

And that night Lex spewed venom at Kon, with words that cut deeper than green kryptonite.

No. No pity could survive that list.

What remained was only the comforting warmth of revenge—not served cold, but at the perfect temperature. And Clark Kent, with his Smallville morals still intact, was ready to savor every bite with the same delight as one of Martha's apple pies.

Tim gave him a quick pat on the shoulder—the kind that said "end him" without needing words. Clark adjusted his glasses in that automatic Kent-reporter-everyman gesture. But the smile that bloomed on his lips didn't belong to Clark Kent.

It was a calm smile. Almost gentle.

"Don't worry," he said, with the sweetness of an angel announcing the apocalypse. "I'll be so polite... it'll hurt."

Tim let out a laugh sharp as a blade.

And then they waited. The stage was set. The cameras, positioned. The audience, oblivious

Lex Luthor, in his infinite arrogance, was already defeated—the universe just hadn't realized it yet.

The LexCorp Gala

The hall glittered with the kind of fake perfection only billions could buy—golden lights bouncing off champagne flutes so expensive they were born bitter, and the "Luthor Volt" (that electric car that would "save the planet") gleaming onstage like a golden trophy of pure hypocrisy.

The audience was a who’s who of shady interests:

Journalists chewing canapés along with their ethics.

Politicians flashing smiles, hands outstretched—for handshakes or bribes, who could tell?

Lab scientists whose consciences had clearance sale price tags.

All of them, swallowing caviar and empty speeches, worshipping Lex like he was some hybrid of Da Vinci and Mother Teresa—instead of just a rich guy with daddy issues and a vault full of kryptonite.

Lex took the stage with the grace of a shark in calm waters—three-piece suit worth three years of a Daily Planet reporter’s salary, smile already counting his victory before the first applause. (When you’ve even bought the silence, success is just... math.)

The audience held its breath at every calculated pause, every micromanaged gesture. He was a god in his temple of gilded lies—or at least, he devoutly believed in that fantasy.

"When I speak of human progress—" His voice boomed, dripping with the kind of pride that always comes before the fall, "I speak of—"

And then he saw.

The air crystallized.

For one endless, suspended moment, the grand hall became a diorama of shock:

Champagne flutes frozen inches from petrified lips

Pupils dilated, capturing that celestial blue amid the fake gold

Cameras flashing wildly, lenses scrambling to focus as if seeing a ghost

At the eye of the storm—a speck of blue. That blue. The one that didn’t belong in this sea of counterfeit gold.

Lex turned, slower than the worst nightmare. And there he was—the cape billowing like a battle standard, the "S" gleaming like a reminder of every defeat Lex refused to acknowledge.

Superman.

Hovering half a meter off the ground like defying gravity was his hobby between kitten rescues and stopping runaway trains. His cape swayed with disrespectful elegance, as if the laws of physics were mere suggestions—and let’s be honest, for him, they were. His smile was criminally serene: peaceful, polite, and the kind of calmly infuriating that gave Lex Luthor night sweats.

"Good evening, Lex."

Honey dripped into the hall, sweet and venomous in its courtesy.

Lex reacted with the rehearsed perfection of a Hollywood actor—his "misunderstood genius" smile snapping back into place faster than you could say "lawsuit." His arms spread in fake surprise, but the details... oh, the details told the real story:

The jaw clenched like a LexCorp vault

The eyelids blinking too fast, as if trying to delete the image

The fingers curling into claws against the podium

"Superman."

Two syllables sharp as a ceremonial dagger, but with a tremor of barely contained rage underneath. His Adam’s apple bobbed like he’d swallowed a fistful of kryptonite.

"What an... unexpected visit."

Clark ignored Lex’s words the way one ignores a persistent mosquito—the kind of annoyance you stop registering after years in Metropolis. His voice kept that calm, rural radio-host tone, like he was announcing the weather instead of the beginning of the end for an empire built on ego and lies.

"But don’t worry."

The pause that followed was as calculated as a museum thief’s footsteps. His eyes—the same ones Lex had spent sleepless nights analyzing on security footage, insisting "nothing that blue could be human"—peeled the billionaire apart layer by layer, exposing:

The vein throbbing at his temple like an anger metronome

The held breath betraying his racing pulse

The locked facial muscles straining to maintain "total control"

"...I’m just here to inform you that Batman has authorized one of his associates..."

Lex didn't even blink.

But in the shadows, far from the cameras:

His fists clenched until knuckles bleached white under skin

Bones creaking in silent protest

Nails carving trenches into his own palms

"...to deal with you as they see fit. And I won't interfere."

The silence that fell over the hall was so absolute, even the clink of champagne glasses seemed to vanish—as if the air itself had solidified, trapping everyone in amber suspense.

Then Clark delivered his coup de grâce.

Drifting down until his boots nearly brushed the floor, cape swirling in hypnotic waves, he leaned in with near-intimate closeness—the kind reserved for childhood secrets...or personal declarations of war.

When he spoke again, it was in a whisper perfectly engineered to be:

Quiet enough to feel private

Loud enough to catch every microphone

Precise enough to hit like a scalpel

"Good luck."

The words hung in the air like dust after an explosion. Lex didn't blink, but Clark saw:

Pupils dilating in a micro-tic of panic

Jugular throbbing beneath the impeccable collar

Fingers twisting in hateful Morse code

Then, with the grace of someone who hadn't just nuked a career, Superman floated upward again. His serene smile clicked back on like a switch—the same expression that calmed crying babies.

But that final look he gave...

This wasn't the photogenic grin from magazine covers.

This wasn't the patient expression that reassured crowds.

This was the smile of a predator who knew exactly how fragile his prey's bones were.

"You'll need it."

Then—in the blink of an eye—Superman simply ceased to exist.

What remained?

Lex Luthor.

Frozen on stage like a Greek statue after an earthquake, jaw clenched so tight it seemed ready to pulverize his own teeth. His eyes—normally live scanners calculating every advantage—now glassy, staring at the empty space where that damned red cape had floated seconds before.

The silence lasted exactly 5.3 seconds. (Tim had timed it. For dramatic effect.)

And then—

Pandemonium.

The reporters erupted into chaos, turning their phones into weapons. VIPs tripped over their own egos, champagne and morality spilling across the marble floor. Shattered glasses littered the ground like Lex's public image—irreparable.

And the cameras? Oh, the cameras loved it. Every close-up was a gift:

"I AM NOT IN CONTROL" — screamed every muscle in his face, in glorious 4K slow motion.

Reporters surged forward like a starving horde, microphones thrust like knives toward the former "most confident man in the room." LexCorp’s opulent hall, once a temple of flawless power, had become a circus of chaos. The Luthor Volt—that "green revolution" that had cost more lives in illegal mines than trees planted in ads—stood abandoned on stage, now irrelevant.

"What exactly did Batman authorize, Mr. Luthor?" shouted one reporter, voice drunk on Pulitzer potential.

Lex swallowed dryly. His lips parted for a "witty retort" that never came.

Because then—

"Does this relate to the slave labor allegations in LexCorp’s Zimbabwe lithium mines?"

Lois Lane, planted in the front row like a loaded gun, smirked with "I told you so" and a gaze that said "this is the final nail, sweetheart."

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The villains of Gotham watched the "Luthor Incident" with a mix of fascination and primal terror. While Lex, in his cosmic arrogance, publicly mocked Batman’s "colorful little ghosts" in venomous interviews, Gotham’s hardened criminals recognized the scent of blood in the air.

Because they knew.

They knew Lex was playing with Greek fire. And worse… he hadn’t even realized it.

Yet.

The press ridiculed the Robins’ vibrant colors, their "childish" codenames, the jokes about "decorative birds." They laughed at the memes, the shiny capes, the "nest" puns.

While the world chuckled at Batman’s "colorful little birds," Gotham’s most battle-scarred criminals felt a chill down their spines.

They knew.

In nature, the most vibrant creatures are always the deadliest—and the Robins were no exception.

They and Batman were the apex predators of Gotham’s food chain—each one a lethal fighter in their own right

Dick Grayson (Robin I)

The Original – The first, the smiliest, and the one who shattered bones with a dancer’s grace and a surgeon’s precision.

Urban Legend: Thugs who laughed at the bright uniform choked on their own teeth (sometimes literally).

Jason Todd (Robin II)

The Attack Dog – The most brutal. The most merciless.

Infamous Feat: Once ditched Batman and stormed the Iceberg Lounge on a rainy night because he was "bored." Results:

✅ 15 goons hospitalized (4 critical)

✅ 3 fled the city (and never came back)

✅ Penguin "canceled all business" that week ("for health reasons")

Signature Line: "Choose: surrender or coma. I don’t care either way."

Tim Drake (Robin III)

The Tactical Genius - That quiet nerd? He once hacked Two-Face's entire operation while drinking coffee.

Financial Revenge: The next morning, the villain woke up to:

💸 Bank account drained to zero

📝 Note: "Took your savings. Hugs, Robin."

Villain-Freezing Quote: "I already know everything about you. Really want me to share?"

Stephanie Brown (Robin IV)

The Blonde Hurricane - As unpredictable as a grenade with no pin, hated by criminals because she "broke the villain handbook."

Proven Stats:

🥊 87% of crooks prefer jail over facing her again

⏱️ Record: 3 surrenders in under 2 minutes

Living Legend: "Surrender is just a fancy word for 'too scared to get hit again.'"

Favorite Warning: "I accept apologies... just never in time to avoid the hospital."

Damian Wayne (Robin V)

The Baby Assassin – He’d planned your funeral before you even knew you were marked for death.

Legendary Moment:

When Scarecrow hit him with fear gas, Damian just sighed—

"Was that meant to be scary, or your last cry for help?"

Result: 1 villain in existential crisis + 3 henchmen requesting transfers to Blackgate.

Multilingual Murder Skills:

💀 Anatomically precise insults in 7 languages

💀 Masters silence as psychological warfare

Calling Card:

"You blink too much. I can fix that."

Bonus: The Robins as a Unit

When the Flock Gathers:

☠️ They make Batman look like the "responsible adult" (which is terrifying)

☠️ Villains started a support group: "Gotham’s Bird Attack Survivors"

☠️ Safest place during a Robin attack? An Arkham cell

Urban Legend:

They say if you shout "Robin" in a dark alley, three appear...and one’s already behind you.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The villains of Gotham had always known the truth the rest of the world refused to see: the Robins were the city's most dangerous currency—and no matter which side they landed on, the edge was always lethal.

The Robins were Gotham's most dangerous paradox.

To the Justice League, they were just "Batman's adorable little sidekicks." But criminals knew the raw, unfiltered truth:

They were the colorful demons who transformed into sweet little angels in front of the League.

Dick Grayson wasn’t just the first Robin—he was the architect of Gotham’s greatest con. And every Robin after him perfected that art with religious devotion.

Bruce and Clark were the only ones outside the villainous underworld who knew the truth: those "little angels" were, in reality, a squad of gremlins trained for absolute chaos.

But they never exposed them.

Why?

Because it was too perfect to ruin.

Dick Grayson: The Master of Deception

At the Watchtower:

The "perfect nephew"—angelic smile, flawless manners (courtesy of years under Alfred’s training).

Called everyone "Uncle" or "Auntie", including:

Wonder Woman (who melted)

Green Lantern (who flustered)

Always showed up with homemade cookies—"Made with love (and a little bit of Alfred)."

On Gotham’s Streets:

2-meter-tall thug? Spinning kick to the jaw, goodnight.

Squad of armed goons? Aerial flips, pinpoint strikes—all down before they blinked.

And the kicker? He’d still flash that golden-boy smile like he’d just won a "Best Criminal Beatdown" trophy.

Jason Todd – History’s Most Effective Hypocrite

At the Justice League:

The resident moralist, lecturing on "excessive violence" with the eloquence of a priest and the conviction of a judge.

"We have to be better than them!" he’d declare, while Flash whispered, "This kid’s so noble!"

What the League Didn’t See:

Clark, pulling Jason aside later:

"Jason, how many ribs did you break on Two-Face yesterday?"

Jason, angelic innocence: "Like... three? But he was armed!"

Clark, sighing: "Try to keep it under two, okay?"

Jason, obedient: "Okay."

Back in Gotham:

"Excessive" was his default setting.

His "peaceful mode" was leaving thugs just unconscious (which rarely happened).

Now, as Red Hood, he’s added new games:

"Which bullet’s in the chamber?" → Spinning an empty revolver cylinder while the thug sweats.

"Where’d the gun go?" → After disassembling their weapon in seconds… then beating them with it.

Tim Drake: The Genius Who Fooled the League with Yawns and Snacks

At the Justice League:

The "Nerd Robin"—adorably sleepy, always clutching coffee, yawning and rubbing his eyes over his domino mask.

Fixed the Watchtower’s systems one-handed while gaming on his phone with the other.

Earned free snacks from heroes who thought "it’s so cute how hard he tries."

Flash once: Found him napping at the monitors and teared up while tucking him under the "official League blanket."

Wonder Woman: Taught him ancient Greek… while Tim pretended not to know just to make her smile.

In Gotham:

Hacked the Riddler mid-crime on a Tuesday while solving differential equations for fun in his notebook.

Drained a villain’s bank account before lunch—then ordered a sandwich with the money.

Sent a post-crime email: "Needs better encryption. Hugs, Robin."

Drove Scarecrow into an existential crisis by tweaking his Fear Gas formulas daily on his own computers.

From the Batcave Archives:

Batman: "Tim, stop giving villains existential breakdowns. It’s hard to interrogate them after."

Tim: "But it’s efficient. And fun." (while deleting Penguin’s server logs)

Stephanie Brown: The Robin Who Plays "Sweet Girl" at the League (But in Gotham, She's Pure Terror)

At the Justice League:

The "most enthusiastic Robin"—always overflowing with energy (and sugar to share), despite her short tenure.

"Diana, you’re my hero! Teach me how to use that lasso?" (while mentally plotting 12 ways to strangle someone with it).

Made Green Lantern blush by calling him "Uncle Hal"—then "accidentally" swiped his ring just to watch him panic.

In Gotham:

Faced down Killer Croc in a damp alley, grinning as he snarled:

"Get that green hand away from me, or you’ll be a leather bag before Batman shows up."

Result: Croc backed down. Yes, KILLER CROC BACKED DOWN.

Stole the Riddler’s hat and returned it with a note: "?pu odahrec oãçudorpse oT" (He spent 3 days trying to decode it).

Her Secret Weapon?

The "Deadly Cuteness" Factor: Villains underestimate the "little blonde girl"... until they eat a punch that echoes in their soul..

Damian Wayne: The League's Little Prince & Gotham's Demon

At the League:

Polished, cultured, and (almost) diplomatic—the Robin who had the League convinced they were dealing with a "mini Bruce with manners."

Debating Renaissance art with Wonder Woman, quoting Michelangelo in flawless Italian.

Analyzing historical combat techniques like a miniature samurai sensei:

*"The 12th-century style was efficient, but lacked elegance."*

In Gotham:

"You breathe because I allow it." — whispered to a drug dealer before snapping his arm in three places.

Stole Deathstroke’s sword just to return it with a note:

"Your balance is 0.3% suboptimal. Correct this."

Organized defeated criminals into categories:

Minor injuries | Critical condition | "Will need a coffin"

Stole Bane’s venom tube, labeled it "Placebo", and slipped it back.

And Clark in All of This?

He just enjoyed the show.

At first, of course, Clark had been visibly shocked.

Just hours earlier, he’d witnessed that same boy in his natural habitat—Dick Grayson, the first Robin, Gotham’s prodigy, the same little gremlin he and Bruce struggled to rein in before he accidentally dismantled the city—taking down three armed robbers in a neighborhood bakery with his usual mix of acrobatics and strikes too fast for human eyes.

And now?

Now, there he was—all smiles and sweetness, handing out homemade cookies to the Justice League like some kind of pastry angel—the perfect picture of innocence, if not for that mischievous glint in his eyes that only Clark seemed to notice.

His eyes widened. His super-brain—the same mind that calculated planetary trajectories and decoded alien languages in seconds—short-circuited for an eternal moment.

Wait… What?

The same boy whose kicks sent criminals to dreamland was now offering him a chocolate-chip cookie with a smile brighter than the sun?

Then, as if in perfect cosmic sync, his eyes met Bruce’s.

The silent exchange was legendary:

Clark (face: "Hmm, surprisingly delicious cookie?" | eyes: "WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?")

Bruce, stoic as ever, raised his brow a single millimeter—but Clark, with his super-vision, caught the micro-glint in the Batman’s gaze. Pride? Oh, absolutely. But also a clear: "Yes, he’s a phenomenal actor. Play along."

Meanwhile, Dick—fully aware of the chaos he’d sown—beamed even sweeter as he offered Wonder Woman a cookie:

"You’ll love this one—figs and honey, my special touch."

Diana, oblivious to the destructive force behind those angelic eyes, accepted warmly:

"How delightful!"

Clark, meanwhile, swallowed hard—both the cookie and his existential dread.

And so, Clark embraced his fate—becoming accomplice #1 to the universe’s most devious gang of "little angels."

From then on:

Every time one of the kids gave a speech about "peaceful justice" or "second chances" to the League, Clark was there, nodding with paternal pride.

"Jason, your ‘redemption’ speech moved me!" (Conveniently ignoring that, the day before, the same Jason had hung a drug dealer upside-down from a lamppost with a sign: "RECYCLING.")

Behind the scenes, Clark tried to be the responsible adult. He’d pull the Robins aside, cross his arms, and whisper in his most "I know exactly what you did" tone:

"You overdid it again, didn’t you?"

They’d respond with peak fake innocence:

Dick with an angelic smile so convincing even Alfred would approve.

Jason with a "Who, me?" so dripping with sarcasm you could see the air quotes.

Tim with a "What? I’d never" face while already deleting evidence off his phone.

Damian with a flat "Tch." like the conversation was beneath him.

Clark would rub his temples, exhausted by the routine:

"At least break fewer bones next time. One more overkill stunt, and I’ll tell Bruce—no gear for a week. Understood?"

The reply came too sweet to be genuine:

"Yeeees, Clark..." (Bald-faced lie.)

And then they’d ignore him completely and repeat it all the next week.

Bruce, of course, knew everything. But he preferred organized chaos—or, as Clark suspected:

Deep down, he loved that his kids were even scarier than him. (And maybe—just maybe—he logged each incident in the Batcomputer as "Advanced Training.")

The entire League swooned:

"The Robins are so polite!"

"Such well-behaved young men!"

"Dick even brought me homemade cookies!"

And Clark?

Clark just smiled, with that look of quiet resignation.

Why Did He Never Tell?

The answer was simple: pure entertainment.

Watching the entire League fall for the Robins’ act was hilarious. While other heroes gushed over "What sweet boys!" or "So refined!", Clark knew the truth:

Those angelic faces were masks for gremlins trained in strategic chaos.

Every "Uncle" was a smokescreen.

Every speech about "justice and redemption" was pure theater—and no one but him and Batman seemed to notice.

And him? He wasn’t about to ruin the joke.

Besides, there was the psychological protection factor. Some Leaguers—like Flash and Hal Jordan—still genuinely believed the Robins were "innocent little creatures who needed safeguarding."

If they ever found out these "angels" had:

Wiped out entire gangs before breakfast,

Hacked League satellites just for fun,

And that one time (cough, Jason), they’d stolen the Batmobile just to "take it for a spin"...

Their innocent hearts couldn’t handle it.

But the real reason? Clark had become a second father to the Robins.

Even before marrying Bruce, he was knee-deep in their lives:

Trying (with questionable success) to curb their Gotham-demolishing gremlin tendencies.

Dropping advice between sips of coffee ("Dick, ‘door-kicking’ isn’t an interrogation technique").

Showing up to school games as mild-mannered Clark Kent.

And, when needed, lying through his teeth to shield them from Batman’s wrath.

Because the truth was obvious:

No one spent that much time with the Robins without developing:

Sharpened Parental Instincts:

Knowing exactly when Dick was lying (too-wide smile).

Recognizing Jason’s "pretending to be civilized" tone.

Spotting Tim "innocently" typing code in mid-air with his fingers.

Constant Dread:

"One day, they’ll do something SO epic even I can’t save them from Bruce’s wrath."

(Spoiler: It’s happened. Multiple times.)

Back when Lois married Clark, she’d joked:

"I married a divorced dad with two problem kids who’s still obsessed with reconciling with the other parent."

Years later, after Lois and Clark split and Clark/Bruce finally started dating, the Robins themselves confirmed the theory—loudly:

Dick: "Yeah, basically."

Jason: "Always been obvious."

Tim: "Even my school teachers shipped you two."

Lois, sipping coffee with a raised brow:

"Told you so."

Over the years, the Robins developed their own tradition—one that involved maintaining their "good kid" facade just long enough to earn their own hero name. It was a rite of passage. A symbolic exchange:

Out: The yellow cape of a "sidekick."

In: Their own identity... and the right to unleash unfiltered chaos.

Why Does This Matter?

Bruce pretends it’s not a ritual (but archives every "first gremlin act" with pride).

Clark sighs but never interferes ("It’s like a baptism, Lois... just with more explosions.").

The Villains know—and pray the next Robin takes his sweet time graduating.

Gotham’s criminals learned the hard way the Batfamily’s unwritten rule: "Don’t Touch the Bat’s Kids."

When the Joker proudly announced the "death of the second Robin," he thought he’d broken Batman.

What followed was a winter so brutal—a storm of blood and vengeance—that even Gotham’s worst voluntarily checked into Arkham, trembling for their lives (and kneecaps).

But what happened in Metropolis was unprecedented.

Everyone knew the unspoken rules of hero territory: you didn’t mess with another hero’s city without permission. And now, Superman—the cape-wearing symbol of hope, the guy who still believed in the best of people—had seemingly given the Batman and his brood free rein.

This wasn’t just hinted at. Superman had personally warned Lex Luthor, on camera, in front of the world:

“Just here to inform you Batman has authorized one of his associates… to deal with you as they see fit. And I won’t interfere.”

The message was sent—and the criminal underworld got it immediately.

