Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 31st.

Wayne Manor. Friday night.

Voices are raised, loyalties are lost, threats are made, and half-carved pumpkins roll to the side as the Bats battle the Supers to the death. To the complete and utter death. In the most high-stakes game Gotham has ever seen: Mario Kart.

“You fools call yourselves detectives,” Clark says, his voice deceptively calm even as his eyes flash a faint red. “And yet, not one, not one of you, saw that blue shell coming.”

“You’re using your x-ray vision to look at the screen,” Bruce replies flatly, fingers mashing the controller with a pummelling better suited to the watery depths of Crime Alley.

“I’d be looking through the screen then! What use would that be??” Clark starts to refute, flabbergasted as he turns to look Bruce’s way.

“Cheating.” Damian hums in agreement with his father, eyes glued to the screen. “If I had heat vision you’d be toast. All of you.”

“Language,” Bruce mutters automatically, just as Jason shoots up from the sofa with the yell of a man betrayed.

“Who threw the fuckin' banana!?”

“That would be me,” Dick says cheerfully, upside down on the sofa, his legs to the side from where they’d been draped over Jason’s lap. “It’s called strategic manoeuvring, Little Wing. Take notes.”

Jason angrily climbs back onto the sofa, jostling everyone else in one wacky reenactment of the Mexican wave, his eyes on the screen even as he readjusts Dick’s legs back to their original place. “Oh, I’m takin' notes, Dickface. I’m takin' notes alright.”

Tim, squished somewhere to their left, sighs with the exasperation of a long-suffering man. “Can everyone shut up? I’m negotiating a truce with Kon.”

“You’re what-” Bruce starts, voice raised, when-

“Oh yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!!” Kon’s voice explodes from the other side of Tim. “Eat my dust, Bird Boy!”

Tim’s composure crumbles, his face whirling away from the screen. “What the fuck!? We had an agreement!”

“Language.” Bruce and Clark chime in as one.

“Yeah, well,” Kon grins with zero remorse. “I might have lied. My bad.”

From the sidelines, safe from the chaos, Kara takes a sip of her drink, her mouth in a faint curve as she murmurs, “You can practically smell the testosterone.”

Barbara snorts, her nose wrinkling in response. “You mean the ego and overpriced cologne?”

Kara laughs, their shoulders bumping as they clink their drinks in solidarity.

The screen flashes.

Final Lap

The room stops breathing.

Jon’s kart zooms ahead, blue shell in tow. Clark beams with pride, his chest puffed as if Jon has singlehandledly secured the family’s legacy. Which he probably has.

Krypto barks with excitement, his tail a whirling windmill that sweeps a lamp and several framed pictures to the floor. Somewhere, in the shadows of the manor, Alfred curses.

Bruce’s mouth tightens, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “If we lose-”

“When.” Clark corrects, still beaming with pride. “When you lose.”

“-I’m blaming all of you.”

Dick grins, still upside down - his dopey face, messy hair and soft blue eyes, sunshine incarnate. “C’mon B, don’t be all sad and dramatic. We’ve got this! Go Bats!”

Three seconds later, another banana and several horrible collisions, the bats’ karts spin out in synchronised chaos, their drivers brought to their knees with howls of defeat.

Ahead, the Supers cross the finish line in glowing, glorious victory. Kon and Jon high-five. Clark smiles so hard, Bruce is half-tempted to bring out the kryptonite.

The silence that follows has depth. Has history. Has a whole fucking family and six grandkids.

Then Jon, small and smug, a perfect mirror-copy of Beaming Blue, says, “That means we get to pick the costumes, right?”

Jason tosses his controller into a corner of the room, dislodging Dick as he stands. “That’s it. I’m takin' Mario out.”

Chapter Text

The Supers are way, way too smug for three men wearing matching flannel pyjamas with cartoon farm animals on them. They sit in a row, united in their victory and blinding white smiles, the sofa screaming for help beneath their collective weight. For one, very fleeting moment, Bruce hopes they all go crashing down, through all four floors, straight into the Batcave.

“Gentlemen,” Clark begins, voice all bright as if he hasn’t just annihilated the world’s most volatile family in a video game. Four pairs of eyes glare at him. “A deal’s a deal.”

Jason sinks down onto one arm of the sofa, elbowing Dick as he does. “You mean to tell me we just lost to three fuckin’ teletubbies who eat cornflakes for fun?”