If even Lex Luthor—billionaire, genius, private army owner, and Superman’s #1 enemy—had been left to the bats without so much as a finger raised in his defense…

What did that mean for everyone else?

Gotham’s villains already knew the answer.

They. Were. Terrified.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The basement of the Iceberg Lounge had seen it all—dirty deals, quiet murders, calculated betrayals. But tonight, the thick air didn’t just reek of spilled whiskey and stale cigars—it reeked of pure terror, the kind that made even the toughest criminals break into a cold sweat.

At the center of the split-screen Zoom call (because yes, even villains had gone remote), Penguin struggled to keep his composure. His stubby fingers—usually so steady when gripping guns or signing money-laundering contracts—shook like twigs around his crystal glass. His 50-year-old whiskey, the last bottle of his premium stock, was now watered-down sludge, the ice long melted.

Two hours into the meeting.

Two hours of pure desperation.

The Zoom grid showed faces growing progressively paler—while Oracle, of course, watched from the sidelines, munching caramel popcorn with near-obscene delight.

The Rubik's Cube in Riddler's hands was no longer just a puzzle—it was a mirror of the chaos consuming their minds. The scrambled colors twisted under his twitching fingers, creaking like bones snapping in slow motion.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Every turn of the cube echoed like a warning shot through the room.

"There has to be a pattern here..." Riddler snarled, his convulsive fingers freezing mid-turn. His eyes darted across the pale faces on-screen like a caged bird battering its wings. "Batman. Robins. Permission. Vengeance. Initials: B, R, P, V. BP RV... BP is Batman and Robin, RV is—"

Meanwhile, Scarecrow—the literal master of fear—had become the living image of the terror he preached:

The straw strands of his costume hung limp, as defeated as their owner. His ragged breathing (something never heard in his usual theatrical monologues) cut the silence like a scream that refused to surface.

Two-Face stared at his coin with an expression caught between rage and despair. Ten flips. Ten tails. Ten clear orders to run.

"This doesn’t make sense," he growled, shaking the metal like he could cheat fate itself. "You betraying me now?"

The coin, as impassive as a judge in crime’s courtroom, landed again: Tails. Again.

And Scarecrow—whose whisper usually chilled even the dead—now sounded like a dying cricket when he finally spoke:

"Okay, people... let’s be rational here."

(The least rational sentence he’d ever uttered.)

"What... exactly... does this mean?"

Penguin let out a laugh that was 80% panic and 20% desperation, his whiskey sloshing in the glass like a boat about to capsize:

"It means..." (He swallowed hard, as if the words were shards of glass) "...Batman just made the Robins' revenge official. They have full authorization now."

His laughter twisted into something closer to a whimper. The ice in his whiskey clinked like a countdown to doom.

A glacial silence fell over the call—so thick you could almost hear:

The sweat rolling down Penguin’s neck.

Killer Croc’s teeth grinding.

The half-remembered prayers tumbling from Riddler’s lips.

And then, like a hymn of ruin, the same phrase echoed in all their minds, perfect and harmonious in its horror:

"We’re fucked."

Riddler was the first to snap. His fingers clenched the Rubik's cube until the plastic pieces cracked under pressure.

"But which of those little demons EXACTLY?!" he shrieked, eyes darting across the video grid like a madman seeking answers. "Nightwing? Red Hood? Red Robin? The sword-wielding demon child?!"

Silence.

"Because there are LEVELS of screwed here!" Riddler slammed the table. "Nightwing will LAUGH while breaking your bones. Red Hood will field-test new interrogation methods on you. Red Robin will humiliate you digitally AND physically. And the sword brat?—THAT LITTLE MONSTER WILL COLLECT BODY PARTS AS TROPHIES!"

Scarecrow ignored Riddler's hysteria. His burlap hood swayed as he spoke in a voice like rustling dead leaves:

"What stops Batman from doing the same to us?"

He knew the answer. They all did. But denial was their last defense—as if feigning ignorance might spare them.

The silence grew thicker than Scarecrow's fear toxin—until Riddler finally detonated.

"NOTHING!"

He slammed his forehead onto the table hard enough to:

Send the mic into piercing feedback (a digital scream of despair)

Make Penguin spill his whiskey (who didn't even complain)

"ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! That's what you're all missing!"

Mr. Freeze—the group's sole voice of reason (which, given the company, was like being the soberest drunk at a bar)—raised a finger:

"Is anyone else considering... vacation?"

The question hung in the air like a life preserver tossed to drowning criminals.

Two-Face stared at his coin, sighed like a man who'd lost even the will to be contradictory, and flipped it again.

Plink.

"Run wins," he muttered, resigned. "Again."

Harley Quinn, already in hyperactive travel-planment mode, yanked Poison Ivy off-camera, waving a phone with 37 open flight tabs:

"See? Fiji! Caribbean! Luxembourg's gorgeous this time o' year!" Her words tumbled out, eyes sparkling with manic excitement. "We can go anywhere without Robins. Or Bats. Or... y'know, cape-related nonsense."

Poison Ivy scrutinized the options with a critical eye (and resigned sigh):

"I need somewhere with sun... and a beach." Dramatic pause. "And zero pesticides. Non-negotiable."

Killer Croc, silent until now, finally spoke—his voice a prehistoric growl:

"Six months. Minimum." His yellow eyes glowed on-screen like fog lights. "That's how long we gotta vanish till this blows over..."

A beat.

"...and the Robins finish dismantling Luthor."

The group nodded in grim agreement.

Penguin, still clutching his empty glass like a last charm against chaos, raised it in a defeated toast:

"Fine. Good luck to us all." He swallowed hard, his monocle fogging. "Because... we're all gonna need it."

Chapter Text

Tim woke up with a knot in his stomach—the kind that wasn’t hunger or fear, but pure, unshakable anticipation, wedged between his ribs like a brick he couldn’t decide whether to hug or hurl out the window.

The clock blinked 7:30 in angry red digits, almost mocking him. Half an hour. Thirty measly minutes until the world decided whether to keep turning or shatter into pieces. He tried to take a deep breath, filling his lungs until it hurt, as if the air could smother the whirlwind of racing thoughts. It didn’t help. His mind was a runaway engine, and his heart hammered in the same erratic rhythm—thump-thud, thump-thud—like it was trying to escape his chest.

In the kitchen, Alfred stood there, steady as always, a lighthouse in the middle of the storm. The smell of strong coffee and fresh bread should’ve been comforting, but Tim could barely taste it. The coffee went down bitter and dull, and the bread, which usually melted in his mouth, felt like a lifeless, gummy lump. He chewed out of sheer obligation, his movements mechanical, automatic.

His body was there, but his mind? His mind had already raced ahead, flipping through every possibility, every what-if that stung like a knife to the gut. And in the middle of that chaos, part of him wanted to scream, grab his own brain, and yell at it to calm the hell down. The other part? That one just wanted to shut his eyes and pray that when he opened them, it’d all be over.

But time wasn’t in any hurry. And Tim? Tim could only wait, the knot in his stomach tightening with every second.

The Batcave breathed differently that morning. The air, which usually carried the weight of secrets and the urgency of unfinished missions, now hummed with an energy that was almost… festive. If "festive," in their world, could include hackers typing furiously, vigilantes double-checking weapons and revenge plans so elaborate they bordered on absurd. But let’s be real—in their circle, this was as close to a Sunday barbecue as they were gonna get.

The beanbags lined up in front of the monitors looked like an improvised movie-theater audience—each one telling its own story.

Dick's was worn but cozy, like a hug—as if it still carried the weight of bad jokes and stolen naps between training sessions. That seat was a veteran; it had seen it all—from 3 AM existential crises to poorly calculated acrobatics that ended in tumbles worthy of going viral on Twitter.

Jason's, in contrast, was as hard as its owner—like it refused to yield, even to Jason's own weight. The stickers plastered on it—"DANGER," "DO NOT TOUCH," "WARNING: CONTAINED RAGE"—were 50% joke, 50% serious warning… and 100% Jason.

And then, of course, there was Steph's beanbag—a manifesto in furniture form. A burst of colors defying the cave’s dominant gray, like a stuffed middle finger to the place’s noir aesthetic. It seemed to scream, wordlessly: "If you’re all gonna live in some broody bat-bunker, at least let me sit on something that doesn’t look like a 1940s film set."

Tim took it all in as he descended the stairs, the knot in his stomach still there but now sharing space with something else—a pang of familiarity. This was his family. Dysfunctional? Absolutely. Messy? No question. But it was theirs. And for a second—just a second—the weight in his ribs felt a little lighter.

The absent ones wouldn't be left out. After all, what kind of operation would this be without the whole family—or at least as many as could make it? On the main screen, video windows flickered in a mosaic of familiar faces, each with their own signature expressions.

Damian was there, of course—arms crossed and eyebrow raised like a judge ready to deliver a verdict. "Drake, if this is another one of your harebrained schemes that ends in disaster, I categorically refuse to clean up the aftermath." His voice could cut steel, but there was a fleeting glint in his eyes—something between disguised anxiety and a barely admitted "even I'm curious."

Kon, literally bouncing in the upper-left corner of the screen, nearly knocked over the camera with a hyperkinetic thumbs-up. "SHOWTIME, PEOPLE! THIS IS GONNA BE LEGENDARY!" His energy was so contagious that Tim felt the smile sneak out before he could stop it—just like always with Superboy.

And Babs? Oh, Babs. Her smile was the perfect, lethal blend of "I love you guys" and "if you crash my system again, I'll bury your bodies in the garden." But between the lines of code in her gaze, you could see that spark of unshakable faith—the kind that always whispered, "It'll work out even when everything says it shouldn't."

As he fine-tuned the last system details (mentally begging that nothing would blow up this time), the first family members began flooding into the Batcave like a wave of pure energy—or, let's be real, like an organized chaos tsunami.

Dick arrived as a hurricane of pure enthusiasm—launching himself directly onto the beanbag with a leap that defied both gravity and common sense. The worn-out furniture groaned under the impact but held firm, loyal as any teammate.

"Showtime, people!" His grin was so electric even the Batcave's control panels seemed to come alive, lights pulsing to the rhythm of his excitement. He'd already shifted into full professional-hype-man mode, ready for the epic (and potentially catastrophic—for Luthor at least) event about to unfold.

Steph appeared next—because she never just entered a place, she happened to it, like a typhoon of chaos and unfiltered energy. She burst into the cave with enough vitality to power the Batcave for a week, her laughter bouncing off the stone walls like a defiant melody against the darkness.

"CATCH!" The pack of colorful gummies went sailing through the air toward Cass—who, without so much as blinking, intercepted it with a fluid motion that looked choreographed. With near-theatrical flair, she raised the bag in a silent toast before tearing it open with her teeth—because using her hands would be too ordinary for someone who bent physics daily.

Cass melted into the beanbag like a shadow curling into itself, nearly dissolving into the dark fabric.

But when her gaze—sharp as a blade—locked onto Tim's, her silence shattered with glazier's precision:

"You've got this."

That was all. No pep talks, no hollow encouragement. Just raw truth from the one person who never sugarcoated things—not out of politeness or pity. Tim felt his chest tighten differently this time—not from anxiety, but from the warm realization: this whole crew actually believed in him. Even on days when he struggled to believe in himself.

Jason, of course, wouldn’t miss a chance to kill the mood. His entrance was as on-brand as it was predictable—dragging his feet like a rebellious teen being hauled to a family dinner, striking that carefully cultivated too-cool-to-care pose only he could make so transparently fake.

"Don’t get all weepy on me, kids," he grumbled, slouching against the wall with practiced nonchalance. The act lasted exactly three seconds.

Everyone knew the truth: he’d circled the date on his calendar, shown up an hour early "just to check the weapons," and—without a doubt—rehearsed this exact performance in front of his bathroom mirror. After a solid 58 seconds of gratuitous drama (Tim counted), Jason finally flopped onto his beanbag with the forced casualness of a housecat—and the second he turned his head, a flicker of a smile escaped.

Too fast for normal people to catch.

But this was the Batfam.

Steph wasn’t about to let this golden opportunity slide. Her accusatory finger shot toward Jason like a lie detector’s needle.

"You’re smiling, Jason."

"The hell I am."

"OH YOU TOTALLY ARE."

"It’s a MUSCLE SPASM." (Jason crossed his arms hard enough to make his leather jacket creak in protest.) "From carrying this damn team!"

Dick was already standing on his beanbag, waving an imaginary foam finger with the zeal of a stadium superfan:

"JASON’S HAPPY! JASON’S HAPPY! MAKE SOME NOISE—"

Jason retaliated by hurling a gummy bear—which missed spectacularly, vanishing into some dark corner of the Batcave.

Tim felt the air leave his lungs like an invisible fist had punched his ribs. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling faintly—that near-imperceptible vibration that only happened when the world was about to flip upside down.

Before him, the main screen pulsed—a digital heart racing against time. The Batcave’s antique analog clock (that stubborn relic Bruce insisted on keeping, as if gears and hands could somehow tame time) struck exactly 08:00. With one final, decisive tick, the second hand completed its journey.

Click.

The mouse’s echo cut through the sudden silence like a gunshot.

And then—

Chaos.

Emergency lights flared crimson, painting the cave in the stuttering rhythm of a panic attack. Systems booted in cascading waves, monitors flickering to life like artificial constellations. Cooling fans roared like jet engines, and through the pandemonium, the Batcomputer’s voice—programmed by Babs with infuriating calm just to mess with them—announced:

"Initiating Operation: ‘Make Luthor’s Life a Living Hell.’"

Steph crunched down on her gummy bear with the grin of someone watching chaos brew on the horizon. Her eyes sparkled with pure mischief—that special glint of someone who knows they're about to witness history in the making.

"Lights... camera... action," she whispered, as if announcing not just a movie, but an Oscar-worthy spectacle.

Dick let out a "WHOOOOP!" so shrill it could scare a bat, losing his balance on the beanbag in a move so exaggerated it had to be intentional. He only stayed upright because Cass—without even looking away from the screens—stuck out a foot and steadied him with ballerina precision.

And Cass? She remained stone-faced, but the pride in her eyes was as obvious as a Times Square billboard. A slight tilt of her head toward Tim—a tiny gesture that spoke volumes: a silent "Well played, soldier" from a general who already saw victory on the horizon.

Jason tried to keep up his tough-guy act—arms crossed, brow furrowed, radiating that practiced "couldn’t care less" vibe he’d perfected in the mirror. But his eyes betrayed him, locked on the screens with the wide-eyed wonder of a kid at his first fireworks show. When the first headline ERUPTED across the main display, he forgot to breathe—let alone maintain the charade.

And Tim?

Tim smiled.

That "called it" smile—rare and razor-sharp, the kind that only appeared when his chessboard turned to checkmate. Slow. Calculated. Almost dangerous—the silent triumph of a genius watching chaos bend to his logic.

Then—

The circus went up in flames.

The news exploded across the internet like timed detonations set to go off in sequence. One after another, Metropolis' biggest news and gossip sites were overrun with headlines too juicy to ignore—and impossible not to share:

"LEX LUTHOR DONATES TO ORPHANAGE? FRAUD EXPOSED!"

"‘Humanitarian’ Speech Plagiarized from Gotham Student"

"Leaked Emails Show Luthor Calling Voters ‘Useful Cattle’"

Each headline spicier than the last, every detail carefully planted like seeds of a scandal blooming in real time.

While the scandal bubbled on the surface, Tim dove into the depths of his silent army—a digital battalion of fake accounts he’d cultivated with a gardener’s patience. Each profile, a meticulously crafted persona: backstories woven thread by thread, opinions planted like landmines. All calculated to seem too human to question... and primed to strike at the perfect moment.

@JusticeMetropolis — the picture-perfect activist, 50K followers, bio: "The truth hurts but lies kill ❤️" — fired the first shot in the comments under Luthor's fake orphanage donations story:

"THIS IS METROPOLIS, NOT GOTHAM. WE DEMAND ANSWERS."

@LexLuthorFacts — the most toxic "fan account" in existence (and clearly Lex's worst nightmare) dropped the ultimate thread:

"EVERY TIME LEX LUTHOR WAS PUBLICLY HUMILIATED (UPDATED MASTERLIST W/ PHOTOS & VIDEOS)"

That time he tripped over his own ego during a commencement speech and BLAMED HIS SHOES (brand: Hugo Boss)

A pigeon chose HIS anti-alien rant to christen his $10k suit. Iconic frames included.

@GRANDMACARMEN58 — the internet’s savviest digital grandma, who’d previously gone viral for calling a senator a "spineless jellyfish" — joined the fray with an all-caps nuclear comment:

"THIS IS A DISGRACE!!! MY GRANDSON HAS MORE INTEGRITY THAN THIS BALD FRAUD, AND THE BOY’S ONLY FIVE!!! #LexOut #GrannyMad #ToldYouSo #GetSomeSense

Tim was the invisible conductor of this digital chaos, his fingers flying across the keyboard like every keystroke detonated another small bomb in Luthor’s reputation. Old tweets, public statements, speech footage—all meticulously curated, edited, and unleashed into the wild.

Then Jason entered the game, eyes alight with rare, unguarded glee, pulling out his phone like it was a holstered weapon. Because what kind of epic revenge wouldn’t deserve a proper soundtrack?

He flashed that grin—the one that made it clear: he’d prepared his own special contribution to the attack.

Dick, who knew his brother too well—and was nothing if not nosy—peeked at the phone screen and read aloud with the dramatic flair of a reality show host:

"‘REVENGE SOUNDTRACK’?!" He nearly toppled off the beanbag from sheer excitement. "Jaybird, you made a PLAYLIST?!"

Jason’s laugh was the only answer needed—equal parts pride and "obviously, dumbass."

And then—

BOOM

The Batcave’s speakers ERUPTED with the razor-sharp synths of "VILLAIN" (K/DA), the cocky electronic beat flooding the space like a war anthem tailor-made for chaos. Every DROP of the song synced perfectly with:

Nuclear tweets detonating

Memes materializing out of thin air

The hashtag #LexLuthorIsTrash rocketing up the trends

It was like the universe had looked at this madness, let out a sadistic chuckle, and decreed: "Today is shit-stirring day. And you, my glorious agents of chaos, will do it WITH STYLE."

Steph launched herself off the beanbag like she’d been electrocuted:

"JASON TODD, YOU EVIL GENIUS!" she howled—because this? This was her personal anthem. And let’s be real, the line "Know I’m all bite, no bark" fit the situation like a fucking glove.

Jason bowed like a conductor accepting a standing ovation, his "obviously I'm a genius" grin spotlight-bright.

"Group gift," he drawled—voice dripping sarcasm, but eyes alight with pure glee. "If we’re gonna wreck a billionaire, we’re doing it to a beat."

Then—Cass entered stage left.

With the serenity of someone who’d already seen the future, she rose in one fluid motion, the air itself seeming to part for her. One step. Two. And suddenly—she was center-cave, like gravity had personally placed her there.

Her outstretched hand to Steph was a silent ask, but her eyes translated it in one glance:

"Dance with me, love?"

Steph, being Steph, reacted exactly as expected:

"DUH!" she yelled, already mid-launch into the space between them.

It was easy to forget that behind the masks and capes, Steph and Cass harbored a golden secret: Dancing Demons—their dance channel teetering on 3 million subscribers.

Their videos were urban legends:

Performances in abandoned parking lots (with Jason secretly playing bodyguard)

Rooftop choreography across Gotham (including the one where Steph nearly kicked the Bat-Signal into next week)

And their pièce de résistance: that time they danced atop Wayne Tower—Bruce only found out when the video hit 5M views, the entire Batfam spamming the group chat with "LMAOOOO" screenshots.

Steph grabbed Cass’s hand, her grin so wide it threatened to swallow her whole face—and then…

They began.

It was impossible not to stop and watch.

Their bodies moved in perfect sync, as they always did when music and madness collided. Cass and Steph flowed like two halves of one mind—every step sharp as blades, every motion bleeding into the next in a hypnotic rhythm. This wasn’t just dance. This was pure magic.

Tim, who’d been buried in a sea of code, glanced up for just a second—

One second turned into ten.

Then into "screw it, I’m watching this to the end."

The song? Banger.

Jason’s playlist? Unironically fire.

But those two dancing?

"Okay, okay…" Tim muttered, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Maybe I’ll forgive Jason for clowning me the last 90 days… Maybe."

As Steph and Cass owned the floor with choreography that’d make K-Pop idols rethink their careers, the Batcave’s absent members still found ways to join in—even if some swore up and down they’d "never stoop to this nonsense."

Across town, Damian sat through what he’d classify as "an insult to his superior intellect"—face stone-cold, posture flawless, the very picture of aristocratic disdain. But his right foot told a different story: his limited-edition sneaker tapped the floor with metronomic precision, perfectly synced to "VILLAIN"'s beat.

When he caught himself, he froze like a cat mid-mischief. Three seconds of ironclad discipline later... and there he was again, marking the rhythm with micro-movements he insisted were "focus-enhancing exercises."

Duke Thomas turned Gotham’s rooftops into his personal playground. His leaps between buildings were so fluid you’d swear he had a backroom deal with gravity itself. Mid-vault, his lips moved almost imperceptibly, mouthing VILLAIN’s lyrics like a private mantra:

"Is it really a surprise if I’m playing with your mind?"

In a shadowed alley below, a rookie thief blinked up in genuine confusion:

"Uh… does Signal always sing on patrol?"

Duke—registering he’d been caught—paused for a millisecond. Just long enough to land a precision punch that dropped the guy before his brain processed the question. As he zip-tied the thug and tapped his GCPD alert, he deadpanned without missing a beat:

"Soundtrack day, buddy. Sucks to be you."

Back at the Kent Farm… Kon was mid-stride when the song blasted through his headphones. Within seconds:

His head was already bobbing to the beat.

His feet stomped with the force of someone crushing invisible ants.

His arms flailed in a move somewhere between "left behind at a rave" and "swatting at angry bees."

That’s when Martha Kent walked in with a tray of fresh cookies, giving him that classic "Oh, teenagers…" look.

Back in the Oracle’s Nest, Babs monitored the chaos with a wicked little grin. She hummed under her breath, typing one-handed while her other hand tapped the rhythm on her armrest—until she accidentally belted "And get happy when you’re sad?" way louder than intended.

Her eyes went wide for a split second. Great.

Now the comms mic had picked it up, and Bruce would absolutely think she’d gone full K-Pop stan. (Which… wasn’t entirely false, but he didn’t need ammunition.)

Meanwhile, in his Wayne Enterprises office, Bruce rolled his eyes so hard he probably glimpsed his own cerebellum when the melody leaked through the Batcave’s speakers.

"Are we a Disney musical now?" he grumbled to empty air.

BUT.

His foot told a different story.

Light.

Almost imperceptible.

But undeniably keeping the beat.

At the Daily Planet office, Clark Kent waged an epic battle against himself. His face was the picture of journalistic solemnity, fingers typing with mechanical precision... until Perry White walked past his desk. That’s when an unstoppable chuckle escaped—miraculously morphing into a cough that perfectly synced with the song’s drop he was definitely not listening to on his earbuds.

At the next desk over, Lois Lane maintained flawless professional composure... if you ignored:

The five discreet social media tabs open, where #LexLuthorIsTrash reigned supreme in the trends;

Her right foot tapping the beat like a metronome.

That predatory grin of hers—the one that said she’d planted (or inspired) at least 30% of those rumors (courtesy of Tim—god, how she loved Clark’s stepkids).

When she caught Clark staring, Lois looked up with the slow, calculated grace of a satisfied cat. Her smile widened in perfect sync with the beat pulsing through her earbuds, and then—with the crisp enunciation of someone who’d 100% rehearsed this in the shower—she murmured:

"Am I really that bad if I love to make you mad? And get happy when you're sad?"

Clark froze mid-sip, his coffee cup hovering like gravity had second thoughts. For a heartbeat, only the tap-tap-tap of Lois’ fingers on the desk filled the newsroom—until the chorus exploded in her ears, and she couldn’t help it.

"Admit it, Smallville. You’re rooting for the chaos as hard as I am."

Tim was an artist. Not the kind who painted landscapes or composed sonatas, but the sort who turned Twitter into his personal circus—and loved being the ringmaster. His fingers danced across the keyboard like each key was a detonator for chaos, but in that refined way, you know? He didn’t spread gossip—he stitched narratives. He didn’t start fights—he orchestrated drama operas. And the best part? All with that "Who, me?" smile he’d perfected as Robin.

But Steph? Oh, Steph.

If Tim was the conductor, she was the soloist who’d decided the orchestra needed more fire. Literally, if possible.

Five minutes. That’s all Steph lasted after Tim’s latest anonymous masterpiece—a surgically brutal thread on Lex’s "suspicious investments"—before furiously typing on her phone, eyes alight with creative mischief.

@LexLies (because of course that’d be her username) began "leaking" details of a secret meeting between Lex Luthor and... Captain Cold. (Yes, that one. The parka enthusiast with a snow globe collection.)

Steph's tweet hit like a tactical nuke:

"Sources confirm: Luthor paid for dinner in diamonds. Cold complained the wine wasn't chilled enough."

Jason nearly toppled off the beanbag laughing, clutching his phone like a championship trophy.

"This is so batshit... it's gonna work perfectly."

And it did. Like a goddamn dream.

Within minutes, the tweet went stratospheric, detonating a meme avalanche:

Cursed edits of Lex in a tux and Captain Cold arm-in-arm, slapped with a blue filter (for "glacial authenticity").

The inevitable caption: "The ship nobody asked for (but everyone deserves)."

A deep-faked gif of them ice-skating to "Let It Go."

Then... Dick entered the chat.

With the unholy glee of someone who’d just discovered Photoshop and a burner account (@NightMemes), he turned the timeline into his personal meme warzone. In ten minutes flat, the internet drowned in:

Lex Luthor photoshopped with a clown nose and rainbow wig (pièce de résistance? A blinking heart emoji—because of course).

A meme of Lex hugging a flaming electric car, captioned "My one true love ❤️🔥" (Steph choked laughing at this one—and Jason definitely bookmarked it).

And the crowning jewel: A flawless deepfake of Lex singing "Never Gonna Give You Up" in a duet with Captain Cold, dancing on a melting iceberg. #LexGotRickRolled

The universe took one look at the Batfam’s chaos and decided to throw in divine intervention—because even gods love a good show.

Then @LexCorpVictim hit Twitter like a Category 5 hurricane, dropping a tweet so explosive it’d make Clark choke on his coffee:

"Worked 5 years at LexCorp. Burnout, panic attacks, daily humiliation. LexCorp isn’t a company—it’s a soul-crushing machine."

Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen. His eyes scanned the tweet three times before it fully registered. His neck prickled—this was big. Too big. His right hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but that hunter’s thrill of sensing prey.

The tweet came loaded with:

Medical reports stamped with seals so legit, even Bruce would’ve raised an eyebrow in silence—that half-second pause meaning "This would hold up in court."

Leaked video/audio of a department head calling an intern "a degree-wearing incompetence" (and that was the kindest insult—the rest would’ve made Gordon reach for his whiskey).

Internal emails featuring the bold-italic gem: "disposable resources", like it was corporate policy.

Jason let out a low whistle, slicing through the silence like a blade. His eyes—always too sharp for lies—narrowed in that predatory glint he only got when the hunt turned real.

Bingo.

This wasn’t a game anymore. Someone had tossed a grenade of hard truths into their circus—and now the whole tent was on fire.

Dick froze mid-motion, like someone had hit pause. His smile—the easygoing one that could melt even the toughest vigilantes—cracked like icing on stale cake. His fingers, which had been tapping out memes with the lightness of a chaos dancer, now hovered stiffly in the air. For the first time that night, the Family Clown couldn’t pretend this was just fun and games.

This had gone too far.

Steph bit her lip, the joke on her tongue dying before it was born. Her phone suddenly felt heavy in her hand. It had all started as a prank, but now? Now it was different. The leaked recordings echoed through the Batcave, Lex’s voice cracking like a whip. She looked to Cass, searching for something—confirmation, maybe, that they weren’t wrong to keep going.

Her fingers dug into the beanbag almost imperceptibly, her dark eyes locked on the screens as if she could decipher every pixel. She saw too much—the tremble in the ex-employee’s hands in the recording, the swallowed rage in the emails, that split-second pause before Lex’s insult landed. And beneath it all, that quiet fury she knew so intimately.

Justice.

Not Gotham’s. Not Bruce’s.

Theirs.

"That’s our cue to bury the bastard,"— Jason growled, with a nod that rippled through every sibling. Not one hesitated.

Tim was already in motion, fingers flying across the keyboard with clinical precision, amplifying the victim’s tweet through his network of ghost accounts. Two clicks. Three adjustments.

And then— #LexShameOfHumanity detonated like a grenade in the internet’s lap, scattering shrapnel no one could contain.

Tim knew exactly what he was doing.

He understood the power of a perfectly crafted narrative, how truth—once unleashed—spread like fire on gasoline. But for the first time that night, he felt a knot in his throat—

And then…

The domino effect began.

The avalanche started silent—then swallowed everything whole.

Current LexCorp employees—silent until now, shackled by fear—crawled out from the internet’s cracks. Brand-new accounts began vomiting truths:

Spreadsheets with impossible quotas labeled "motivational excellence benchmarks";

Recorded meetings where "slashing healthcare" was pitched as "resource optimization";

The photo that lit the fuse: A bathroom stall with a sign—"15 min/day. Exceeded? Deducted from pay."

Then came the ghosts.

Former employees emerged with the fury of those with nothing left to lose—

A former engineer dropped documents proving how safety flaws were ignored to cut costs—flaws that later caused accidents. "But the report ‘disappeared,’ right? Funny how that works."

A legal intern leaked internal emails about bribing politicians, featuring Lex’s own handwriting: "If money won’t move them, use blackmail."

Jason watched with smoldering eyes, his body still as tempered steel. His hands—usually so quick to type insults or draw weapons—lay motionless in his lap, fingers curled like claws. He knew that specific rage, the ash-bitter disdain of those who treat people as disposable.

Dick’s expression had hardened to granite. His fingers scrolled through the testimonies, each swipe darkening his gaze further.

Steph, caught between disgust and divine fury, gnawed at her nails—

"We archive everything,"** she spat, teeth clenched around the words. "This is courtroom gold—and bullet fodder if needed."

As digital chaos raged, Bruce stood motionless before the screens, his silhouette casting the same shadow that haunted Gotham’s alleyways.

But to those fluent in Bruce Wayne’s silent tongue (translation: the entire Batfam, Alfred, and his husband Clark), the blaring signs were all there:

His fingers—tapping the smoked-glass desk in private Morse—not with anxiety, but pure calculus. Each tap a mental algorithm estimating:

LexCorp financial loss: □

Stock plunge: □

Reputational damage: ■■■■■

His breathing—two seconds deeper when he read the intern’s panic attack account. ("Cut the drama," the supervisor had ordered. Bruce froze for five seconds—an eternity for someone who hides emotions better than a spy under torture.)

The clench of his jaw—exactly three times.

Bruce picked up his phone with the gravitas of a judge signing a death warrant. Every tap on the screen was calculated—slow, deliberate, cruelly polished.

The tweet landed like a guillotine blade:

@BruceWayne

"Wayne Enterprises stands with all workers facing abusive conditions. Our doors are open to talent seeking respectful, dignified environments. #NewBeginnings"

Translation for peasants:

"I’ll poach your best minds, let your empire rot, and still win a Nobel Peace Prize. XOXO, Brucie."

And so, with the subtlety of a cannon blast, the final blow struck.

No battle cry. No fiery speech—just three impeccable lines that smelled like charity and dripped venom.

Bruce's tweet was the knife that politely apologizes for staining your suit. In three minutes flat, #NewBeginnings stopped being a hashtag and became a movement.

Then, like a hurricane of sarcasm and drama-queen flair, Oliver Queen joined the fray—because if there was anyone who loved a well-plotted feud (and a golden chance to piss off a certain bald Metropolis billionaire), it was him.

@OliverQueen

"Queen Industries stands with the initiative. And yes, we even have ‘Bring Your Pet to Work Day.’ #DignifiedWork #NewBeginnings"

Attachment: A flawless photo of a Labrador in a tie and glasses, seated at a conference table like the CEO. Caption: "Our Director of Happiness approving the new benefits."

Steph nearly toppled off the beanbag laughing.

Jason, sprawled across the beanbag with his arms crossed, watched it all with that crooked smirk—the one that meant he was secretly impressed but would never admit it aloud:

"Old man’s playing dirty..." he muttered, voice thick with a mix of affection and grudging pride. "I like it."

It was, without a doubt, the highest praise Bruce would get from Jason that week—maybe that month.

Tim stood frozen before the screens, his stillness stark against the digital storm erupting across his monitors. His fingers—usually so nimble they blurred with the keyboard—hovered mid-air, suspended the exact moment he realized:

The #NewBeginnings hashtag wasn’t theirs anymore.

It had become collective property—belonging to every exploited soul, every humiliated worker who’d finally found their voice:

Teachers posted photos of overcrowded classrooms, lesson plans stained with coffee and dried tears.

Nurses shared selfies after 36-hour shifts, feet swollen from running hospital corridors—"We save lives, but never have time for our own."

Fast-food workers exposed shameful paychecks, where wages barely covered half the rent of a closet-sized apartment.

Construction laborers uploaded selfies without safety gear: "They say PPE is ‘too expensive.’ Is my life worth less?"

Then came the barista.

A photo of their hands—burned, cracked, scarred by steam and scalding coffee:

"This is what 12-hour shifts do. All to serve $10 lattes to people like Luthor."

Tim watched as the monster they’d helped unleash took on a life of its own—wild and roaring, far beyond what even he had envisioned.

What began as a surgical strike on Lex Luthor’s ego had become a social earthquake, and the ground still trembled beneath the feet of the status quo.

And the best part?

He couldn’t have been prouder.

The gossip sites, which had initially just regurgitated the Batfam's carefully planted leaks, now smelled blood in the water like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Headlines exploded in rapid succession:

"EXCLUSIVE: 20+ New LexCorp Whistleblowers Emerge Following #NewBeginnings Movement!"

(Subhead: "Employees report psychological abuse, brutal hours, and even alleged illegal human testing in 'Classified' projects.")

"#NewBeginnings Movement Sparks Nationwide Protests - Workers Demand Basic Rights!"

(Photo: Protesters holding signs reading "LIVING WAGES NOW," "WE WANT TO LIVE, NOT JUST SURVIVE," and "MINIMUM WAGE SHOULD BE YEARLY-ADJUSTED")

"Experts Analyze: How Workplace Abuse Became a Corporate Epidemic?"

(Complete with infographics and a TV economist declaring: "This is an entire generation's scream for change.")

Social media had transformed into a ruthless digital courtroom, and LexCorp was taking a historic beating—every second of Lex's silence only poured gasoline on the fire, turning his absence into kindling for the revolution.

✔ "Where’s the official statement, @LexCorp?" – an anonymous account posted, followed by a GIF of Lex fleeing in slow motion.

✔ "Is Luthor gonna keep hiding?" – another tweet, paired with an edit of him as a terrified rat escaping a burning building (suspiciously similar to LexCorp HQ).

✔ "Justice for workers!" – the hashtag now dominated global trends, with new testimonies multiplying by the minute.

As LexCorp sank in real time, competitors joined the fray with the glee of predators scenting blood—and the acidic humor only billionaires completely unafraid of lawsuits can muster:

✔ @WayneEnterprises (Bruce, of course, maintaining his "don’t look at me, I’m just a philanthropist" vibe):

"We reaffirm our commitment to healthy workplaces. No comment on the memes."

(Translation: "I’m loving every second of this—keep them coming.")

✔ @QueenConsolidated (Oliver, the drama king):

"Here, even the coffee gets promoted. #DignifiedWork

(Photo: Oliver hugging the tie-wearing Labrador, now with a "Chief Happiness Officer" badge and a cake reading "Congrats on Not Being LexCorp!")*

✔ @S.T.A.R.Labs (scientists with shade to spare):

"No one here is ‘disposable’—just the failed experiments. Hello, LexCorp résumés!"

✔ @KordIndustries (finally relevant):

"Now hiring! Beating LexCorp’s standards was easy, but we promise:

Rent-covering wages

Bathrooms without timers

Zero billionaire tantrums"

Tim monitored everything with a mix of shock and grim satisfaction, watching LexCorp’s stock tank in real time on the Batcave’s screens.

"This spiraled completely out of control..." he murmured, a ghost of a smile on his lips—"...in the best possible way."

Jason, sprawled on a beanbag and eating popcorn like it was a blockbuster, summed it up with his usual charm:

"Baldie’s so screwed even the Joker feels bad for him. And that clown hates competition."

And then—

Ding.

A notification.

@LexCorpOfficial had finally broken its silence:

"LexCorp vehemently denies all baseless allegations. An internal audit is underway. Our employees are our top priority."

Steph read the tweet aloud and then burst into hysterical laughter, nearly rolling off the beanbag:

“‘Our top priority’?! Bro really said that after the leaked emails called everyone ‘disposable resources’?!”** She slammed the table, gasping. “Oh, lying on main takes some audacity!”

Dick—who’d opened Photoshop before Lex’s tweet even loaded—finished his masterpiece in 12 seconds flat:

A deepfake of Lex with:

A Pinocchio nose growing clear off the screen;

Caption: “Internal audit incoming, folks! (Source: Voices in My Honesty)”;

Hashtag: #PinocchioPriority.

Tim leaned back in his chair, his body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of hours spent typing like a man possessed. The fingers that had danced across the keyboard with the precision of a neurosurgeon now lay still—his masterpiece was complete.

Fake accounts? Vanished like smoke.

Digital trails? Erased with the mastery of someone who never existed.

Now, only his favorite role remained: architect of chaos, watching an empire crumble in real time, tweet by tweet.

Dick—with that smirk only he could balance between "congrats" and "you’re a monster, and I love it"—tossed a pack of M&M’s at him.

"Congrats, evil genius." The pack hit Tim square in the chest, like an informal trophy of anarchy. "You didn’t just humiliate Lex—you birthed a social revolution."

But Jason—always the most sparing with praise—delivered the pièce de résistance.

Leaning slightly against the desk, arms crossed, he had that rare glint in his eyes: respect.

"Best part?" He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking into a predator’s half-smirk. "He can’t sue a damn soul. Not without looking even guiltier."

It was true. Lex was cornered—every move now would only pour gasoline on the fire.

Day One: concluded with flawless victory.

Chapter Text

The first step had been a resounding success—and, let’s be honest, seeing Lex Luthor’s name dragged through the mud was almost as satisfying as watching the Joker get pummeled by Jason or Damian.

The internet didn’t forgive, didn’t forget, and now it was gleefully chewing through the scraps of his reputation with near-sadistic delight. Protests were popping up across the country, and the backlash was already spreading worldwide.

But for Tim? All of that had just been the fancy appetizer—the overpriced hors d’oeuvre you nibble at fancy parties just to whet your appetite. Today, though? Today was the main course. A full-course feast.

The sun was still creeping up behind Gotham’s skyline, but the Batcave was already busier than a movie theater on a blockbuster’s opening night.

Dick was sprawled across the beanbags like a contented cat, that infectious grin plastered on his face. It was the kind of smile that said “I knew you had it in you” and “This is gonna be epic” all at once. Left to his own devices, he’d probably be doing backflips out of sheer excitement—but for now, he settled for watching the chaos unfold on-screen.

Jason, meanwhile, was slouched in his chair with that cultivated bad-boy pose—arms crossed, chin tilted up, eyebrow slightly arched. Except nobody was buying it anymore. Not after last night, not after seeing his sadistic smirk and his reactions to every new post.

And now? Now his eyes gleamed like a kid’s in front of a candy store window, staring down all the sweets he knew he could devour… but screw it, why resist?

Cass didn’t need words. Her silence said it all. She sat perched on the edge of the table, legs swinging slightly, wearing that faint smile—the same one she had when she predicted every move in a fight before it happened. She knew what came next. And she approved of every last detail.

Steph buzzed around like a whirlwind of pure energy, her feet tapping to the rhythm of some explosive mix between punk rock and a teen movie soundtrack. Between frenetic bites of a sprinkle-covered donut and phone typing that could rival Tim on triple espresso days, she was a walking meme factory. Every expression, every joke, every twist was fuel for her digital arsenal. And she was more than ready for social media warfare.

Bruce Wayne, normally the picture of stoicism—posture like a Greek statue, eyebrows that could drop criminals, an "approach and perish" aura before his first cup of coffee—was today… relaxed. The word felt strange even to think. Despite waking up before the birds, his steel-blue eyes were glued to the screens with an intensity that would make the Joker reconsider his life choices. But this wasn’t the Bat’s murderous glare. No, today was different. Today, it was the look of a billionaire about to watch his husband’s archnemesis crash and burn—without lifting a single finger (just financing it). And that—oh, that—was a pleasure as rare as a quiet day in Gotham.

Beside him, Clark wasn’t even trying to hide it. The Man of Steel, who usually maintained a neutral front (hey, he was the Daily Planet’s impartial reporter), had fully surrendered to the spectacle. Seated next to his husband, his blue eyes sparkled like Metropolis’ skyline in midsummer—the giddy excitement of a fan at championship finals. Every now and then, the corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily, betraying memories of the day before.

Kon-El and Jon Kent looked like two kids in front of an overstuffed Christmas tree, barely containing their excitement. Kon could hardly sit still—hovering an inch off the ground one second, tapping his foot rapidly the next—while Jon bit his lip, fighting a grin threatening to split his face in half.

Damian, of course, was appalled by the lack of decorum.

"You’re all acting like you’ve never seen a villain fall from grace before," he grumbled, arms crossed beside Jon

But even he couldn’t completely hide his interest. After all, watching Lex Luthor crash and burn was a spectacle even he could appreciate.

Meanwhile, in the Clock Tower, Barbara Gordon slowly swiveled in her chair between dozens of screens, her fingers dancing over the controls with a maestro’s precision. Her smile was razor-sharp—half amusement, half personal vengeance.

Lex never knew it, but she had a special file dedicated to his failed attempts to hack the Tower or the Batcomputer. Each one, meticulously cataloged.

And now? Now she watched, satisfied, as her own team dismantled his empire piece by piece.

"Sweetheart, Lex," Barbara murmured, sipping her coffee with the calm of someone who’d already won, "you really should’ve stayed in your lane."

Elsewhere, Duke Thomas—the so-called "sensible one" of the group—observed everything with Bruce’s trademark calculated cool. Straight-backed, stoic… almost convincing. Almost. If not for his hawk-like eyes locked onto the screens, or that barely perceptible lean forward that betrayed his eagerness. Inside, he was just as hyped as the others—he just had more class.

Lois Lane? She wasn’t the type to sit back and watch a downfall—she preferred to be in the thick of it, eyes sharp and recorder in hand, ready to pry the truth out by force if necessary.

But in the specific case of Lex Luthor being humiliated on a global scale? She’d make a glorious exception. What journalist could resist a spectacle this rare—and this deserved?

And let’s be honest—watching Lex Luthor get publicly dragged yet again was a show not even all the money in the world could buy.

At the heart of the Daily Planet’s noisy bullpen, Lois allowed herself one of those wide, knife-edged grins—the kind that made Perry White pause mid-rant and interns shrink back on instinct, even if they didn’t know why.

Not that she was the sadistic type—(blatant lie)—but after years of dealing with Metropolis’ most insufferable man, this was less a guilty pleasure (lie again) and more collective therapy. The kind of satisfaction that made you stretch like a cat in the sun, knowing the universe had finally balanced the scales.

The file sat on her desk—thick, heavy, perfect. Lois could practically hear the jealous sighs of her colleagues as she flipped through the pages, each juicier than the last.