“I eat cornflakes for fun,” Dick points out, one eyebrow raised, “and yet you don’t-”

“Well you’re not a fuckin’ teletubby are you?”

“You,” Kon announces, his back straight and voice quivering with pride, “lost to hope. With a capital S.”

“Moron can’t even fuckin’ spell-”

“Hush,” Dick places a hand over Jason’s thigh, “it’s a Kryptonian thing-”

“I know it’s-”

“And frankly,” Kon continues, absolutely pushing it, “to better looks. And genetics.”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “You cheated. You lied. Superior genetics my ass-”

“Super is literally in the word Superio-”

“Kon, I swear to Go-”

“He said better genetics.” Jason turns to Dick, eyebrows creased, one thumb jerked back towards Bruce - who’s balanced on the other arm of the sofa. “That means we have that cranky old bat to blame.”

“Jaybird,” Dick starts patiently, his hand rubbing small circles onto Jason’s thigh, “you know that’s not how adoption actually works, right?”

“Nope.” Kara grins from the armchair, Barbara balanced to one side, their arms linked as Krypto rests his head in her lap. “They practiced. Like actually practiced. Jon made spreadsheets.”

“I did!” Jon chirps proudly, his whole face alight with joy. Clark beams so hard the sun hides its face in shame. “They’re colour-coded!”

Damian gives a single shake of his head from his slump upon the floor. “Colour-coded? Rudimentary.”

“Rudiementary, indeed,” Bruce echoes grimly, his eyes on the stack of pizza boxes before them as if he’s considering hiding themselves within them.

With a bounce that shakes the entire sofa and half of the Manor, Clark leaps up from his seat - clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Alrighty! Costume time!”

Tim’s head jerks up from where he’d been attempting to murder Kon with his eyes. “What? Now!?”

Kon takes his elbow, pulling him upwards with him. They disappear behind the sofa for a moment only to reappear with a giant cardboard box, its ominous body sharpied all over with the phrase: Losers Only XD.

Someone, most likely Kon, had practiced drawing the ‘S’ symbol all over it, tiny crossed-out bats to the side. Tim collapses before it, head bowed in shame as if he’d singlehandedly just helped Kon raze the Manor to the ground. Close enough.

Dick groans, shifting upright, his hand moving away to rub at his forehead. “Ah… here it comes.”

“No,” Bruce says weakly, abandoning the pizza boxes to step away from the sofa. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh yes,” Kara singsongs, her head brushing Barbara’s shoulder. “We went shopping months ago. Some of these were hard to find y’know.”

“That can’t possibly be a good thing,” Tim mutters from where his face is pressed to the box’s flaps.

“Move aside, pretty boy,” Kon picks up Tim and more-or-less deposits him on top of Damian who squeaks angrily.

Jon, after helping pull Damian out from under Tim, moves to assist his brother with pulling out what can only be described as… the most heinous creations known to man, out of the box.

Kara, her legs crossed, provides some useful narration - evidently very familiar with each of the increasingly-ridiculous packages.

“Mr. Potato Head,” she begins, her voice solemn as if she’s relaying a mission report to the League. “Complete with Velcro facial features, of course.”

“Of course,” Tim repeats weakly, over somewhere by Bruce’s feet.

“Ooh, get this, a two-person Slinky Dog.”

“I want to die,” Damian announces at the same time that Jason yells, “Dibs not the ass!”

“Language.” Dick says when Bruce fails to speak up.

“Captain Underpants himself!”

Clark smiles fondly at the pair of underpants Kon wiggles whilst Bruce looks positively ill.

“Pretty sure the Tibetan monks didn’t prepare him for this,” Dick whispers to Jason who chokes back laughter.

“A… giant pickle?” Kara looks to Barbara for confirmation - who nods. Ah. Mutiny within the bats then.

Damian scrunches his nose up dramatically. “Ah,” he mutters, “the stench of betrayal.”

“A giant pickle.” Kara continues, back to her bright saleswoman tone. “For whoever’s the sourest loser.”

Clark chuckles and Kon launches the pickle at Damian who promptly tosses it right back. It hits Kon in the face.

“Big Bird,” Kara continues as what appears to be an oversized yellow chicken is pulled out from the box, “for Dick. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jason nods, earning matching hums of agreement from Tim and Damian.