Everything there, bound like a poisoned gift to the public, had been worth every second. As much as she loved Bruce’s kids and Clark’s stepchildren—and as much as it had been worth reuniting them post-divorce—that file alone was worth seven front-page stories and at least three Pulitzers.

As she waited for the show to begin, Lois chewed on her pen cap, eyes gleaming like a cat’s at a defenseless canary. Really, who hadn’t fantasized about the moment a pompous billionaire got cosmic comeuppance? Especially when destiny came with the help of a pack of pissed-off bats.

But deep down, beneath the carnivorous glee, there was something more. A taste of justice—the kind you couldn’t buy, couldn’t force, only earned. For every time Lex tried to silence the Planet, for every veiled threat, for every scheme that nearly ruined innocent lives… Today, the universe paid him back double..

✧✦✧✦✧

But now? Now the real show was about to begin.

And Tim knew it.

As he stepped in front of the group—all sprawled across the beanbags like an audience at a Hollywood premiere—even the air seemed to still. The Batcave fell into absolute silence, broken only by the hum of computers and a few barely contained gasps.

He took a deep breath—theatrically—and dropped the line that would go down in history:

"Ladies and gentlemen..." he began, flashing a grin that was pure mischief, gesturing with a showman’s flourish, "I hope you’re all ready for one hell of a show... courtesy of our dear father, Bruce Wayne, and our beloved stepdad, Clark Kent!"

Chaos erupted—instant and glorious.

Dick let out a whistle so sharp it sent Alfred the cat rocketing into the air, back arched like the Scarecrow himself had just walked in.

Jason, the eternal grump, the self-proclaimed king of "I don’t give a damn," shocked everyone by springing up like a jack-in-the-box, fists raised like a die-hard fan in a packed stadium:

"HELL YEAH, DRAKE! FUCKIN’ RIGHT!"—followed by a stream of curses so creative even Bruce’s eyebrow twitched violently.

Kon and Jon, the two superpowered bundles of theme-park-level enthusiasm, instantly turned into a rowdy cheering section—whooping and clapping like Tim had just scored the winning goal in overtime. Kon, in his excitement, accidentally levitated a few inches off the ground, gripping Jon’s shoulders and shaking his little brother like a human maraca.

Steph, of course, couldn’t stay out of it. She launched off the beanbag in a "pirouette" that was 120% Olympic gymnastics and 80% "almost died but worth it," crashing into Duke, who tried (and failed) to keep his "responsible adult" composure as he toppled onto his ass.

"Dramatic effect!" she yelled, arms raised like she’d just won a marathon, while Duke, still on the floor, sighed:

"I just wanted to watch in peace…”

On the other side of the room, the so-called "adults" of the group were attempting—with varying degrees of success—to maintain their composure.

Damian, ever the master of unimpressed, offered exactly three precise claps—the equivalent of a king granting the bare minimum to a peasant. But his eyes—traitors—never left Jon, who was bouncing like a rabbit on Red Bull, making noises that defied the laws of acoustics.

Cass, on the other hand, saw no reason to hide it. Her grin took up half her face, eyes shining like an older sister watching the baby of the family steal the spotlight. When Tim glanced her way, she gave him a thumbs-up and a wink that screamed: "Nailed it, genius. Knew you had this."

Bruce... oh, Bruce. The Dark Knight wore that iconic expression his family knew so well—the "I should reprimand this, but..." written in every micro-expression. But the glint in his eyes and the barely-there nod to Tim gave him away entirely. Behind the Batman mask, Bruce Wayne was smiling on the inside—just as thrilled as his rowdy kids.

And Clark? The Man of Steel looked ready to burst with paternal pride. His enthusiastic applause echoed through the Batcave, and his grin could’ve rivaled Metropolis’ sun. But it was his eyes that told the real story—that electric blue sparkle revealing the truth: deep down, he was still that Smallville boy who loved seeing the town bullies get their due.

Tim—the architect of chaos, the maestro of digital vengeance—settled in front of the Batcomputer with the serenity of a chess player three moves ahead of checkmate. His fingers flew across the keyboard in a hacker’s symphony, a technological La Campanella—fast, precise, and obnoxiously skilled.

In less time than it took Lex to pick a tie, the screens multiplied into a mosaic of hidden cameras—all strategically planted throughout the once-impenetrable Luthor Manor.

And then, like Prometheus’ gift to mortals—or, more accurately, like Tim Drake’s vengeful hacking masterpiece—the main screen froze on the tycoon’s bedroom.

And there he was.

Lex Luthor.

Disheveled.

Confused.

And about to have the worst day of his life.

✧✦✧✦✧

Tim, in a questionable act of mercy—because even cruelty has its limits when it comes to a naked Lex Luthor pre-coffee—slapped a giant pixel over the tycoon just as he began disrobing.

But the audio?

Oh, the audio remained untouched—and that was the most diabolical (and brilliant) part of the plan.

With the habitual gesture of a man who believed the universe should bow to his whims, Lex activated his morning playlist. He expected the majestic chords of opera—something befitting his grandeur, like Wagner or Mozart. Maybe even Vivaldi’s Four Seasons to start the day with class.

What Lex didn’t expect was Tim’s... strategic modifications to his playlist.

The opening notes of The Barber of Seville echoed through the gold-marbled bathroom, the violins soaring with their usual sophistication. Lex, lathering his shiny scalp with the solemnity of a priest in ritual, remained blissfully unaware of the abyss of humiliation yawning beneath his feet (or, say, beneath his multi-jet hydro-massage shower).

"FIGAROOOOO! FIGAROOOOO!"

His voice—shrill and unexpectedly powerful—exploded through the room.

When the famous "FIIGAROOOOO!" rang out, something primal awoke in Lex.

Years of secret singing lessons (which he’d sworn he never took) seized his body in an uncontrollable operatic frenzy. Arm raised like a tenor at his peak, shampoo suds dripping down his face, his expression was one of pure artistic ecstasy. In that moment, he wasn’t Lex Luthor, billionaire. He was Lex Luthor, Opera Legend.

In the Batcave:

The world stopped.

A dead silence froze the air—even the hum of the computers seemed to hesitate. For an eternal moment, no one breathed.

And then—

"PFFFFFFT—"

Jason broke first, with a laugh like a truck engine choking on sawdust. Dick toppled off the beanbag, rolling on the floor and slapping the ground like a hyperactive ferret. Steph nearly died—half-donut lodged in her throat, half-squealing laughter—coughing like a cat with a hairball. Kon and Jon, already floating uncontrollably, howled until tears streamed down.

And Damian? The famously stoic Damian Wayne pressed his hands to his face like he was praying for strength. But his shoulders shook like leaves in the wind, and—if you listened very closely—you could hear tiny "tt-t-t" sounds escaping between his fingers.

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut so hard it looked like he was trying to wish himself into a black hole. But even Batman had his limits—and that barely-there tremor at the corner of his lips betrayed the truth: he was this close to losing it completely.

Cass, who had initially laughed like a normal person, suddenly transformed into an opera critic. She lifted her chin with solemn dignity and declared:

"Performance... impressive."

That was the tipping point.

The Batcave erupted into laughter so intense, not even Joker’s toxin could have achieved this level of hysterics.

Lex, of course, remained blissfully unaware that his billionaire morning routine was being livestreamed to his worst enemies. He finished his shower with a flourish worthy of Broadway—a dramatic wrist flick that made his silk robe swirl around him like a high-end perfume commercial.

Tim’s treacherous playlist continued its triumphant march.

And then…

The opening synth beats of "Look What You Made Me Do" blared through the gold-marbled bathroom.

The world seemed to stop.

Lex froze mid-application of his La Prairie Skin Caviar Luxe Cream (price tag: $1,066 for 100mL), his fingers hovering over the ridiculously expensive jar.

"What the hell...?" he muttered, his voice echoing in the cavernous bathroom.

Lex took a deep breath—his fingers still trembling with rage, but his "genius" brain was already rationalizing the absurdity:

"Clearly, the media team prepped another test playlist for LexCorp’s TikTok posts. Incompetent? Yes. But not completely brainless. Taylor Swift has engagement... perhaps worth considering."

With an aristocratic flick, he tightened his robe belt, deliberately ignoring his solitude in the marble expanse. His walls, after all, were as dignified an audience as any to witness his unshakable composure.

"I don’t like your little games..." he hummed along unconsciously, perfectly in sync with the beat as he meticulously patted on his caviar-infused moisturizer.

Back in the Batcave, chaos reached Olympic levels—or rather, it hit "Mount Olympus if the Greek gods were a bunch of hyperactive teens with access to Batman’s tech."

Jason lost every shred of dignity, flopping on the beanbag like an overexcited golden retriever.

"HE’S A POP DIVA! A GODDAMN POP DIVA!!!" he howled, his voice an emotional rollercoaster between shock and awe.

Dick was clutching the puff like a shipwreck survivor, his face redder than the Flash’s uniform.

"NO WAY HE’S SINGING TAYLOR SWIFT RIGHT NOW!!!"

Steph was already on the floor, rolling around and pounding her fist:

"TIM, I HATE YOU! MY STOMACH HURTS FROM LAUGHING!!!”

Kon and Jon had collapsed into a tangled heap of limbs and muffled giggles, completely incapable of speech. Damian, meanwhile, tried to maintain his usual "TT. Pathetic." but it had never sounded so hollow—his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

Bruce had his face buried in his hands, but the muffled snorts gave him away: even the Batman was laughing.

On screen, the scene was tragically glorious: Lex Luthor, swathed in silk, now harmonizing with his own reflection, fully immersed in his inner pop diva. His movements were smooth, calculated—as if rehearsing for a Grammy that only existed in his megalomaniacal mind.

Cass, the only one still holding onto a shred of composure, tilted her head with the critical air of a The Voice judge and delivered the final blow:

"He’s... got rhythm.”

That was the final straw.

What followed was the complete collapse of order in the Batcave.

Lex Luthor opened his walk-in closet with that signature dramatic flourish—only someone whose suits cost more than their own morality could pull off. It was a shrine to vanity, a monument to the ego of a man who truly believed money could buy even someone else’s dignity.

But the universe—or, more accurately, Tim Drake, the Chaos Goblin—had other plans.

The bassline of "7 Rings" blasted through the mansion’s state-of-the-art speakers, Ariana Grande’s voice ringing out in crystal-clear, obnoxiously high-definition.

Lex froze.

Arm still outstretched.

Perfect eyebrow almost twitching.

"This... is Bruce’s song.”

Because this wasn’t just any pop song.

This was Brucie Wayne’s holy anthem—adopted by the fandom as his official theme song years ago. A track that, in anyone else’s playlist, would just be a fun bop… but in Bruce’s hands, it had become a manifesto of extravagance.

And the Brucie fandom? More ruthless than Batman.

Any celebrity daring enough to use "7 Rings" in their Instagram Stories got buried alive in the comments:

💎 "Sweetheart, you’re gorgeous, but you’re no Brucie."

💅 "Trying real hard there, babes."

💰 "Come back when you’ve got a mil to drop on diamond earrings, kisses."

👨‍❤️‍👨 "Oh, honey, when you bag a Clark Kent, then we’ll talk."

Bruce? Oh, Bruce.

He’d never admit it, but he was ridiculously possessive of that song. Every time some trust-fund kid or influencer tried to claim "7 Rings", he’d hit them with that "I could buy you and your entire bloodline before breakfast, but I’m feeling generous today" look—and poof, they’d vanish from the internet for a week.

But the real lore behind Brucie’s anthem?

Even more iconic.

Phase 1: The Friendship That Broke The Fandom (12 Years of Unresolved Sexual Tension)

Back when Clark and Brucie were just friends, the fandom already treated Clark Kent like:

🐕 "The only man who can wear ill-fitting suits and still look expensive"

💛 "Brucie’s golden retriever"

👨‍👦 "Future stepdad to the Wayne kids (whether he knows it yet or not)”

Phase 2: The Emotional Second Dad (And the Rise of the Ship)

Clark, completely oblivious, earned the title of "Almost-Husband" by:

🎂 Religiously showing up to every single one of Bruce’s kids’ birthday parties

(Dick’s 12th? There with homemade pie.)

🐶 Mastering the "Kent Effect" — Bruce’s infamous weakness for Clark’s "sad golden retriever eyes" (a tactical weapon so potent, the fandom named it after him).

📝 Being listed as an emergency contact on EVERY school form

(“Authorized Pick-Up: Clark Kent.)

✍️ Inspiring 14,000+ AO3 fics under "Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent"

Phase 3: The Wedding Nobody Saw Coming (But Everyone Expected Since Dick’s Adoption)

When Bruce and Clark finally went public (and later, married), the fandom imploded in collective ecstasy. The chaos was so glorious that:

💻 AO3 crashed for 4 hours under the weight of thousands of new fics flooding in.

(Tags: #Fluff, #EstablishedRelationship, #BruceWayneHasAHeartAndItsClarkShaped)

💍 #FinallyWayneKent trended for 72 hours

🎶 "7 Rings" resurged on the charts solely because of romantic #WayneKent edits dominating TikTok.

(Bonus: The Wayne kids lip-syncing to it at the reception went viral.)

The fandom split into two warring factions:

🔥 The 7 Rings Purists

"The song is and always will be Brucie Wayne’s solo anthem. PERIOD."

→ Cited the Playboy Era like scripture.

→ “Even Ariana approves” 

🌹 The "Can’t Take My Eyes Off You" Stans

"It’s their couple anthem! CLARK KNOWS THE LYRICS!"

→ Evidence: The wedding video of Bruce slow-dancing with Clark (yes, he cried).

→ “Even Alfred approves” (he muttered "finally" during the vows and the mic picked it up).

The war got so vicious, the fandom had to broker a ceasefire—because at the end of the day, they all loved Bruce and Clark more than drama.

In the Batcave, everyone slowly turned to Bruce like a horror movie seconds before the massacre.

Meanwhile, on screen:

Lex Luthor, silk robe hanging open, belting "7 Rings" like it was his anthem—with the blind confidence of a man who gravely underestimated the power of the Brucie Wayne fandom.

And Bruce?

"There will be consequences."

That’s all he said.

Clark—the perfect husband, the voice of reason—tried to calm the beast:

"Bruce, sweetheart, it’s just a song."

Bruce turned to him with the deadly calm of a volcano about to erupt, eyes narrowed, voice low and razor-sharp:

"IT. IS. NOT. JUST. A. SONG."

Jason lost all composure, clutching his stomach while howling:

"OH MY GOD, HE’S GONNA MURDER LEX FOR EMOTIONAL COPYRIGHT! THIS IS THE MOST ‘BRUCIE WAYNE’ THING HE’S EVER DONE!"

Dick, holding his ribs like his life depended on it, wheezed through laughter:

"I NEVER THOUGHT I’D LIVE TO SEE BATMAN DECLARE WAR OVER ARIANA GRANDE! MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!"

Meanwhile, Clark attempted to pacify his husband by arguing that Tim was already destroying Lex’s life—which, miraculously, worked way better than it should have.

Back at Lex’s Mansion:

As Lex finished getting ready—because even a supervillain needs impeccable presentation—Tim’s evil playlist continued softly in the background, an ironic soundtrack to his morning routine. He adjusted the final button on his Italian suit (black, obviously, because villains have standards) and strode toward the kitchen with the posture of a king who’d just conquered a kingdom.

As Lex entered his kitchen, a flawlessly balanced breakfast awaited him:

Avocado toast (organic, naturally)

Poached eggs (63.5°C of perfection)

Green juice (because villains hydrate)

With the practiced ease of someone who converses with invisible assistants daily, he commanded:

"Alex, update me."

The AI—programmed with that deliberately cheerful, Lois Lane-esque venom (courtesy of Tim Drake’s special touch)—responded:

"You have 47 new messages. LexCorp stocks closed at a 30% drop yesterday."

A pause. Dramatic.

"And, um... the system recommends you accept your inferiority, apologize to Superman and Batman, and—perhaps—beg for mercy?"

Lex froze.

Not because of the stock crash—please, that was a problem for mediocre shareholders, and he already had three contingency plans brewing before lunch.

Not because of the sarcasm—he invented sarcasm, thank you very much.

But because his own AI, the one he’d built with his own hands (or, fine, supervised a team to build), was using Lois Lane’s voice.

Lex swallowed hard and ordered, in a tone that aimed for authority but landed somewhere near "please tell me I misheard":

"Repeat that."

The AI—now dripping with honeyed poison—obliged:

"Of course, Mr. Luthor. You have 47 new messages. LexCorp stocks fell 30%. The suggested course of action is to accept your inferiority, apologize to Superman and Batman, and... ahem, beg for mercy?"

The silence that followed was lethal.

Lex felt his pulse hammer in his temples, fists clenching involuntarily. The AI—his AI, now possessed by Lois Lane’s sarcastic ghost—continued, saccharine-sweet:

"Should I repeat it slower... or book you an ENT appointment? Your last hearing check-up was 14 months ago, per your medical records."

Meanwhile, at the Daily Planet:

Lois Lane was fighting laughter like it was a life-or-death mission—her fingers dug into her desk hard enough to leave grooves in the wood. Her bottom lip was raw from biting back giggles (worth every second of pain). Tears of unshed mirth glinted in her eyes as she stared at her screen, broadcasting live:

✨ The Lex Luthor Morning Meltdown™ ✨

And her sadistic journalist brain was already spinning headlines too cruel even for the Planet.

Lois, still watching the live feed, whispered to herself with a blade-sharp grin:

"I'm using this voice for our next interview..." Her smirk widened. "It'll be legendary."

Tim observed everything in real-time from the Batcave, Lex’s reflection flickering in his eyes like a horror movie—or, in this case, a divine comedy. When the villain croaked "Repeat" in a voice that screamed ego annihilation, a slow, calculated, devilish smile spread across the Robin’s face.

And then... the curse activated.

(Because yes, Zatanna helped—even top-tier witches have a sense of humor.)

Now, every time someone looked directly at Lex Luthor, his $10,000 suit would transform into something that would give a unicorn an existential crisis.

Lex’s most senior assistant entered the kitchen, posture impeccable, tablet in hand—until his eyes landed on the human disaster before him.

POOF!

In a flash of light that would make a unicorn blush, Lex’s $10,000 Armani suit erupted into neon-pink glitter, so radiant it:

Made the Flash’s uniform look subdued.

Outshone the actual sun.

The assistant swallowed—a sound that echoed like the last gasp of dignity in the room—and delivered his report in a tone flatter than a robot on vacation:

"Sir, the quarterly reports you requested... And, ah—" His eyelid twitched at the disco inferno of a suit. "New look for Pride Month? A bit early, but..." (A calculated pause.) "I estimate a 15% boost in public approval after yesterday’s... incident."

Lex looked down.

And saw the horror.

"NO."

He clutched the fabric like a drowning man to driftwood, scrubbing at the glitter as if it were a trick of the light.

"It was BLACK. MIDNIGHT BLACK. TWO SECONDS AGO!"

But no. Now his suit was hot-pink bedazzled insanity, as if:

A unicorn had vomited on him at a rave.

Harley Quinn had adopted him as an art project.

He’d been dunked in a vat of vengeance glitter.

Lex slammed open his walk-in closet like a man with nothing left to lose—not even the right to wear neutral colors. Inside, the nightmare reached mythic proportions:

Black suit? Now a nuclear-pink catastrophe.

Gray? A holographic rainbow.

Emerald-green? A walking disco ball of sequins that, under light, spelled "XOXO, LEX! <3 – SUPERMAN" in shimmering letters.

In a final act of desperation, Lex grabbed the only untouched suits left:

🔴 Red, green, and yellow (Robin’s colors).

🔵 Blue and red (Superman’s palette).

It worked.

No glitter. No sparkle. Just solid, heroically vibrant colors—as if the universe itself was saying: "Congrats, you’re part of the team now."

Lex, clutching the blue-and-red suit like it was a personal declaration of war, snarled:

"Is this some kind of cosmic joke?"

Alex the AI, with the calm of an algorithm that’s already accepted the apocalypse:

"Analysis complete: 98% chance this is a universal prank. The remaining 2%? The universe just finds you personally hilarious. Suggestion: Lean into the red and blue. Matches your Superman obsession.”

The Walk of Shame

Lex descended his mansion’s staircase like a condemned man heading to the gallows—because today was the LexCorp Board Meeting, and he was dressed as a Superman fanboy against his will.

The blue-and-red suit—one of the few combos miraculously spared from the glitter curse—felt like it was screaming at him. Every fold of fabric was an insult, every step an act of pure emotional resistance.

Meanwhile, in the Batcave:

Clark Kent—the paragon of hope, the Man of Steel, the last bastion of decency—was a wreck. Rolling on the floor like a drunk teenager, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for air between laughter-induced convulsions.

"TIM, PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE RECORDING ALL OF THIS!" he wheezed, his Kryptonian ribs threatening to crack from sheer joy.

Tim, wearing the smuggest cat-that-got-the-cream grin (and honestly, smugger), adjusted the hidden cameras capturing every second of "Lex Luthor vs. Glitter" in 4K HDR.

"Oh, absolutely." His fingers danced over the keyboard, adding dramatic filters in real-time. "I’m editing a highlight reel with slow-mo and an epic soundtrack. Picture Lex screaming ‘NOOOOO’ in dramatic slow motion."

Clark, still breathless, face streaked with tears of pure malicious delight, looked at Tim with the gratitude of a man who’d just received the greatest gift of his life.

"Thank you.”

And then... there was Bruce.

Bruce grinned like the Cheshire Cat—teeth gleaming, expression dripping with pure, sadistic delight—as he watched Lex Luthor emerge from his mansion like a man walking to his own funeral.

The moment Lex stepped outside was Oscar-worthy absurdist comedy.

His entourage of employees and bodyguards froze in perfect synchronization, like deer caught in headlights—if headlights were a neon-blue-and-red humiliation.

Lex marched to his car like a martyr walking on hot coals, his Superman-colored suit so obscenely vibrant it might as well have screamed: "LOOK AT ME, I’M A HERO NOW!"

"NO. COMMENT." he snarled, sliding into the armored limo like it was a coffin. "AND TELL I.T.: SOME HACKER TAMPERED WITH A.L.E.X. I WANT IT FIXED BY TONIGHT."

The response came in unison, with the energy of people who knew the next mistake would be their last:

"YES, SIR!”

✧✦✧✦✧

In a rare moment of democratic consensus, the Batfamily had declared: Alfred’s snack break. Even masked vigilantes need to refuel—especially when the day’s main event (or, as Dick poetically dubbed it, "Make Luthor’s Life Hell: Part II") was on a "commercial break."

While Jason and Steph waged an epic battle over the last turkey sandwich (complete with forks as melee weapons), Duke—the smartest of the bunch—had already inhaled his share and was now melting into the monitoring room’s beanbag, content as a cat in sunlight.

It was in this post-snack peace that the main screen chose to betray them all.

Lex Luthor’s sleek black car was one block from LexCorp.

"HEY, HE’S ALMOST THERE, MOVE IT, PEOPLE!" Duke yelled, eyes glued to the screen, his tone a perfect blend of mission-critical alert and reality-show glee.

Steph, cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s (because of course she’d shoved half a sandwich in her mouth at once), rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the past.

"WE’RE COMING, NO NEED TO YELL!" she fired back, spraying crumbs like shrapnel.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU YELLING?" Duke shot back, eyebrow arched in judgment.

Steph took one final bite, swallowed it whole like a starved python—or someone who’d had to eat on the sly before Batman confiscated snacks for "mission distraction"—and delivered the most mature, well-reasoned rebuttal she could muster:

"Because I want to."

Satisfied with her "victory" (in her mind, at least), Steph emphasized her point with all the subtlety of a brick to the face: she stuck her tongue out at Duke before flopping onto the beanbag.

But Cass, serene as ever, didn’t even blink. She just adjusted her shoulder to give Steph a better pillow. (Human furniture duty was second nature by now.)

Bruce watched it all with that "God, give me strength" look—tinged with just a hint of "but I love these gremlins." Raising (or adopting) a pack of young adults with existential crises and a flair for dramatics was a daily endurance test. And yet, there he stood, weathering another chapter of The Batfamily’s Shenanigans.

Damian, on his sacred mission to defy all laws of urgency, moved with the unhurried grace of a sunbathing cat. Jon, his official partner in lazy crime, matched his pace without complaint. When the boy fished a pack of gummies from his pocket and offered them, Damian made that face—the iconic "I don’t want it, but I’ll take it because it’s you" look, a masterpiece of disdain and affection only he could pull off.

Meanwhile, Jason was attacking his phone like each key had personally wronged him. His fingers hammered the screen with enough force to crack glass, his expression cycling between "I will murder this idiot" and "why do I even care?" Given his history, someone had probably insulted his entire bloodline—or worse, dissed his music taste.

Dick, the eternal big brother and World Champion of Poking Bears™, couldn’t resist. He peeked over Jason’s shoulder with that grin—half angel, half demon, 100% "I’ll make you regret being born"—his blue eyes glinting as he decoded the creative string of curses Jason was firing at Roy in the chat.

"Bringing him around, Jay? Finally introducing us to the boyfriend?"

Jason reacted like a cat tossed into a bath—full-body flinch, fist flying toward Dick with the speed of a man trying to erase the conversation from existence. But Dick, the damn Dick, dodged with the ease of a trapeze artist (which, technically, he was), leaving the punch to whistle harmlessly past his ear.

"Everyone already knows him, cut the crap," Jason grumbled, his voice a mix of genuine irritation and that particular embarrassment of someone who knows they're being read like an open book.

Dick, the grinning bastard, dodged another punch with the ease of someone born doing backflips. His feet moved to the rhythm of an old dance—one only the two of them knew the steps to. Every dodge, every missed swing, a reminder of how many times they'd done this before. It was almost nostalgic, if not for the fact that Jason wanted to bury him alive.

Then, like a judge delivering a final verdict, Dick pointed a finger, eyes gleaming with pure mischief.

"Oh, but when it's your turn, it's fine!" he sing-songed, voice dripping with fake scandal. "MY boyfriend had to go through threats from EVERYONE here because 'it's tradition.' Hypocrite much, little wing?"

Jason charged like an enraged bull, fists clenched, eyes burning like fire.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, DICK!"

But Dick didn’t shut up. He never shut up. It was like the ability to "zip it" had been genetically removed at birth. He sidestepped another swing with the grace of someone born for it and kept needling, because that’s what he did best—or worst, depending on who you asked.

"Remember when I brought Wally to dinner?" Dick said, eyes sparkling with nostalgic malice. "Bruce gave that whole 'hurt my son and I hurt you' speech and outlined a detailed contingency plan for him."

He paused for dramatic effect—because he loved theater—then delivered the killing blow:

"And don’t even get me started on you guys. Tim literally made a PowerPoint."

Tim, suddenly roped into the conversation, raised his hands in surrender:

"In my defense, it was necessary. And you were all insufferable when I brought Kon."

The Batfamily lived for drama. Not the cheap, soap-opera kind—no, they preferred the classics: interrogating their siblings' partners like they were war criminals.

And now, finally, the show was on.

Every sibling watched the Jason-Dick showdown with gleaming eyes, like it was the season’s juiciest feud. Because, let’s be real, it was. They’d all known about Jason and Roy for months—hiding anything in this family was like trying to hide the sun with a sieve. Between paranoid detectives, trained spies, and a brother who treated stalking as an Olympic sport (Tim), secrets simply didn’t exist.

But in a rare moment of collective self-control (or, more likely, genuine fear of waking up with a bullet between their ribs), no one had officially called Jason out on it.

Until now.

Jason had managed to dodge…

Everyone knew Jason was desperately trying to spare Roy from the little family ritual—the one that included:

A formal dinner (read: interrogation disguised as a meal);

Various threats (with or without weapons, depending on the day’s mood);

A deep dive into the potential in-law’s life (conducted by at least three different people and Bruce, without consent);

Intrusive questions like "How many times have you cried in the last year?" and "Ever cheated? Even at chess?"

It was tradition. It was horrifying. And Jason, the hypocrite, had participated in every previous installment with the enthusiasm of a starved lion.

But now? Now he wanted none of it.

"So Roy just skips it?" Dick gasped, faux-scandalized, as if Jason had suggested canceling Christmas. "That’s cold, Jay. Even Clark had to endure The Dinner™ when he started dating Bruce."

Tim raised a finger:

"And Clark is literally Superman. If he had to suffer, everyone does."

Clark remembered that dinner vividly. Honestly, how could he forget? He’d known every Batfamily member for years—helped Bruce almost raise half of them, fought beside them countless times, saved the world with them more times than he could count.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared him for The Welcome Dinner™ Terror.

Clark arrived at Wayne Manor in his best suit—the same one he’d worn to the presidential inauguration, because yes, he was nervous. And for good reason: this was his first family event as "Bruce’s boyfriend" in the dreaded ceremony insiders called The Dinner™.

In his hands, a meticulously chosen gift for Alfred: a tin of Darjeeling First Flush Black Tea, straight from India.

A desperate—almost pathetic—attempt to secure at least one ally before the slaughter.

Alfred accepted it with a polite smile. The kind that said "thank you" without revealing a single thought behind it. But there was something genuine there too—maybe pity, maybe respect. Because even he knew: Clark was about to be devoured.

"An excellent choice, Mr. Kent. You’ve always been a gentleman," the butler said, guiding him to the sitting room with the grace of someone who’d led many guests to the slaughter.

And then came the return on investment.

Alfred served Clark a cup of tea… that wasn’t exactly tea.

The faintly glowing green liquid shimmered under the fireplace light, with that distinctive quality Clark knew all too well—the kind usually associated with excruciating pain and powers failing at the worst possible moment.

"A special blend, Mr. Kent," Alfred declared, unflappable, white gloves impeccably straight. "Tailored for... particular guests.”

Clark stared at the teacup. Stared at Alfred. Took a deep breath.

"Alfred... does this tea happen to contain..."

"Kryptonite? Just a hint, sir," the butler replied with the same ease as announcing the evening's menu. "Enough to demonstrate we can protect our own. But not enough for permanent damage."

Clark froze, caught between Kent manners—that Midwestern upbringing that demanded politeness even in the face of carnivorous aliens—and his Kryptonian survival instincts currently screaming "RUN" in neon letters inside his skull.

With the precision of a bomb defusal expert, he set the cup back on its saucer. Not a clink. Not a sigh. Just wounded dignity and silence.

Bruce had prepared for this dinner like it was an interdimensional invasion. Which, technically, it was. He was Batman. Contingency plans weren’t just his middle name—they were practically his first name.

His mental checklist included:

✔️ Changing all kryptonite vault codes (because Jason would absolutely try to steal some);

✔️ Locking up all specialty weapons (including Damian’s kryptonite dagger from the League);

✔️ Making Damian swear not to poison or stab the guest ("At least not fatally, Father. I’m a professional.").

He’d even convinced Alfred not to serve questionable ingredients—or so he thought.

What Bruce underestimated? The Batfamily’s unbreakable commitment to tradition. It was stronger than gravity, mightier than Batman’s own fear. They wouldn’t let The Dinner™ be just some meet-and-greet—not without proper psychological scarring.

Alfred, noting Clark’s sufficiently vulnerable state post-special tea, ushered him into the dining room with all the ceremony of an executioner leading a condemned man.

"Dinner is served, Mr. Kent," he announced, swinging the doors open with a smile that never reached his eyes.

Inside, the table was impeccable—silverware gleaming under chandelier light, crystal glasses sparkling, and a silence so thick you could chew it. The Batfamily sat like a jury ready to deliver a historic verdict.

Bruce, at the head of the table, muttered to Clark under his breath:

"Sorry about this." (Translation: "I tried. Pray now.")

Clark felt the air solidify as each family member unveiled their... personal welcome gifts. The dining table looked less like a meal setting and more like an anti-Superman weapons expo.

Dick, to Clark’s right, twirled his kryptonite-tipped escrima sticks with the flair of a man who’d disarmed villains with charm alone.

"Relax, Clark," he laughed, noting the Kryptonian’s wary glance. "Just a little upgrade. Think of it as... family bonding."

Jason, of course, didn’t bother hiding it. Two seats left, he rolled a kryptonite bullet between his fingers like a loose coin. His grin was pure provocation.

"Make a move, farmboy," he murmured—just loud enough to carry. "I dare you."

And there, in plain sight, sat his holster—housing a gun Clark knew was loaded with those green rounds.

Tim, ever the organized one, had a tablet open: "Superman Weaknesses: Updated Edition." Beside his plate, like a centerpiece, lay a kryptonite batarang—or, as Tim insisted, "aesthetic cutlery."

"Standard protocol," he said cheerfully, patting the batarang. "You get it, right?"

Steph was thriving, balancing a kryptonite ring on one finger while fondling a knuckle-duster of the same material in her other hand—like she couldn’t decide which accessory to play with first.

And Damian? Damian just smiled. Sharpening his green dagger with slow, precise strokes, he didn’t need words. The message hung in the air, clear as a death sentence:

"Give me a reason.”

And in the middle of this horror show, there sat Bruce at the head of the table, wearing an expression that blended bone-deep exhaustion with internal screaming.

He locked eyes with Clark, blinked twice (the Batman equivalent of a silent SOS), and muttered:

"I tried to stop them."

Bruce sawed through his steak with ridiculous focus, as if each slice were a criminal to be subdued. The knife screeched against the plate with unnecessary force, and Clark didn’t even need super-hearing to know: Batman was tense—and, more importantly, terrified of what his kids would do next.

The dinner unfolded like a CIA interrogation masquerading as family bonding. Clark, strategically seated in the most spotlighted chair (coincidence? Hardly), faced a barrage of questions ranging from "mildly curious" to "blatant veiled threats".

Dick started soft—too soft to be trustworthy. He twirled his escrima sticks like harmless toys while flashing that grin—the one that screamed "I’m about to ruin someone’s night."

"So, Clark..." he began, voice dripping honey. "How exactly do you plan to protect Bruce emotionally?"

A dramatic pause.

"Because, let’s be real, our adoptive dad’s heart is fragile—"

Bruce choked on his wine.

"Dick."

"What? It’s true!" Dick laughed, pointing the sticks at Clark like interview mics. "The man’s fought Gotham’s crime for decades, but one ‘I don’t love you’ would bench him for weeks."

Clark glanced at Bruce, who was now facepalming with the force of a man wishing for spontaneous combustion.

Jason, never one for subtlety, rolled a kryptonite bullet between his fingers like a coin and cut to the chase:

"Can you cook? Because if we’re just adding another Alfred-dependent freeloader, we’ve already got Damian.”

Steph, the deceptively sweet menace at the table, twirled her kryptonite ring while dropping this gem:

"And if you accidentally hurt Bruce... well, accidents happen, right?"

When Clark was finally released—three and a half hours of kryptonian interrogation later—Alfred waited by the door with a parchment envelope, sealed with a bat symbol in red wax. (Because of course they had a custom wax stamp for this.)

"For you, sir," the butler said, handing it over with a smile that was 50% courtesy, 50% warning. "Consider it a... guide."

Clark opened it carefully, half-expecting anything from powdered kryptonite to a Latin death threat. Inside, he found a document titled:

"OFFICIAL RULES FOR DATING BRUCE WAYNE"

(Revised & Updated Edition – Includes clauses on kryptonite, nighttime crises, and emergency protocols for when Bruce "thinks dying alone to save others is romantic")

And at the very bottom, in bold letters that seemed designed to terrify even a Kryptonian:

"IMPORTANT CLAUSE: Hurt Bruce, and no corner of Earth (or space) will be safe. We have weapons, ships, and too much free time.”

Back to the present.

Bruce leveled that look—the one only a "tired dad" could master. A unique blend of exhaustion, unconditional love, and quiet resignation, as if he’d once thought raising an entire family of chaos agents was a good idea... and now had to live with the consequences.

"Both of you. Sit. Down."

His voice was low, firm, and deadly—the kind that made hardened criminals rethink their life choices.

Dick and Jason froze mid-bicker, but of course they couldn’t resist one last jab. Before sitting, they simultaneously flipped each other off—perfectly in sync, as only brothers raised together (and in trauma) could be.

Bruce sighed, watching his eldest sons squabble like children with the weary gaze of a man who’d seen hell and returned only to complain about cold coffee.

"The dinner isn’t a torture ritual," he declared, as Dick and Jason finally settled (still shooting murderous glares). "It’s a loyalty test."

His eyes swept over the clan, lingering on Jason—because, let’s be honest, he was the expert in "scaring the hell out of siblings’ partners."

"When I brought Clark to his dinner, you filled the manor with kryptonite. Threatened him every way imaginable." For a split second, the ghost of a smile flickered on Bruce’s lips—gone too fast for anyone but his family to catch. "He didn’t run. He stayed."

Jason’s jaw clenched, grinding his teeth as he futilely searched for a counterargument.

Because it was true.

Clark had endured the worst of them—kryptonite-laced tea, stabbing threats, interrogations that would make the KGB blush—and yet he kept coming back, all smiles and that ridiculously optimistic farmboy charm.

Bruce, seizing the momentum, pressed on with that "I know too much" dad tone, locking eyes with Jason:

"And when Dick brought Wally..."

Dick snorted, fondly (and a little sadistically) recalling the memory.

Wally, seated beside him that night, had nearly melted from nerves when Jason pressed a gun to his temple and sweetly asked:

"How fast are you without your powers, Flash?"

The result? Wally stuttered for three straight minutes. Jason considered it an absolute victory.

Jason rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched against his will.

"He survived, didn’t he?" he grumbled defensively. "And look—the idiot still comes around. Must like pain."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unmoved.

"Exactly."

Jason didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Wally had stayed. Just like Clark. Just like so many others who’d navigated the minefield of the Wayne family and decided it was worth it.

"It’s not about humiliation," Bruce said, softer now but still steel-steady. "It’s about proving the person you love is willing to face our brand of hell... just to keep you.”

Jason fell silent.

His fists remained clenched, knuckles white with tension, but his posture slackened just slightly—as if his body betrayed what his mouth refused to admit. He knew Bruce was right. And he hated every word for it.

Because it was easy to pretend he didn’t care. Easy to play with guns and threats like it was all some tasteless joke.

The hard part? Facing the truth: that deep down, he just wanted to know someone would stay.

Bruce seized the rare hesitation—that fleeting moment when Jason didn’t have a sharp retort ready.

"And, Jason..."

A smile tugged at Bruce’s lips. Faint. Rare. But there.

"Bring Roy to dinner on Friday. If you’re dating, it’s only fair he’s officially introduced."

The silence was so sharp even the Batcave’s wall clock seemed to pause—as if debating whether to keep ticking or respect Jason’s newfound trauma.

Jason imploded with embarrassment.

"Fuck..." he groaned, palms smashing into his face like sheer willpower could teleport him to another dimension. Preferably one where Bruce Wayne had never learned to speak.

(Spoiler: No such dimension existed.)

As Jason drowned in shame, the rest of the Batfamily shifted into Special Ops Mode™—with, as usual, deeply concerning levels of sadism.

Dick rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain about to take over the world—or at least ensure Roy Harper’s suffering.

"Oh, this’ll be fun," he declared, grin wide, eyes glittering with premeditated malice. His tone made it clear "fun" meant: "I will make this dinner a legendary nightmare."

Damian and Tim exchanged that look—the one they shared right before ruining someone’s life with zero remorse.

Damian was already mentally reviewing his arsenal of insults. He wouldn’t hand over Hafez—Jason’s old League alias, back when he was Damian’s babysitter/bodyguard—to just anyone without testing him first. And if Roy failed? Well... there was always an open grave needing filling.

Tim, the king of passive-aggressive chaos, was crafting innocent-sounding questions designed to make Roy sweat—and reconsider every life choice.

Duke, the supposedly sanest family member, surveyed the pandemonium unfolding around him. He sighed deeply—then, with a crooked grin that would’ve made his siblings proud, decided today was the day to embrace the chaos.

"I’m with Tim on research duty," he announced, snatching a tablet and typing furiously. "Roy Harper’s got a fascinating history with explosives. Let’s test that."

Jason’s head slowly lifted, like a condemned man staring at his executioner, begging for a mercy he knew didn’t exist within those walls.

"Duke... you too?"

Dick let out a laugh that was pure evil.

"Aw, Jaybird, you know we only do this out of love, right?"

Jason just stared at his siblings, his soul screaming for mercy, and through gritted teeth, spat the only words that could sum it up:

"I. Hate. All. Of. You."

The response came in unison, bright and cheery like a choir of devilish angels who live to torment mortals:

"WE LOVE YOU TOO!”

Chapter Text

The air at LexCorp smelled of stale coffee and anxiety—business as usual. Assistants stumbled in high heels while frantically typing on their tablets, interns hid in the copy rooms, and VPs pretended to understand the charts flashing on the screens. Everything was perfectly normal, despite the scandal from the day before.

Until the script was flipped.

The man who followed routines stricter than an algorithm didn’t walk through the front door, as he religiously did every morning at 8:00 AM (with a margin of error of three seconds). No—he chose the private elevator, the one that went straight up from the underground parking and avoided any unnecessary human interaction.

The moment Luthor stepped into LexCorp, all his assistants went into full existential crisis mode.

Alert messages blasted across every company group—from the most classified ("Project K") to the seemingly harmless ("Interns Are People Too"):

🚨 TOP-PRIORITY ALERT 🚨

CODE RED – ALPHA LEVEL

THE BOSS IS IN A KILLER MOOD

SURVIVAL PROTOCOL ACTIVATED:

✅ SHOW ZERO REACTION

✅ MAINTAIN ZERO EYE CONTACT

✅ PRETEND YOU DON’T EXIST

⚠️ EXTREME WARNING ⚠️

DO NOT—UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES—

MENTION. THE. OUTFIT.

💀 ACTUAL RISK OF DEATH OR TERMINATION 💀

The silence that fell over the floor was suffocating—quite literally, since nobody dared to breathe. The halls of LexCorp, usually buzzing with the frenetic energy of a caffeinated ant colony, now stood as still as an old photograph.

It was as if someone had hit the pause button on reality’s remote. Even the AC seemed to have shut off in solidarity with the tension.

Code Red Alpha Level was no joke. Not some office meme. It was the corporate equivalent of a nuclear warhead alert.

Everyone remembered—with recurring nightmares and expensive therapy—the Fateful Electric Car Incident.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the scandal that had exploded the day before—the one about "New Beginnings"—had turned into a global movement. The hashtag #NewBeginnings went viral faster than a cat video, sparking:

Protests from Mexico to Japan

A meme comparing Lex to an anime villain

At least two parody Twitter accounts with more followers than LexCorp’s official page

The result? A flood of resignations that left the company looking like a sinking ship, with half the crew jumping overboard. The surviving departments were more overworked than a college student during finals week.

And yet... the sheer satisfaction of watching the billionaire boss get publicly humiliated?

Priceless.

But no one—and I mean no one—wanted to be the next target of that pent-up rage. Unless... well, let’s just say some already had one foot out the door.

A few brave (or suicidal) souls had set up burner accounts and leaked some dirty laundry the day before. Petty sabotage, just to twist the knife a little:

An anonymous email to the board here…

A leaked top-secret project there…

A clown-nosed Lex meme circulating in the internal chats… (Untraceable, of course. These employees already had their eyes on competitors, eagerly awaiting interviews at Wayne Enterprises or Queen Industries.)

The elevator’s ding cut through the deathly silence of the hallway like a gunshot.

The doors slid open—and then they saw it.

Lex Luthor—the man who dedicated his life to proving Superman was a threat to humanity, the billionaire genius who built weapons specifically to humiliate, defeat, and destroy the Kryptonian (not to mention his blatant obsession with him)—

Was wearing a suit in Superman’s colors.

It wasn't a similar blue.

It wasn't an approximate red.

It was the blue and the red.

The combination was so unmistakable that even a colorblind person would've noticed. The tie's crimson burned as bright as the Man of Steel's cape, and the suit's blue was that iconic shade splashed across newspapers whenever Superman saved the world yet again.