Dick just sighs.

“A… literal… trash can?” Again, Kara looks to Barbara, who just nods.

Bruce collapses back onto the sofa at the same time as Tim - who was struggling up onto his hands and knees - promptly falls back to the floor.

“Symbolic,” he murmurs from somewhere beside Damian who smacks him in response. “Ow!”

“Anddd… an Oompa Loompa!” Kara smacks her hands with a flourish, like some overzealous seal. “Complete with orange face paint, of course.”

Damian makes a draw for his sword which, unfortunately for him, isn’t there. His fist closes around air instead. “Drat it all to hell,” he curses.

“Language,” Kon reprimands, a smile in his voice.

“Fuck you to hell, Kryptonian Chucky-”

“Damian,” Bruce says sternly as Jason reaches across to high-five the youngest Robin.

Their palms meet with a loud slap!

“Now, remember the rules,” Clark gets up from the sofa, spinning around to face them as the game plays a relay of the Bats’ complete and utter defeat in the background. “You have to incorporate your assigned outfit into your costume. Tonight. Out on patrol.” Bruce raises a hand. “Full regalia, yes. Full commitment means you’re going out on patrol like this.” Bruce lowers his hand.

Bruce stares at him, absolutely stone-faced. “No.”

Clark only chuckles, evidently unfazed by the big, scary Batman.

Jason leans into Dick’s space, mumbling into one ear. “Is it too late to defect? I could be Red Man. No, Red Super. Super Red. And you could be… Bluewing. Or, Super Wing. Or-”

“Please,” Dick flips his hair back, “you’d hardly make it a day. They’d be braiding daisy chains and rescuing kittens from trees on day one. You’d combust, you’d positively explode, under that much optimism.”

“Hm.” Jason crosses his arms, his head tilted as he considers something that pulls one cheek into a twitching grin. “You could… I dunno… give me lessons?”

Dick blinks. Once and then again. “What, in optimism?”

Jason smirks. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Kara looks at Barbara who just shrugs with a trust me, you don’t want to touch that with a ten-foot pole expression on her face.

Tim makes a valiant effort and pulls himself upright. Up, onto his feet, he rises - striding to stand by Clark’s side. He clears his throat, adopting an expression usually reserved for negotiating a UN crisis. “Okay, so what if we split the punishment? Yeah? Or, we, us Bats, wear the costumes inside, and the Supers wear them, the most embarrassing ones, on the outside?"

Kon, now satisfied with the way he’s laid out all of the costumes alongside Jon, takes his place back on the sofa. He leans back, crossing his arms as he considers Tim. “Hm. No. That’s not how bets work, babe.”

Tim chokes slightly. “Babe?!”

Kon blinks. “Slip of the tongue.”

“Freudian,” Damian mutters darkly.

“What?” Jon whispers, wide-eyed. “Why? What’d I miss?”

Clark’s turning to Bruce, most likely to try and hold back the Caped Crusader from setting the costumes alight, when a white blur goes by.

Krypto bounds from the sofa to the coffee table, into the box and out again, his tail wagging furiously as he snatches at one of the costumes - pulling some of the most dastardly chicken sounds ever made from a collapsing explosion of yellow feathers and glittery sequins.

There’s a beat of horrified silence.

Jason breaks it with what sounds like a prayer. “...Please tell me the bird costume’s dead.”

Jon picks up what’s left of the mess, firmly tucking Krypto to the side with his free arm. “Big Bird is down. I repeat, Big Bird is down.”

“Tragic,” Damian murmurs at the same time that Dick gasps out, “Oh, thank God.”

Bruce, attempting to side-step Clark in some twisted variation of the Texas two-step, pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “That’s it. I’m calling Lucius. I need an exit plan. Right now.”

Clark beams, stepping closer, his feet hovering above the floor as he considers Bruce with radiant joy. “Oh, you’re not escaping this. Not when you have to lead by example.”

He extends a hand and Kon throws something over.

Silence falls as he holds up the… trash can costume.

Bruce’s expression is pure horror.

Tim looks like he’s about to pass out.

Damian’s mouth falls open.

Dick forgets to breathe.

Into his ear, Jason whispers, “This beats any therapy.”