The silence that followed was so thick you could hear:

Sweat trickling down the CFO's neck

The intern's frantic heartbeat from inside the filing cabinet

Another intern's stomach growling (now questioning every life choice that led to this moment)

A phone vibrating in someone's pocket—probably a new recruiter from Wayne Enterprises

LexCorp's hallways had become an emotional minefield where every step could be your last. Employees marched behind their boss like soldiers in formation—if soldiers wore polyester suits and had existential crises before their morning coffee.

The employees' neutral expressions were painful to look at—faces locked in such tension they might shatter.

The head of Legal maintained a professional smile so stiff it looked like she'd Botoxed her soul.

The project manager had developed a left-eye twitch that synced perfectly with Luthor's footsteps.

Three analysts were chewing the insides of their cheeks hard enough to draw blood—and maybe the last shreds of their sanity too.

Lex stormed forward like a tailored Italian suit hurricane, his black mood seeping through his pores and poisoning the air like Fear Gas itself.

[Secret Group: Corporate Survival]

Anon437:

► EMERGENCY ALERT

► Can someone warn the 72nd-floor intern? Kid’s out here tweeting memes

► [Attachment: Screenshot of tweet "Lex Luthor cosplaying Superman #NewDressCode"]

HR_Reaper:

► Handled. Sent a fake gas leak email to his department.

► PS: Attached a PDF evacuation manual for ~authenticity~.

ConspiraLex:

► God bless you all.

► PS: Did anyone check if Superman knows about this yet?

ZombieEmployee (Accounting):

► Just updated my LinkedIn. Skills: "Survived 3 Code Reds. Can perform miracles with cold coffee."

When Lex finally reached the sanctuary of his penthouse office, he sank into his chair with a sigh he’d never let slip in front of other mortals. The Italian leather throne creaked softly—the only thing in this building brave enough to audibly express discomfort in his presence.

For hours, he cycled through virtual meetings, his camera meticulously framed to show only:

🔹 His impenetrable expression

🔹 The calculated glint in his eyes

🔹 Zero inches of the treacherous fabric

The last pixel of his final call blinked out. Lex allowed himself exactly 47 seconds of respite.

Then he opened his personal inbox.

📩 Project Icarus: Daily Report

📩 Project Icarus: Data Analysis

📩 Project Icarus: Adjustment Request

("Sector 7 asking for kryptonite like it’s sugar for their coffee.")

His lips curled into something that—on a lesser man, one not so consumed with crushing heroes—might’ve been called a smile.

Icarus.

His newest masterpiece. His poetic rebuttal to that red-caped flying pest.

Tiny, hummingbird-sized drones.

Armed with kryptonite micro-needles.

Finally, something that could match his speed.

Something that would pierce that "invulnerable" hide like a pin through a party balloon.

Something that would give Lex Luthor the upper hand he rightfully deserved—because if there was one universal truth, it was this:

Lex Luthor deserved everything.

✉️ "Beta prototype testing scheduled for Thursday. Prep Lab 4."

(Translation: Scrape what’s left of Lab 3 off the walls.)

✉️ "Prioritize body-heat tracking systems."

(Translation: I want those drones to cling to Superman like mosquitoes on steroids.)

✉️ "Aerodynamic test results unacceptable. Redo."

(Translation: Or I’ll redo your employment contracts. Staying on this project is a privilege.)

✉️ "Increase kryptonite dosage by 12%."

(Translation: I want to watch him drop faster this time.)

Lex hit SEND with the quiet satisfaction of a man signing a death warrant—except in this case:

🔹 The condemned: Superman

🔹 The executioner: 247 micro-drones, programmed to hunt and sting with surgical precision

🔹 The jury: Himself

🔹 The sentence: The fall of the so-called "Man of Tomorrow"

The door flew open as if a hurricane had ripped it from its hinges—or as if someone had just discovered the CEO was about to be arrested for "unexplained" reasons.

Alana, his chief secretary, stepped inside with a face whiter than the office walls and eyes wide enough to hold the horrors of hell itself.

"Mr. Luthor..." Her voice was a frayed thread of desperation. "Please tell me you haven’t answered any emails today."

Lex’s posture remained flawless, but his eyes narrowed—just a fraction.

"Obviously I have," he said, the words sharp, though a sliver of doubt crept in. Alana didn’t panic without cause. "What is this about?"

Alana moved as if the floor were molten lava, snatching the mouse with fingers that looked seconds away from crumbling from pure terror. One click. Two.

The Sent folder flashed onto the screen.

And then...

The signature.

"Best regards,

Lex Luthor, Superman's #1 Fan"

Lex froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if sheer, unadulterated rage could force the emails to self-correct and erase that abominable closing.

But no.

It was still there.

Permanently etched into LexCorp's servers.

Sent to Pentagon generals.

Forwarded to Wall Street investors.

And worst of all—

Bruce Wayne.

(Who was, without a doubt, already printing, framing, and hanging it in his office. Because of course he would. The man had a museum’s worth of petty.)

Lex took a slow step back—the kind of retreat one makes when faced with a starving lion armed with nukes and a temper.

— "No matter what we type..." — she swallowed hard — "after sending, it turns into... this. IT is trying to eliminate the virus, sir."

Alana, corporate survival expert, evaporated from the office with the efficiency of a League of Shadows operative. Her stilettos left no echo on the marble—just the faint whoosh of a tactical retreat, straight out of How Not to Get Fired by a Livid Billionaire 101.

Lex remained frozen before the screen, eyes locked on that blinking signature—an eternal meme, a digital scar, Superman’s infuriating grin made manifest.

His temples pulsed like they were trying to crack his skull open from sheer fury.

Yet his face? A poisoned lake. Still on the surface. Nuclear beneath.

And then—the epiphany.

— "Robin… It has to be."

The words slithered through clenched teeth, each syllable dripping pure venom.

Lex knew.

He knew Robins were like genius-level cockroaches: they survived explosions, multiplied in caves, and always popped up exactly where it hurt most. Batman wouldn’t collect pests if they weren’t infuriatingly good at their jobs.

But admit that some cape-wearing teenager had just humiliated the planet’s greatest mind?

In the last 72 hours?

Never.

— "Only that little brat would use methods this childish to sabotage a system as flawless as mine," he snarled, fists clenched so tight his knuckles threatened to disintegrate on their own.

Meanwhile...

Tim Drake watched it all through the cameras, his grin widening with every second Luthor stood frozen, staring at that signature like it was the digital apocalypse.

— "Go on, Lex..." he whispered, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a conductor about to unleash chaos. "Say the magic word."

Tim knew Luthor wouldn’t resist. He knew that man’s pride was as fragile as a house of cards in a hurricane. And, more importantly, he knew Lex would never admit—not even under torture—that a Robin had brought down his "perfect system."

"Perfect."

Like an ancient spell being summoned, the dormant virus in every LexCorp system awoke.

Every LexCorp screen on home turf flickered in unison, plunging the empire into a silence that lasted less than the blink of an eye—the last gasp of peace before absolute chaos.

And then...

🎵 "BABY SHARK, DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO!" 🎵

The children’s tune erupted like a sonic tsunami, every screen synced to a different genre:

Rio funk (beat so heavy it made the marble floors shake)

Cheesy pop [Brega] (a rhythm for "grinding on your own arrogance")

Reggaeton (dance moves flashing on-screen)

Opera (dramatic tenors belting it out)

Eurodance (synth beats that rattled your bones)

And in the heart of the pandemonium, Lex Luthor—now a living meme—bellowed:

"TURN. IT. ALL. OFF. NOW."

His roar was drowned out by a METAL remix of "Baby Shark"—complete with guttural screams and guitar solos worthy of a stadium show.

The technicians scrambled like panicked ants after someone knocked over the sugar jar—or, in this case, the sonic chaos of "Baby Shark."

They threw themselves at keyboards like they were exorcising digital demons, yanking out cables like limbs infected by tech zombies. One maintenance guy even kicked a CPU, just because it felt like the most useful (and therapeutically violent) thing to do.

— "I shut down the main servers!" someone yelled.

— "I cut the internet!"

— "I’m PRAYING!"

And then… silence.

For three glorious seconds, the world almost felt normal again.

Lex Luthor stood frozen in the middle of the office, chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon fueled by pure rage. His fingers trembled. His forehead gleamed with sweat. And his eyes held the look of a man who'd just been personally betrayed by the universe itself.

But of course, it couldn't be that easy.

🎵 "BABY SHARK METAL – DISTORTED GUITARS + WAR DRUMS!" 🎵

Only now... it was coming from somewhere else.

Not the computers. Not the regular speakers.

It was as if the entire building had grown a voice and decided to sing.

That’s when they discovered the true horror:

It had INFECTED EVERYTHING.

Tiny speakers hidden in every conceivable place—and some completely ridiculous ones.

Inside coffee makers.

Behind corporate portraits.

In the bathrooms.

Inside the vault.

Even in the elevators.

In the vice president’s tie.

Scientists—who had once been busy reverse-engineering alien tech or building weapons that could take down Superman on a bad day—were now slamming their heads against desks with the force of men trying to crush a particularly annoying thought. Some whispered famous equations like desperate mantras, clinging to the vain hope of drowning out the sound in their skulls.

— "E = mc²... E = mc²..." — one muttered through gritted teeth.

Until suddenly, his eyes widened in horror.

The executives, always ready with some half-brained quick fix, tried humming classic songs—the kind everyone knows and that "work for any occasion."

One started a shaky "Bohemian Rhapsody."

Another attempted "Happy Birthday" with the enthusiasm of a funeral dirge.

But it didn’t matter what they sang—their voices were swallowed, devoured, overwritten by one cursed chorus:

🎵 "BABY SHARK, DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO!" 🎵

Even the cleaning bot, programmed to "never disrupt the corporate environment," joined the musical cult, sweeping the floor in perfect rhythm and flashing its lights like it was at a rave

— "OH, COME ON, NOW IT’S IN MY HEAD TOO!" — he screamed, tearing off his glasses and hurling them to the ground like traitors.

Meanwhile, LexCorp’s most elite security team—mountain-sized men in tactical exo-suits, encrypted comms, and cutting-edge noise-canceling headphones designed to withstand sonic grenades—made a horrifying discovery.

The problem was far worse than they’d imagined.

Because the sound… wasn’t coming from the speakers.

It was coming from inside their heads.

The chorus had wormed its way into their brains like a cognitive virus.

One guard—a 6'7", 265-pound wall of muscle who could scare off a polar bear—collapsed to his knees, clawing at his skull as if he could physically rip the song out.

"NO, NO, NO! NOT AGAIN!" he sobbed, tears streaming down his face

Lex Luthor didn’t shout.

He didn’t need to.

He simply turned his gaze toward the head of IT—a man who’d survived Russian hacker attacks, quantum viruses, catastrophic server failures, and even an alien invasion disguised as a Windows update. A hardened pro. A stone-cold operator. The kind of guy who’d fallen asleep reading error logs and woken up smiling.

But now?

Now he looked like a first-grader called to the principal’s office.

Lex stared at him with eyes colder than the vacuum of space, emptier than a politician’s soul. It was the kind of look that said: “I’ve already pictured twelve different ways to kill you—I’m just choosing the most satisfying one.”

“I WANT THIS VIRUS GONE IN TEN MINUTES,” Lex said, his voice laced with a threat as tangible as a live grenade rolling across the floor.

The IT chief swallowed hard.

His throat made an audible gulp.

His knees buckled without him even realizing it.

And his hands? His hands shook like dead leaves in a hurricane. Every keystroke was desperate, useless—like trying to fix a nosediving plane with duct tape and wishful thinking.

Every keypress sounded like a gunshot.

Click.

A shot to the foot.

Clack.

A shot to the knee.

Cluck.

A shot to his dignity.

"Sir..." His voice was hoarse, shaky—like he'd spent the night singing Baby Shark at hell’s karaoke bar. "It's using complex algorithms... tangled with generative AI. This will... take longer."

Lex arched a single eyebrow. Just one.

It crept upward slowly, as if surprised to hear something so profoundly stupid from a man paid six figures specifically to prevent this kind of disaster.

“More time?” he repeated, tasting the words like he might savor the irony later. “Then perhaps I should hire someone with a functioning brain instead of just a functioning computer.”

The IT chief blinked twice.

Once from nerves.

Once because he was certain his heart had just stopped for a full second.

Around them, technicians kept working in a frenzy—but the air was thick with impending doom.

No one dared breathe too loud.

No one coughed.

Even the atmosphere itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see if Lex would just blow up the entire building to silence the musical plague.

Meanwhile, the 87th remix of Baby Shark blared through the speakers like an apocalyptic anthem:

🎵 "BABY SHARK – DISTORTED HEAVY METAL + UNNECESSARY GUITAR SOLO!" 🎵

As LexCorp descended into musical chaos—as if invaded by an army of vengeful, synth-wielding, adorable sharks—the Batfam couldn’t contain their glee.

This was a rare kind of moment.

The kind of victory that didn’t involve explosions, car chases, or near-death experiences.

It was a clean win.

A victory with repetitive lyrics and an upbeat tempo.

Four. Hours.

That’s how long it took to purge the unholy virus.

That’s how long it took to turn executives into sleepwalking zombies, scientists into psychiatric patients, and security guards into unwilling members of a hellish choir.

Inside LexCorp, the atmosphere resembled a post-apocalyptic psych ward. Employees wandered the halls in a daze, whispering as if speaking too loudly might reignite the nightmare. Others curled into fetal positions around now-useless keyboards, quietly sobbing.

Lex Luthor’s office was cloaked in a deafening silence—

The kind that rings in your ears.

The eerie calm after a hurricane passes, when the sky clears but everything inside feels shattered.

The air smelled of cold coffee, nervous sweat, and maybe just a hint of secondhand embarrassment.

The lights flickered weakly, as if traumatized.

Even Lex’s own portrait—hanging proudly with "Visionary Genius" in gilded letters—seemed to glare down in disapproval.

Lex closed his eyes.

Drew a slow breath.

Tried to find peace.

Tried to find control.

Tried to find anything that wasn’t—

🎵 "DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO!" 🎵

Oh no.

Not again.

Please.

But yes.

There it was.

Inside his head now.

Stuck like gum on the shoe of humanity.

He pressed his temples hard, felt his blood pound, his mind spin, his ego bleed.

"This... isn’t over," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. "There will be payback."

Alana clutched the package like it was a bomb—not some homemade duct-tape-and-pipe contraption. No. This was the silent, sophisticated kind—the type you only realize has detonated when you hear a click and feel Lex Luthor’s glare slicing through you like a laser beam of pure hatred.

In other words: it was suspicious.

Deeply suspicious.

As suspicious as a gift delivered to her right after everyone had been force-fed Baby Shark for hours on end.

The package was too perfect to trust:

Impeccable bow—silk, probably worth three months of her salary.

Luxury wrapping paper, the imported kind, its texture practically whispering "You could never afford me."

Elegant envelope, gold-trimmed and reeking of refined arrogance.

Even the X-ray hadn’t found anything suspicious—and that only made it more suspect.

Because when something seems too safe, it’s designed to catch you off guard.

And Alana? She was exhausted.

More than exhausted—she was emotionally crushed, physically rattled, and mentally scarred by opera-style Baby Shark.

And now this.

She glanced at Lex, hesitating.

He remained motionless at the desk, his expression carved from marble. Not a single muscle twitched. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.

Lex didn't blink.(Or if he did, she missed it.)

His fingers lay perfectly still on the desk - surrendered, it seemed, to utter defeat. Even vengeance had been momentarily abandoned.

"Mr. Luthor..." Her voice scraped raw from hours of screaming. Hours of barking orders, swearing profanities, begging anyone who might listen to make that goddamn song stop. "...there's a package for you."

Lex raised his eyes with glacial slowness. As if every shred of his attention had to be dragged back from some event horizon of murderous contemplation.

The package.

Then her.

When he finally spoke, his voice could have flash-frozen lava:

"Who sent it?"

Alana's throat clicked with an audible swallow.

She could've sworn someone across the room gulped in sympathy—secondhand nerves thick enough to choke on.

"No sender, sir." Her gaze stayed locked on him. "Just this card."

Lex dismissed her with a jerk of his chin—not a "please close the door," but a "get out now or become today's object lesson in why you don't piss me off."

She obeyed. Fast.

Probably sprint-walked down the hall just to ensure she wouldn't overhear whatever fresh hell was about to unfold in that room.

The door clicked shut, plunging the office back into silence—

That kind of silence.

The heavy, sticky sort that clings to your skin and makes you feel watched by every bad decision you've ever made.

Lex stared at the envelope.

His fingers—usually steady as tempered steel—hovered for half a heartbeat before making contact.

A fractional pause. Nearly imperceptible.

But that’s where the fear lived.

Because Lex Luthor didn’t hesitate.

He struck. He schemed. He dominated.

But this?

This reeked of provocation.

With quick, precise movements, he tore open the envelope's corner.

No ceremony. No delicacy.

Just the urgent need to know who dared send him something after the hell he'd just endured.

The message was short—damnably short. And enough to twist his face into something between fury and absolute disbelief:

"To Earth's Greatest Genius – who never makes mistakes. Well... almost never."

The paper fluttered onto the desk with a whisper.

Lex stared at the box like it was a coiled viper—every fiber of his being screaming to incinerate it.

No.

Burn the whole damn building down.

But curiosity—that damned curiosity, always his greatest virtue and his fatal flaw—

Lex slit the wrapping paper with surgical precision. Every motion was controlled, as if handling a bioweapon... or the last shred of his patience.

Beneath the imported paper lay a sleek black box—too elegant to be harmless. With cold, gleaming latches, it looked less like a gift and more like a personal vault.

When the clasps released with a soft click—a tiny sound that somehow echoed like a gunshot in the office's oppressive silence—his hand hesitated.

A millisecond pause.

So brief no one would notice.

But Lex noticed. His brain logged it as an error. A slip. His body's involuntary betrayal in the face of...

Not fear.

Something worse.

Curiosity.

That damned curiosity—always his greatest weapon... and his worst enemy.

He lifted the lid.

LEDs flickered to life automatically, illuminating the contents like a courtroom staged specifically to judge his arrogant soul.

What did he see?

A diorama. A goddamn diorama.

At its center stood a perfect replica of his own armor—but cracked and scarred with glowing fissures, like battle wounds from defeats he'd never suffered.

To the left: Superman, frozen in heroic pose, those painted blue eyes bearing the exact "I saved orphanages before breakfast" expression that made Lex grind his teeth until his jaw ached.

On the opposite side: himself. Lex Luthor. Frozen in defeat.

Face twisted in frustration, hands raised in useless defense—as if someone with his power could still be reduced to some cheap comic book villain.

Lex was still processing the scene when the diorama escalated. Because of course it would.

The final touch. The poisoned cherry on top.

The figures began to move.

Slow. Mechanical. Every gesture engineered to poke exactly the right nerve.

Then came the speech bubbles—tiny, painstakingly detailed—recreating a familiar dialogue, now laced with digital humiliation:

SUPERMAN:"Lex, just stop this already!"

LEX: "NEVER!"

As if hearing those words again wasn’t bad enough, the diorama capped it off with the most ridiculous sound effect:

🎵 WHAM! 🎵

Lex blinked. Twice. Like he was trying to reboot reality.

No luck.

The loop reset.

Superman. Him. Defeat. The scream. The WHAM.

All in slow motion, now with background music.

That’s when his eyes—against his own will (because yes, even his eyes had betrayed his dignity today)—landed on the diorama’s bottom-left corner.

There, coiled in the corner like a viper:

A miniature power cable.

And perched atop it—as if they owned the damn world—a flock of actual robins (the birds).

Each wore a microscopically perfect black mask.

Each carried a tiny camera strapped to its wings, recording everything.

And one—the boldest, most insufferable one—held a sign in its beak, scrawled in block letters:

"SMILE FOR THE CAMERAS, LUTHOR."

✧✦✧✦✧

The Batcave had the atmosphere of a three-ring circus.

Not the depressing kind with sad clowns and bored elephants—no, this was watching Lex Luthor lose his composure in real time, powerless as his own humiliation played out before him.

Clark Kent was mesmerized. His eyes shone like Metropolis at night—vivid, blue, practically neon. He looked less like Superman and more like a nerd eyeing limited-edition merch.

"I NEED one of these," he whispered, his inner geek emerging from the hero's shadow like a merchandising-starved vampire. "Do they take commissions? How much would it cost? Can you customize it? Like... Batman punching Croc? Or—"

That’s when he turned.

And saw it.

Bruce’s smile.

Oh, that smile.

Not the rare "mission accomplished" one. Not the half-smirk of "Jason didn’t blow anything up today."

No.

This was worse.

This was poison dressed in a tailored suit.

Bruce’s lips curved like they were pinned to invisible razorblades. His narrowed eyes, locked on the screen, glowed with the quiet delight of a cat who’d just knocked over a priceless vase—and stared at you like "I’ve waited years to do that."

Clark's blue eyes lit up with that sudden, dawning realization—the kind only someone who's been outmaneuvered by brilliance could understand.

"This was you," he breathed, almost reverently, like he was standing before some sacred revelation. "You engineered this... didn't you?"

His voice hovered between awe and disbelief, as if discussing a scientific miracle.

Clark couldn't contain the whirlwind of emotions. It was like every neuron had started waltzing randomly from sheer exhilaration.

Bruce had orchestrated the entire humiliating diorama.

It was perfect. Devastatingly perfect. Perfect to the point of artistry. Perfect enough that it could only be Bruce Wayne's handiwork.

Because no one else could turn victory into a masterclass of controlled arrogance—complete with mood lighting and dramatic shadows.

Bruce didn’t even need to answer. Not verbally, at least.

He simply arched one eyebrow—because the rest of his face was too busy being a monument to psychological domination—and let the smirk dig deeper into the corners of his mouth.

It was the kind of smile that said: "Yes, I did this. Yes, I planned it all. And yes—I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

That was enough. Just that single arched eyebrow. Just that faint smirk speaking volumes louder than words ever could.

Clark couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t possibly hold back.