Chapter Text

Outside, deep in Gotham’s recesses, its underworld collectively pauses, sensing a disturbance in the force. Something… something isn’t right.

Their ears strain, attuned towards Wayne Manor - trying to make out what that sound is. A sound as faint as the breeze and as elusive as laughter.

The sound of dignity dying.

“I cannot believe this,” Bruce growls, his voice low, chockfull with gravel, in the same timbre he uses when confronting the Joker. Only now he’s wearing a gleaming metalling trash can over the magnificent work of art that’s his Batsuit.

A trash can with handles.

Freaking handles.

Clark beams at his side, holding his phone up as he floats before him - somewhere between the batcave’s exit and the rest of Gotham. “Say cheese!”

“Put that damn thing-” Bruce starts, only to be drowned out by Jason cackling as he folds himself in half with laughter.

The Red Hood himself, ex-crime lord and scourge of Gotham’s underworld, isn’t faring much better of himself. He’s currently one half of the Slinky Dog, bound to Dick who gleefully wags his spring tail.

“I swear to God, Grayson,” Jason abandons his laughter to round on Grayson, suddenly conscious they’re next to follow Bruce into the moonlight, “you make one bark and I’ll-”

“Woof! Dick barks loudly, his teeth showing as he grins at the moon overhead like some like extremely-demoted werewolf. And what the fuck, is he enjoying this?? “Woof! Woof!”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’m pullin’ out-”

Dick grins. “That’s not what you said last week.”

“I want to go deaf!” Tim yells, his Mr. Potato Head nose slipping as he abandons it to frantically slap on his googly eyes instead. “Make them stop! Please!”

“Seconded,” Bruce says grimly, choosing to step out into the night rather than risk hearing any more, accompanied by Clark who coos at him like a proud mother bird.

“Other than that,” Kara calls out from behind, where she’s applying thick face paint to Damian’s face, “I’m so, so glad I came. This is beautiful.”

“Hell yeah,” Barbara adds, dressed in Kara's cape, which has the advantage of being super cute and not stupid at all. “You guys look super adorable.”

"I'm literally Gotham's sexiest superhero," Dick says, rolling his shoulders, "I can pull off anything."

"Sure you can," Jason mumbles with a sly grin.

"On you go then, Toy Story," Tim makes a sweeping gesture towards their rectangular box tightly corded in the middle. One eyebrow slips off his face - getting stuck halfway like an angry moustache. "Let's see you twirl in it."

"Yeah, do a backflip," Damian deadpans.

"Ooh," Kon grins, from where he’s recovered Tim’s nose, "let's see him do the splits."

Tim hits him the same time as Jason reaches over to whack him.

"What??" Kon groaned, shielding himself with the potato nose. "Not in a weird way! C'mon guys..."

“Shut up.” Damian glares, tone flat, from where he’s dressed in full Oompa Loompa regalia. His cape has been replaced with suspenders. His hair is green. He hasn’t blinked in six minutes.

Kon raises his hands up in surrender and returns to rearranging Tim’s features. Jason and Dick attempt to navigate their way out of the cave - stopping to squabble every five seconds or so.

Jon hovers near Damian, dressed as Robin. He gives the rightful owner of the cape a small smile, whispering shyly. “You do look kind of cute, though. Like… terrifyingly so?”

“Watch it, Kent.” Damian’s growl is a mimic of his father’s. “You are the only reason I haven’t declared war on your entire species.”

“Noted.” Jon grins brightly, his cheeks flushed in the pale moonlight. “Um… do you still want to get ice cream after?”

Damian pauses. “…Yes.”

Now outside the cave, far behind where Bruce has disappeared - off to blend in with a dumpster no doubt - and where Dick and Jason have tumbled off the path to land in a heap somewhere, Tim talks himself through… this.

“Okay, it isn’t the worst,” he tells himself, walking briskly even as the potato suit wobbles around him. “It’s like I’m undercover. Undercover, yeah. Like, like ad-advanced camouflage-"

Kon flies over, spinning in the air by him, his muscles way too visible in the thin material of the Red Robin fit he wears. He smirks Tim’s way, tossing him a wink. “Keep telling yourself that, Spud Boy.”
Tim glares his way, crossing his arms even as an ear wobbles and threatens to fall off entirely. “No. Don’t you dare make that a thing.”