That cocktail of admiration, love, pride, and sheer "you’re so insufferably you" detonated inside him like an emotional supernova.

Without thinking twice—or maybe without thinking at all—Clark grabbed Bruce’s face in both hands, like he was holding the final clue to a mystery that could only be solved with a kiss.

And then he kissed him.

Right there.

In the Batcave.

Amidst enough tech to monitor a villain’s heartbeat from 50 miles away.

In front of the entire family.

It was a kiss that translated everything words could never quite capture:

"I love you for orchestrating this."

"You’re terrible. You’re perfect."

"No one has ever understood me like you do."

Bruce—caught off guard—froze for exactly half a second.

A near-imperceptible hitch.

The kind of pause that only happens when even Batman gets blindsided.

Because a heartbeat later, Bruce’s fingers were already tangling in Clark’s collar, yanking him closer with a desperation that would’ve made Batman blush—if he’d bothered to notice.

And he wasn’t noticing.

Not now.

The taste of Clark’s morning coffee collided with that obnoxiously citrusy shower gel he insisted on using, all of it blurring together as Bruce kissed back like a man starved for affection, vengeance, and victory at once.

Around them, the rest of the Batfamily watched like spectators at a volcano erupting inside a silent library.

Jason, however, acted fast.

His arm swung in a sniper-precise arc—launching a handful of gummy bears as anti-romance artillery. One struck Bruce square on the forehead with the unerring accuracy of a man trained exclusively to ruin couples’ moments.

"GET A ROOM!" Jason bellowed, shielding his eyes with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other like a war general facing unspeakable horrors. "WE DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR MORE FAMILY-INDUCED TRAUMA!"

And right on cue, Kon made his entrance—now positioned beside Tim with both hands dramatically clutched to his chest like a Victorian maiden in distress.

"I concur!" he wailed, voice dripping with existential agony. "My eyes have been defiled witnessing my brother/paternal figure locking lips with my father-in-law!"

Kon let his head loll back with the exaggerated flair of a telenovela star about to faint.

"My heart!" he continued, every syllable drenched in melodrama. "My vision! My mental stability! All... all lost..."

Bruce, utterly immune to secondhand embarrassment or family-induced shame, simply rolled his eyes—not the usual tired flick, but that slow, deliberate kind, like he was mentally wiping away the theatrics around him.

Then—just to watch Jason lose it again (because who wouldn’t mess with the guy who named his guns "Pain" and "Suffering"?)—he dragged Clark into one more quick peck.

Brief. Sweet.

Absolutely unnecessary.

Jason screeched like a glitter-truck-flattened banshee. Another gummy bear went flying. Bruce didn’t even flinch.

Clark?

Clark was laughing.

Clark’s face still glowed like a Metropolis sunset—all warmth and light and zero regrets. His fingers tangled with Bruce’s in a casual but firm grip, the kind that said, clearer than words ever could:

"Worth every second of chaos. Every earworm. Every humiliating diorama. Worth it all."

Across the cave, Damian looked catatonic.

His hands smothered his face like he’d witnessed a crime against humanity.

"SOMEONE FETCH ME EYE BLEACH!" he howled, the plea ricocheting off the stone walls like a cry for sanity.

Jason—already positioned beside him like this was a tactical defense mission against PDA—thrust out a hand urgently, eyes alight with equal parts horror and glee.

"Save some for me," he muttered, low and conspiratorial but dripping with genuine despair. "My soul needs scrubbing too."

LexCorp's office looked like a post-apocalyptic warzone.

Lex Luthor—the man who never lost control—was losing control.

His clenched fists trembled against the desk, knuckles bone-white from pressure. Those usually calculating eyes burned with a fire not even his Superman-hatred could explain.

Then—he snapped.

In one violent motion, he ripped the head off the Superman action figure and crushed it between his fingers, annihilating every last plastic detail.

"I. NEVER. MAKE. MISTAKES."

And thus, the man who embodied composure became the poster child for meltdowns—while Tim and the Batfamily, miles away, reveled in the spectacle, grinning as they watched the billionaire's tantrum unfold in real time.

Day Two: concluded with flawless victory.

Chapter Text

Tim knew that was the most unpredictable part of his entire plan.

While the rest of the group was still riding the wave of excitement, glued to the chaos like it was a reality show, he had to ruin the party.

 "It’s not happening, guys. This time, I have no control over what’s coming."

The frustration in the air was so thick you could cut it with a plastic knife. You could feel it, right? That heavy silence, the exchanged glances that quickly darted away, fingers drumming on tables, the collective sigh... Everyone there wanted that thrill of watching Luthor fall in real time—like watching a building collapse in slow motion. But Tim had already laid the groundwork, poured gasoline around Luthor. The rest? That was up to the vultures.

And what vultures they were.

A week earlier, he’d scattered the dossiers like breadcrumbs for special little birds: politicians hungry for the spotlight (the kind who’d smile for the cameras while selling their own mothers), judges with careers more stagnant than pond water, and journalists desperate for a scoop—or at least an excuse to fill their glasses at happy hour.

None of them were clean, of course. But they were all smart enough to know that taking down a titan like Luthor was worth more than gold. It was worth careers. Legacies. A front-row seat to the circus of someone else’s downfall.

Tim almost laughed just imagining it. It was like tossing a bloody steak into a tank of piranhas—the first exploratory bite would come fast, desperate, and then? Frenzy.

The desperate ones would strike first, with poorly drafted lawsuits and dramatic interviews (sweat dripping down their foreheads, hands trembling with anxiety—or was it adrenaline?). The clever ones would bide their time, chewing over the details, waiting for the dust to settle before delivering the killing blow—that smug "I knew it all along" smile as they adjusted their ties.

And the opportunists? Oh, they’d linger on the sidelines, pretending neutrality with an air of "I don’t want to get involved" until the exact moment they opened their mouths... and took a bite.

The group was left with the sensation of being doused in cold water—the excitement leaking out like air from a punctured balloon. The expectation of watching it all unfold together, of laughing at Luthor’s TV meltdowns, of exchanging looks that screamed "holy shit, we actually pulled this off," was what had kept their blood pumping. Now? All that remained was uncomfortable silence, each of them retreating to their corners, glued to screens, biting their nails as the news trickled in like a leaky faucet.

Tim felt a lump in his throat. Not for Luthor—that son of a bitch deserved every second of the horror show coming his way—but for letting the others down. They’d wanted popcorn, laughter, and the adrenaline of watching the house of cards collapse together. And all he could offer was a "watch from home, guys, kisses."

Now, alone on the living room couch, he sank his fingers into a cup of black tea with red berries—too sweet, almost cloying, exactly how he loved it. The hot liquid burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. On the TV, a prosecutor in a suit that cost more than the monthly rent of the journalists interviewing him was delivering a speech with that rehearsed "savior of the nation" smile. The deep voice, the dramatic pauses, the slightly furrowed brow to feign concern... So fake it made him want to throw the cup at the screen.

"LexCorp is under investigation for unregulated radioactive energy use in surveillance drones..."

Tim rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw his own brain. Of course. The guy had no idea about half the crap Luthor had pulled, but there he was, posing as a hero—as if he hadn’t spent the last few years swallowing frogs in exchange for campaign donations.

The smile came before he realized it, hidden behind the cup—that feline grin of someone watching a rat struggle in its final moments. On screen, the prosecutor was trying to play the tough guy, but his eyes ruined the act: that gleam of "holy shit, finally my name in headlines" practically neon on his face. You could see the Herculean effort to not drop a "justice always prevails" with that Marvel movie trailer voice nobody could stand anymore.

Pathetic.

And, let’s be honest, deliciously predictable.

"Looks like a golden retriever trying not to wag its tail after hearing 'wanna go for a walk?'" Tim thought, swallowing a smile more bitter than the tea. The best part? The prosecutor was talking as if he’d single-handedly uncovered the crime of the century, when in reality, he’d just been handed a complete dossier—wrapped in a pretty little bow.

Bruce walked in, still carrying his suit jacket over his arm. The smell of the outside world invaded the room—exhaust fumes, the urban concrete’s midday heat, and that faint trace of expensive cologne he only wore for important meetings. His eyes landed first on the TV, where the prosecutor was now gesturing like a preacher at a revival, and then on Tim.

And then... he smiled.

 "You did good, Tim."

Bruce’s voice was firm but carried a warmth few would recognize—that tone reserved only for his own.

Tim didn’t even need to turn. He knew that tone like he knew his own reflection—steady on the outside, warm on the inside, like fresh coffee in a porcelain cup. Bruce was definitely smiling. In that characteristic way: so subtle you’d only notice by the micro-twitch at the left corner of his lips, as if the rest of his face refused to admit any weakness.

 "I know."

The reply came naturally, without hesitation. It wasn’t arrogance, nor triumph rubbed in anyone’s face. It was just the raw truth, as evident as the smell of ozone before a storm. He’d calculated every move, predicted every reaction—from the vultures’ frenzy to the exact moment Luthor would start sweating bullets.

But on the chessboard they’d set up, something unexpected had emerged. Something even Bruce couldn’t have anticipated.

Unity.

The same people who, weeks earlier, had traded barbs like kids fighting over candy, who’d sabotaged each other with passive-aggressive jokes and cutting glances, now stood side by side. All with the same purpose, the same determination. Even the most stubborn—the ones who’d rather swallow glass shards than admit they needed help—had swallowed their pride. At least temporarily. To help their brother in his revenge against Luthor.

Bruce stepped closer, and Tim sensed it before hearing it—the faint scent of men’s soap, the near-whisper of leather soles on carpet, the air rearranging itself around him like water closing over a stone’s absence. Then, the touch. Firm. Heavy. Warm. Landing on his shoulder like a tactile "I’m here" that needed no words.

Tim still wasn’t entirely used to this Bruce—the Bruce who verbalized, who let words carry the weight of his feelings, who no longer hid behind walls of silence and half-answers. It was strange. But good. The kind that made the corners of his lips curve involuntarily, as if his facial muscles had developed autonomous memory, reacting before his brain could process.

 "I know that, Bruce."

His voice came out softer than intended, his eyes still fixed on the screen where the LexCorp scandal unfolded in real time—pulsing headlines, shaky footage of hysterical reporters, that meticulous chaos only a media shipwreck could create. The couch sighed as Bruce anchored himself beside him, his body heat radiating through the space that had once been just air.

Bruce leaned forward, his movement as calculated as everything he did. The remote slid into his hand like a natural extension, and the TV’s volume dropped to a whisper—leaving only the silent spectacle of an empire collapsing. On screen, Luthor in perfect close-up, the magnate’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering between fury and desperate calculation.

And then, in the heavy silence that settled:

 "Who would’ve thought we’d need the Kents to get you to sleep properly?"

Tim choked on his tea.

 "Hold on a second—" he shot back, raising an accusatory finger like a lawyer in court, the cup trembling in his other hand. "Everyone knows full well my problem isn’t sleeping, it’s staying awake. Those are two different things, you hypocrite."

Bruce didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head, that near-smile still there—now tinged with something between experience and nostalgia, as if watching an old mistake in slow motion.

 "I know that. I used to say the same words while running on three, four hours of sleep." His fingers drummed on his knee, creating a thoughtful rhythm, before continuing: "Six hours now. And I’m better. As Batman. As Bruce."

The statement landed between them like a brick on frozen lake—the impact silent but capable of cracking surfaces.

Tim turned his head slowly, studying his father’s profile: the jawline still firm but less tense; the dark circles—yes, lighter now; the posture no longer carrying that armor-like rigidity. As if someone had finally loosened the invisible straitjacket that kept him locked inside himself. Marriage to Clark had helped. A lot.

And the worst part? It was true.

Tim felt it in his bones. The plans against Luthor had unfolded with surgical precision, the connections between facts crystal clear—as if he’d once been assembling a puzzle blindfolded and now operated in full light. Even his reflexes had gained new sharpness, his movements flowing with a precision his body hadn’t known before, like he’d finally accessed the uncensored version of himself, freed from the constant fog of exhaustion.

It was like betraying the first unwritten commandment engraved in his chest since day one as Robin: "The work doesn’t wait. Gotham doesn’t sleep. Neither should you."

 "My mind works better when I sleep," the admission came raw, stripped of pretense, as he met Bruce’s gaze with a rare frankness that discarded masks. "I’ll try to stick to the routine."

A silence. Brief but loaded.

 "Don’t worry. The mission won’t suffer."

The word hung in the air like an ancient specter—heavy, rooted, all too familiar. Bruce felt it lodge in his chest, that familiar ache.

How many times had he planted that poison in their minds?

How many nights had he made them believe the cause was greater than broken bones, exhausted minds, lives briefly interrupted?

It was a lie.

His lie.

His fingers clenched involuntarily on his knee, the knuckles whitening under silent pressure. How many times had he stood on the edge of tearing his own code apart, abandoning the morality he preached, dragging himself to the abyss—and beyond—just to keep them safe?

How many nights, in the echoing solitude of the Batcave, had he faced the void and confronted the question his lips never dared form:

What would you do if one of them decided not to come back?

This time, for good.

The Joker knew.

He’d always known.

That’s why he hunted Robins with that collector’s frenzy—because at the rotten core of his psyche, the clown understood what Bruce would never confess:

If he lost Dick...

If he lost Cass...

If he lost Damian...

If he lost Tim...

If he lost Jason—again—

There wouldn’t be an abyss deep enough.

No moral barrier left unbroken.

No innocent soul left standing in his path.

Gotham would burn.

Justice would dissolve.

The Batman would die.

And from the blood and ashes,

only one thing would rise:

The monster Bruce had always feared becoming. Worse than the Joker or Darkseid. The living embodiment of loss and vengeance.

On screen, the media circus of Luthor’s downfall continued—reporters in a frenzy, spotlights cutting the air like knives, a titan’s empire crumbling in real time. But Bruce’s eyes saw other ghosts:

Jason. Dark blood staining the cold concrete of the warehouse, flames illuminating his body.

Tim, hands trembling after 72 hours without sleep, too exhausted to hide it.

Dick. Turning his back for years because Bruce had chosen to put the soldier on the pedestal instead of the son.

Damian. Small shoulders bowed under the weight of a legacy no child should bear.

How many times had his heart chosen them, not the Crusade?

Always.

But the words never came. He’d never let them see the purest truth: that Batman was just armor, a necessary myth... but it was they, his children, who kept his feet planted when the wind blew too hard.

 "The mission isn’t you, Tim," Bruce’s voice slipped out like a nighttime secret, softer than any tone Tim had ever heard him use. "It exists to protect people."

A pause. The sound of a sigh being tamed.

 "But mostly... it protects you."

The silence that followed had weight, texture—as if the air in the room had solidified. Bruce took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly, as if every syllable spoken had pried loose a plate from the armor he’d welded onto his skin for decades.

 "Tim..." He started again, his voice rougher now, his dark eyes carrying a vulnerability that, until recently, he’d never let show. "You and your siblings are my children. The mission... will never take your place as my priority."

A pause. A nearly imperceptible tremor in the hand resting on his knee—the only concession to the internal storm.

 "If I hadn’t been such a shitty father, you wouldn’t even have to worry about this."

The air stilled.

Tim looked—really looked—and saw there, for the first time without veils or masks, just Bruce Wayne. Not the legend. Not the myth. Just a tired man. A man who’d failed, who’d made mistakes, who kept trying even when he didn’t know how.

And then, with a sigh carrying all the exasperation and contradictory affection only a child could harbor for an impossible father, Tim rolled his eyes hard.

 "Cut it out, for the love of god, Bruce. Stop being dramatic," he punched the man’s shoulder in a friendly way, the kind that dared the universe to argue. "You weren’t a bad dad, okay? You were just... emotionally constipated, sure, but not bad."

Tim paused theatrically, his eyes rolling so hard they nearly disappeared—as if waging an epic battle against his own common sense. Then he let out a sigh from the depths of his soul, the kind that only surfaced when you could already see future regret looming on the horizon.

 "I’m going to regret this bitterly..." he growled, scanning the room’s shadowy corners as if Jason might materialize just to rub this historic confession in his face. "Congrats, Jason. You finally made me swallow this frog. Happy now, you asshole?"

Bruce swore he heard, even from a distance, the echo of triumphant laughter—so clear Jason might as well have been behind the couch, shaking a champagne bottle like a Formula 1 winner.

 "When I stalked you guys..." Tim began, his lips curling into a smile that was one-third shame, two-thirds affection, "I saw, Bruce. You were never bad with Jason. Or with Dick."

A calculated silence. A deep breath.

 "When Jason died..."

Tim felt the words stick in his throat for a heartbeat—just long enough—but he pressed on. Because someone had to say it. Because he was perhaps the only one who could.

 "You turned the pain into a fortress." Tim’s voice, smooth as silk, cut with the precision of a scalpel. "It took you months to accept me as Robin... and years to see me as your son."

Bruce felt the lump in his throat grow—the kind you couldn’t swallow or spit out, lodging between his chest and larynx like dead weight. Shame. Acidic shame that burned like bile. Shame for those dark years when he’d turned grief into exile, locking everyone out—including the boy now standing before him, still trying to save him from himself after everything.

All because, in the abyss his heart had become after losing Jason...

He’d been afraid.

The most corrosive kind. The kind that petrifies, poisons, makes you burn every bridge before the world gets a chance to break you again.

And the cruel irony?

That same fear was what nearly cost him everyone he loved.

 "When you finally accepted me..." Tim sliced through the silence with humor sharp as a Batarang, "you became the living definition of a 'helicopter parent.' And my biological parents were still alive."

Bruce stared. He knew that look—half exasperation, half affection stuck in the teeth, the same one Tim wore when delivering a truth that hurt precisely because it was irrefutable.

 "And when Jason came back from the dead and that whole circus started..." Tim sighed theatrically, raising his hands like a ringmaster introducing the next act, "it became clear in this family that the only way we know how to communicate is through punches and stabbing."

Bruce let out a sigh carrying the weight of decades of unresolved family conflicts. The truth was undeniable—the Wayne family communication manual had always favored chin punches over therapeutic hugs or, heaven forbid, just talking.

Dick and Jason? Multiple "conversations" ending in bloody noses and doors ripped off hinges.

Jason and Damian? Basically a reality show of "who can try to kill the other first before admitting they care."

Tim and Damian? Well... that incident with the Batcomputer still gave Alfred nightmares.

But then Tim continued, and there was something different in his voice—a rare vulnerability that made Bruce forget, for a moment, the long list of property damage.

 "But, aside from this... let’s say, questionable family communication methodology..." Tim paused, choosing his words with a care that contrasted with his earlier sharp humor. "Bruce, you weren’t a perfect father. But you also weren’t the disaster you think you were."

Tim’s eyes met his, steady.

 "If you were really as bad as you think, we wouldn’t have come back. Not once... Bruce."

Bruce felt that strange thing in his chest expand—a warm, uncomfortable pressure rising from his chest to his eyes. Not now, he thought, but his body seemed to have other plans.

 "We wouldn’t come back for Friday dinners," Tim continued, counting on his fingers with the precision of a detective presenting irrefutable evidence. "We wouldn’t stick around just to hang out. Dick wouldn’t call you for Blüdhaven cases, Jason wouldn’t show up out of nowhere just to steal your food..."

He paused dramatically, raising the last finger.

 "And Cass? Well... she wouldn’t hug you like you’re the only safe harbor in a sea of chaos."

The silence that followed was broken only by the stubborn ticking of the wall clock and distant footsteps upstairs—probably Damian chasing Titus.

Bruce’s eyes glistened—a wet, treacherous gleam that would normally be buried under layers of steel. He took a deep breath, his chin trembling almost imperceptibly, his facial muscles locked in a silent battle for control.

Tim continued, carefully ignoring—or masterfully pretending not to notice—that crack in Bruce’s emotional armor.

Tim raised a didactic finger, like a teacher explaining the obvious to a particularly stubborn student:

 "You’re trying to be better. A better father," he declared, with the casualness of someone commenting on the rain outside. "And no one here’s complaining about that."

He sighed so dramatically it would’ve made Dick proud.

 "You’ll still be overprotective. You’ll still stuff us full of trackers, still hide bugs everywhere..."

Tim paused strategically, raising his finger like a prosecutor presenting the smoking gun:

 "...including our bedrooms."

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by his own laugh—a rough, rare sound that echoed through the room.

 "We do complain," Tim admitted, his eyes sparkling with amused mischief, "but we give as good as we get, trust me."

Bruce raised an eyebrow as Tim lifted his hands in surrender, a mischievous grin on his face.

 "Hypocrisy is the foundation of this family," Tim declared with the solemnity of someone announcing a cosmic law. "Congrats, Bruce. You molded us in your image."

It was the purest truth—every member of that dysfunctional clan had perfected their own art in the peculiar dance of surveillance and counter-surveillance that defined the Waynes.

Dick approached the game with disarming charm. He knew every tracker Bruce hid in his gear—from the chip in his escrima sticks to the tiny locator sewn into his jacket lining.

And occasionally, with the patience of a saint and the humor of a clown, he’d leave some in deliberately obvious places:

• In the Batcave fridge, stuck to a yogurt cup  
• Taped to Damian’s cat’s tail  
• Inside Alfred’s favorite coffee mug  

Just to see how long it took Bruce to notice. (The current record stood at an impressive 7.3 minutes.)

Jason? Jason was a category of his own. While Dick played with the system, Jason waged war. His favorite hobby was planting false leads across Gotham—just to make Bruce run in circles. (And if those leads "accidentally" led to his favorite pizzeria or bookstore... well, that was just a convenient bonus.)

Tim, of course, had his own techno-affectionate love language: hacking the Batcave systems weekly—not as betrayal, but as a stress test. (And, between us, to keep the old man’s defenses sharp. Someone had to maintain family standards.)

Damian? The boy had elevated surveillance to an art form. The last sweep revealed 47 devices in the east wing alone—including a motion sensor hidden in the teddy bear Dick gave him for his 11th birthday. ("Preventative measure. Todd has tampered with gifts before," he’d defended, with furrowed brows and unshakable conviction.)

It was a choreography of mutual paranoia that could be mistaken for family care—or family care disguised as paranoia. Bruce was never quite sure. What mattered was that it worked for them.

Bruce’s rough laughter still echoed when Tim, with the grin of someone who’d found their opponent’s weak spot, delivered the final blow:

 "Oh, and I’d bet my allowance Barbara’s already archiving this recording in her 'emotional blackmail' dossier."

Bruce tilted his head, the corner of his lips tracing an arc of professional complicity.

 "Always good to have extra contingency plans in this house," he admitted, in a tone that said it all: he had backups of Oracle’s backups, and probably a few viruses coded specifically for her systems.

His rough laugh echoed through the room as he shook his head. There was no denying it—and he, better than anyone, knew the value of that controlled madness.

How many times had that obsessive paranoia—the same one the family loved mocking in their secret BatChat groups—saved lives?

The Aurora Protocol triggered at 3:27 AM when Dick vanished in Blüdhaven.

The Cerberus Code activated during Tim’s kidnapping.

The nano-encrypted tracker sewn into Jason’s jacket lining.

Tim shook his head, that know-it-all grin plastered on his face as he raised his professorial finger:

 "The family’s official inside joke," he announced with the solemnity of someone revealing an arcane mystery, "The more contingency protocols you have..." A dramatic pause. "...the more we know you care."

This time, Bruce didn’t stop the smile that escaped him. It was the rawest truth. His countless secret protocols—one for each family member—were nothing less than a private encyclopedia of dysfunctional love.

And the others? Each cultivated their own Wayne survival manual—meticulously updated like a family heirloom:

Dick treated his "Guide to Neutralizing Batman" with the devotion of a medieval archivist. Updated every Thursday, 2:00–2:30 PM (during his cinnamon coffee ritual), the document included gems like:

✓ Page 3: Anatomical diagrams of the suit’s weak points (including marginal note: *"Tested 03/12—shoulder armor reinforced"*)  

✓ Page 7: Psychological weapons (*"Mention Jason’s birthday (04/23)—success rate: 97%. Use sparingly"*)  

Jason had elevated the art of provoking Bruce to near-poetic levels. His manuals were less survival guides and more masterpieces of controlled chaos—each page breathing the Red Hood’s spirit with a special touch of annoying little brother.

"De-Brucing in 10 Easy Steps"

*Step 7: One bottle of 18-year-old Scotch + childhood photo album of all members*  

*Step 9: Ask "Is Dick really your favorite?" (success rate: 100%, side effect: 30-minute lecture)*  

"How to Make the Demon Brat Faint in 5 Seconds"

100% confirmed method: Sing Damian’s Persian lullaby from his League days—puts him to sleep in any situation.

"Family Dinner Survival Guide (Special Annual Edition)"

*Chapter 4: Stealing food from Bruce’s plate (distraction-with-one-hand + quick-fork-in-the-other technique)*  

*Appendix B: How to Survive Alfred’s Disappointed Look (impossible, but here are 5 tips to delay the inevitable)*  

Damian? The Wayne heir treated his "Family Elimination List" with the solemnity of a general preparing war strategies. Updated every Wednesday at 9:00 PM (post-sword training), the document included:

[Dynamic Priority Table]

Weekly ranking as of 05/15

Todd (↑2 positions)  

Drake (↓1)  

Grayson (stable)  

[Vulnerability Dossier]

Todd, J. (Hafez)  

"Weakness: Hamlet debates (average resistance: 3m42s, record 09/12)"

Weakness 2: Explicitly discuss his post-League suffering in detail.

(*If ineffective, mention Bruce’s reaction to his death + resulting insomnia*)  

Drake, T.  

"Exploit: Robin-era fashion trauma"

"Optimal strategy: Display photos during WE meetings (success rate: 92%)"

Even the Kents—those untouchable icons of integrity—had been assimilated into Wayne culture, kryptonian immunity notwithstanding. It was less an infection and more symbiosis: trading fevers for dossiers, sneezes for home surveillance systems.

Kon-El protested vehemently ("This is clinically insane, Tim"), but the drawer under his bed in Smallville housed:

✧ Luthor Dossier (Special Edition)  

4 neutralization plans (including one exploiting his baldness complex)  

LexCorp blueprints with escape routes marked in red  

✧ Mind Control Survival Guide  

(Handwritten note: "Case #3—that Brainiac incident. DO NOT use green Kryptonite as solution again")*  

✧ "Tim Protocol" (Code: Red Robin)  

(Color-coded: Blue = normal concern / Red = "Call Batman IMMEDIATELY")  

Clark Kent, the League’s last paladin, had resisted valiantly—until the two got engaged.

His secret files now included:

✧ League Contingencies  

✧ "Wayne Variables: Spouse Manual" (Special Edition)  

4 approved methods to neutralize Bruce (*"Method 3: Kiss (success rate: 100%)"*)  

Jon Kent, the last bastion of purity in that family circle, had kept his innocence intact... until Damian decided to "professionally mentor" him. When he discovered the boy’s anti-Damian plan (a humble page reading:  

1. Call your dad or Bruce  
2. Bring an abandoned baby animal needing care  

...the Wayne heir was deeply insulted.

 "This is an affront to centuries of strategic tradition!" he roared, dragging Jon into a 6-hour, 17-minute tactical marathon (with breaks only for Martha’s cookies).

The result? A 15-page treatise including:

✓ 3D diagrams of uniform weak points  

✓ Emotional vulnerability chart (*"Mention first meeting with Gotham cat—87% efficacy"*)  

✓ Color-coded priority system (Red: "Situations requiring kryptonite")  

Damian examined the work with rare pride.

 "Acceptable. Now, the counter offensive section needs..."

Jon was already sighing as his friend pulled out three more notebooks.

And the family’s worst-kept secret?

Bruce knew every file, every plan, every mutual destruction script hidden:

In secret compartments under mattresses  

In encrypted folders with passwords like "BatmanWontReadThis42"  

Even in Jason’s safe (combination: "FuckBatman123," changed biweekly)  

He felt pride.

Not just because they’d learned his survival lessons.

Not just because they’d mastered his tactics, his weaknesses, his flaws.

The message behind all the paranoia, all the protocols, every hidden tracker and contingency plan:

"You know me well enough to destroy me...

...and yet, here you are. Voluntarily. On purpose."

Bruce held Tim’s gaze, rare and unfiltered, and for the first time in years, didn’t hide behind the cape, the mask, or the silence.

 "Thank you, Tim," he said, his voice as soft as moonlight over Gotham. "I think I needed to hear that."

The clock’s ticking echoed three times in the room, marking time until the next imminent emotional disaster. Bruce’s eyes fixed on the middle distance, as if seeing ghosts between the shelves—the smell of gunpowder in the alley, the sound of a rope snapping, the silence of an empty Robin suit.

When he spoke again, his voice had that gravity that preceded either great wisdom... or a terrible joke.

 "You know why I’m so strict about the no-killing rule?"

Tim frowned. Where the hell is he going with this? Batman philosophy was never a good sign—and when Bruce started like this, you either walked away enlightened or traumatized.

 "Because... it’s a point of no return?" Tim ventured, reciting Batman’s lesson number one. "Because all life has value? Because—"

Bruce cut him off with a smile that didn’t match the moment’s gravity at all.

 "You know Anakin Skywalker, from Star Wars?"

Tim choked on air.

 "WHAT?!"

The scene was surreal enough to earn a place of honor in the Wayne Family Book of Absurdities: Batman, the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader, quoting Star Wars in a morality discussion.

 "I watched the original trilogy. And the animated series," Bruce continued, about to lecture on a certain Jedi Knight’s fall. "And read the books. Don’t look so shocked."

Tim was paralyzed.

His genius brain—capable of cracking complex codes and combat strategies in nanoseconds—just blue-screened.

His lips moved silently, forming words that never emerged, like a fish out of water in the Wayne insanity aquarium. When his voice finally returned, it came out in a desperate sigh:

 "You... watched Star Wars?"

The question echoed in the room like a scream in vacuum. Bruce Wayne. Batman. Gotham’s Dark Prince. Had watched Star Wars. Read the books.

The universe was clearly off its axis.

Bruce, as if confirming a trivial Wayne Enterprises report, simply nodded.

Tim was torn between laughing until he passed out or having an existential crisis.

Bruce Wayne—the man who’d turned trauma into art and gothic drama into a lifestyle—had just compared his unshakable moral code to Anakin Skywalker’s fall.

 "Are you seriously telling me you just compared your moral philosophy to George Lucas’s damn Hero’s Journey?" Tim’s voice oscillated between horror and ecstasy, as if witnessing a crime against nerd culture.

Bruce didn’t smile—but something in the corner of his eyes, a fleeting glint, betrayed his satisfaction at watching Tim’s mind spin like R2-D2.

 "I’m closer to him than you might think." The confession came in a whisper, almost lost in the Luthor news coverage... until Tim, with jerky movements, muted the TV with an angry click.

Bruce’s fingers clenched involuntarily on the couch fabric.

 "How many times I’ve almost crossed to the dark side if someone hurt you..."

The phrase hung in the air between them, heavy as a familiar ghost—echoing every time Bruce:

Almost crushed the Joker’s windpipe (three times, documented in Batcave files)  

Almost broke his own rule finding Jason bloodied on a warehouse floor  

Almost threw Ra’s al Ghul off Wayne Tower after watching Damian fall with a back wound.  

 "Our morality is tied to the people we protect, more than you realize," Bruce finished, his eyes fixed on a distant point—perhaps a past where he’d almost lost himself.

Tim’s eyes—normally strategy scanners, calculating probabilities in real time—were now locked like titanium forged in a star’s core. It was the look of someone who’d already mapped every scenario and accepted each consequence without hesitation.

 "If someone killed Kon," Tim declared, each word sharp as a blade, "I’d go to the end of the universe to bring him back."

A pause. The air in the room crackled.

 "Even if I had to clone him again."

Bruce didn’t move, but his eyes darkened like Gotham during a blackout—he recognized that tone. It was the same one resonating in his own mind whenever his children were in danger.

Tim let the next threat hang like napalm smoke before releasing it:

 "And if someone killed Clark?"

Bruce didn’t need to think. His hands clenched into fists so tight the old knuckle scars whitened under pressure.

 "You’d hunt the bastard down," Tim answered for him, with the certainty of someone who’d seen this future, "and beat him until every bone in his body broke."

 "Leave him in a coma for life."

Bruce didn’t deny. Couldn’t.

The confession weighed like gunpowder after a shot. He felt the truth like a knife between ribs—if any of them fell, if he fell, he knew the others would move heaven and earth. Not for revenge. Not for justice.

But for a love so brutally unconditional it would make gods recoil. A love capable of:

Reducing cities to ashes  

Shattering empires bare-handed  

Rewriting the universe just to bring them back.  

 "That’s why the rule exists," Bruce’s voice cut like an ice breath, carrying centuries of scars in three words. "Because once you start justifying... you never stop."

Tim studied the mentor’s face with codebreaker precision—seeing past the Batman mask, past the myth. He saw the cracks in the steel, the scars even the Dark Knight couldn’t hide.

 "But you’ve justified," Tim countered, smooth as a scalpel, "Multiple times. For us."

The silence that followed was more eloquent than any reply. Bruce didn’t need photographic memory to recall:

✓ Jason’s smile when he broke that child trafficker’s jaw  

✓ The "didn’t see anything" after Cass left a hitman in a permanent coma (the same one who’d vowed to torture Stephanie)  

✓ The encrypted file with all League-neutralization plans—including those crossing his code’s red line  

✓ The blood on Damian’s hands he’d personally washed after the League’s attack to eliminate Jason (or "Hafez")  

Tim patted Bruce’s back, the gesture absurdly casual against their conversation’s weight.

 "Let’s change the subject," he proposed, with that smile of someone about to drop an emotional time bomb. "You’re getting better. You’re even being an... acceptable father to Damian."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but Tim gave no quarter, merciless:

 "So take advantage and teach our little demon to be human before he leaves for college and you have another empty nest crisis." A teasing look. "Then, instead of adopting another kid, how about focusing on your future granddaughter?"

Bruce rubbed his face, as if trying to erase reality with a motion—and failing miserably.

 "I really wasn’t prepared for Jason to be the first to give me a grandchild," he admitted, his voice a mix of pride and resigned despair.

Tim, pitiless, continued the psychological torture:

 "Given the pace Jason and Roy are going..." A calculated pause, then a smile that would make Dick proud. "...I bet in a year they’ll be living together, planning the wedding."

 "Congrats, Bruce," Tim fake-celebrated, raising his hands, "Your problem child will be the first to give you a granddaughter and a son-in-law." A dramatic pause. "(If Roy survives the Meet-the-Family Dinner, of course.)"

Bruce made a sound between a groan and a sigh. Gotham wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready.

Bruce closed his eyes, imagining the scenario:

▸ Jason Todd—ex-Robin, Red Hood, future fiancé  

▸ Roy Harper—Arsenal, ex-addict, ex-Titan, father of his granddaughter and future son-in-law  

▸ Oliver Queen—Green Arrow... (God help them all.)  

The universe had clearly decided Bruce Wayne hadn’t suffered enough.

 "And as Lian’s future official uncle..." Tim declared, with the seriousness of war strategizing, "...I refuse to let Green Arrow be the favorite grandpa." A challenging look. "No way Oliver Queen out-grandfathers Superman and Batman."

Bruce rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the corner of his mouth twitching—until reality hit like a Bane punch, bringing an epic headache.

 "It’ll be a massacre," he admitted, his voice already shifting into Public Image Crisis Mode™, "but we need to talk about handling the press." A meaningful look at Tim. "They’ll catch one of you three eventually."

Tim and Bruce exchanged a look of resigned complicity—the kind only shared by people who know disaster is inevitable.

 "You and Kon are easy," Bruce declared, gesturing as if explaining the obvious to a child. "Since Clark and I were friends for years before marrying, he introduced his 'cousin.' You became friends, then started dating."

Bruce frowned, his facial muscles already bracing for the storm.

 "But your brothers..."

Tim rubbed his eyes, already visualizing the pandemonium:

 "Any of Dick’s relationships make headlines, but now? After years as 'Gotham/Blüdhaven’s most eligible bachelor,' he’s in a serious relationship with Wally?" A deep sigh. "The circus is already set up."

Bruce closed his eyes for a long second—as if mentally calculating how many press contacts he’d need to threaten to contain the gossip tsunami. When he opened them, he even surprised Tim by perfectly mimicking tabloids’ melodramatic tone:

 "WAYNE HEIR REKINDLES FORBIDDEN ROMANCE WITH CHILDHOOD FRIEND," he intoned, with the exact cadence of a gossip show host, "SOURCES REVEAL: 'THEY’VE ALWAYS HAD CHEMISTRY!'"

Tim grinned with mischief that would make the Joker blush, completing the fake headline:

 "DICK GRAYSON AND WALLY WEST: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS OR SECRET LOVERS?" He fake-read, with exaggerated reality-show flair. "CLOSE SOURCES SAY: 'THEY’VE ALWAYS SHARED KNOWING LOOKS!'"

Bruce sighed deeply, imagining:

▸ The Photos: Those blurry teen pics of Dick and Wally just hugging, now reinterpreted as "smoking gun evidence" of a secret romance.  

▸ The Speculation: "How many years have they been hiding this?" (Despite only dating for two.)  

▸ The Speculative Timeline: "Experts analyze every public interaction since 20XX!"  

Bruce took a deep breath, adopting the methodical tone of someone orchestrating a PR coup:

 "Let’s break it down. Soft launch. Feed the press controlled crumbs."

Tim nodded, eyes alight with media-manipulation frenzy:

 "We build the perfect narrative: 'Friends to lovers.' Everyone loves a slow burn." He counted off, each point a media chess move:

1. "Accidental" touches at public events (brushing hands, lingering looks)  
2. "Leaked" photos of them cozying up  
3. "Close sources" dropping hints: "They’ve always been special to each other..."  
4. Official statement only when the public’s already rooting for them  

Seeing Dick and Wally’s situation was under control.

Bruce crossed his arms, the calculating CEO-of-Wayne-Enterprises look taking over.

 "Now, the real problem: Jason and Roy."

Tim sat straighter, recognizing the tone shift.

 "The press already sees them as Gotham and Star City’s favorite problem children," Bruce continued, eyes analyzing invisible variables. "We need to reconcile two explosive narratives:

✓ Jason Todd-Wayne:  

The "Prince of Gotham" back from the dead  

Owner of the city’s most exclusive clubs  

Traumatized heir who turned pain into a nighttime empire  

Outdoing Penguin and expanding nationwide  

✓ Roy Harper:  

"Former archery prodigy who overcame addiction and scandals"  

"Exemplary single dad"  

"Redeemed by fatherhood."  

Tim whistled low, his eyes scanning financial projections like a human Batcomputer:

 "This isn’t a romance, Bruce. It’s a corporate merger disguised as a fairy tale." His fingers drummed on the couch leather, speeding up as the analysis progressed. "The market will go haywire before the tabloids do: wild stock swings for Queen-Wayne, speculation on cross-trust funds, inheritance battles..." A dramatic pause. "—And, of course, hostile takeover rumors. Oliver will alternate between aneurysms and heart attacks."

Bruce closed his eyes, imagining the mainstream media’s take, and didn’t like it one bit.

 "They’ll reopen Roy’s addiction case," Tim cut in, his voice sharp with contained frustration. His fingers tightened on the couch as if strangling an invisible reporter. "We’ll need to divert attention."

Bruce took a deep breath, the weight of his words hanging like Gotham’s mist.

 "I know, Tim," he whispered, so quietly it almost vanished under the clock’s ticking. "It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that."

Tim frowned, eyes locked on his mentor, demanding a wordless answer. The silence between them was broken only by the city’s distant hum—and Bruce’s slow exhale, as if preparing to unearth a ghost.

 "Before Jason died..." He paused, eyes fixed on a distant point. "He was one of Roy’s recovery pillars. So was Canary. Roy had been clean a year by that day."

One year clean. Roy had a full year of victory... before the world collapsed.

 "But after..." Bruce continued, his voice rougher. "Not wanting to disappoint Jason, he relapsed into alcohol."

The silence swallowed the room like Gotham’s fog, heavy and oppressive. Tim pictured Roy in those dark days—stumbling between relapses, falling deeper because the one person who’d never given up on him wasn’t there to reach out.

Bruce spoke as if carrying Gotham on his shoulders, his eyes lost between past and guilt:

 "I wanted to help Roy more back then... but I was trapped in my own grief." His hands, usually so steady, clenched slightly. "Using violence to drown the pain."

Tim didn’t need photographic memory to recall the headlines:

✓ "Bruce Wayne spotted with new model after messy breakup!" (Photos: him drunk at a club.)  

✓ "Pain escape? Wayne vanishes for weeks after adopted son’s death. Rumors claim Arkham stay."  

All calculated headlines, strategically planted as smokescreens to hide the truth—a twice-orphaned boy, slowly dying in the shadows while the world watched Bruce’s media circus.

 "I forged two public scandals back then just to distract the press from his state," Bruce confessed, his voice so low it almost vanished under the manor’s old wood creaks.

But then...

Bruce continued, and now there was a different tone in his voice—something dangerously close to fury, that quiet, murderous rage few had survived witnessing:

 "And I was one of the first to beat Oliver when I found out he’d abandoned Roy when he needed him most."

Tim froze. That wasn’t in the files.

 "Don’t worry," Bruce finished, his gaze turning into something between a promise and a curse. "The press won’t get to hurt Roy or Jason again."

Tim swiped his tablet screen, revealing one of Jason’s social media posts: a day at the amusement park with Roy and, of course, Dick the meddler, who’d insisted on joining his future niece.

The scene was perfect.

Jason taking a selfie with one of those rare genuine smiles—the kind that only appeared when no one was looking (or when Lian did something cute). He held the girl in his lap, enthusiastically hugging a Batman plushie.

Roy, beside him, holding a pink cotton candy bigger than his head, with an expression so relaxed he seemed to have finally found his place in the universe.

Dick making faces at the camera—the professional meddling uncle who, unintentionally, always stole the scene with his chaotic charm.

 "The public loves an underdog story," Tim said, swiping with theatrical flair. "And this photo? Pure magic. Natural, relaxed... Shows them as the functional family no one thought possible."

Bruce frowned, already conceding ground:

 "It’s risky. If they dig too deep..."

 "Ah, but that’s the beauty. They will dig. And when they find Roy’s past? Thaddiction, the mistakes?" A gleam in his eyes, like revealing the perfect plot twist: "It’ll only reinforce the narrative. 'Look how they overcame their personal hells together.'"

Tim swiped rapidly through his tablet, eyes scanning social media with hacker-like precision.

 "Bruce. There’s a ship. And it’s not small—over 4k fics of them as 'civilians' on AO3 alone." He turned the screen, showing tags like "Trauma," "Found Family," and "Roy Harper Needs a Hug (Jason Todd Provides)." "The public’s already bought the narrative: two survivors who found each other and are healing together... with a cute daughter as bonus." A smirk. "Even the #DadRoyAndDadJason tag went viral on Tumblr."

Bruce closed his eyes for a second, as if mentally tallying the headaches this operation would cause. When he opened them, there was amused resignation in his gaze—the kind of a man who’d accepted the universe always wins.

 "The public already sees them as two friends who survived trauma," Tim continued, scrolling to show passionate fan analyses. "Addiction, terrorist attack, redemption... and now, reunion, healing, and parenthood." He raised his hands, triumphant: "It’s the perfect narrative."

Bruce looked at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens—or perhaps the ghosts of all past Robins haunting him—for patience.

 "It’ll be work," he murmured, but there was already acceptance in his voice, as if knowing chaos was inevitable.

Tim smiled, that half-smile that always appeared when he knew he was winning.

 "But... when has anything in this family been easy?"

Bruce sighed, carrying the weight of years of family crises, public scandals, and sleepless nights.

 "You’re right," he admitted, his voice lighter now, almost amused. "If it were easy, it wouldn’t be us."