“Why not?” Kon, Tim realises weakly, isn’t wearing a cape. Or a cup… “You’re blushing. It’s cute.”

Tim groans. Yeah, that’s totally why he’s blushing. “Whatever. Just be quiet if you’re going to stick around. Alright?”

“Mm-hmm.” Kon laughs lightly, landing onto his feet to gently push Tim’s ear back against his head. “There. Perfect. Everyone’s favourite starch.”

Tim doesn’t know what possesses him. Probably the spirit of Mr. Potato Head himself. “Does that include you?”

Kon pauses then, his arm still stretched out to brush his fingers against the side of Tim’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

“Oh my God,” Jason groans from somewhere by their feet, off the grassy slope somewhere in a ditch. “Please go flirt somewhere else. I’m literally connected to a circus act.”

“Hey, this circus act has feelings,” Dick protests from what sounds like somewhere suspiciously below Jason. “And a PhD in acrobatics. Gymnastics. Flexibility. The works.”

“Oh yeah?” The smirk is audible in Jason’s voice. “Never mind!” He calls out to Tim and Kon - who are eyeing each other, their cheeks pink and faces absolutely scandalised. “On second thoughts, carry on! Feel free to leave us down here!”

There’s the sound of something being whacked, as if Dick’s finally had enough.

Good for him. Tim and Kon meet eyes, nod, and carry on their way.

Several minutes later, both Bats and Supers are gathered atop a rooftop, overlooking the city as the Bats prepare to go on patrol.

Batman, the proud patriarch and Caped Crusader himself, stands as firm as a gargoyle, his pointed ears and cowl the only real part of him that resembles anything remotely fearful. When he moves, the trash can clangs loudly.

Clark loops an arm around his shoulders, bumping their heads as he takes a selfie.

“Clark,” Bruce warns, voice low and lethal. “If you even think about posting this-”

“Oh, he won’t,” Kara says, descending from the sky with Barbara in her grasp, “but I absolutely will.”

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Barbara adds kindly. “It’s a fun costume.”

“Yeah.” Kara nods. “I’m tagging it #TrashKnight.”

Jason wheezes. “#GothamGarbageMan!”

Bruce sighs, his shoulders drooping like the world’s saddest oversized bat. “I hate all of you,” he announces, which is of course when Clark leans in, a soft smile on his face as his eyes shine with something far too fond.

“You’re taking this like a real champ,” the Boy in Blue says softly, his words clearly intended for Bruce’s ears alone. “I’ve got to admit… it’s a good look.”

Bruce blinks, startled by Clark’s proximity. He clears his throat and looks away - elsewhere, at where Dick and Jason have tangled themselves up into a regurgitated hot dog, at where Tim’s ears are hanging off his chin and one eyebrow obscures his vision, at where Damian’s got ice cream all the way down his Oompa Loompa stripes anywhere - but at Clark.

There’s a second during which everyone stares. And damn it all, why’d he have to raise an army of detectives?

Damian, visibly horrified, squeaks out, “Father! Please stop fraternising with the enemy!”

Clark laughs, clearly the most unruffled of the bunch. “Come on,” he says invitingly, “over here. Away from the others. Let’s get one pic, together.”

Bruce sighs. “Fine. One.”

They wander off, shoulders brushing.

By a line of actual gargoyles, Clark snaps the picture.

In the background, away from where the Boy Scout and the Dark Knight brush their heads, one cowled and one bare, together, a white streak descends from the sky - wreaking havoc amongst the boys.

Dick and Jason are the first to fall, toppling over, still attached, their arms reaching to grab at each other. They roll about on the rooftop, cursing each other out, Jason’s hands grabbing at some Toy Story ass even as Dick threatens to knee him in the groin.

Tim loses an eyeball. And then an ear. And then a moustache that sticks itself to Krypto’s face - sending the super dog into even more of an excited panic. Tim dives to the side, right behind Kon, who promptly gets throat-punched by Krypto.

Damian leaps off the rooftop, Kon in tow, abandoning everyone to their fates. He’s soon a small blip in the distance, his green hair giving the impression of a runaway cactus.

Bruce, whirling around at the chaos, trips over Krypto’s zooming body, disappearing behind a gargoyle with a thunk and a muffled “...I’m fine.”

Clark’s at his side in an instant, trying not to laugh as helps the Caped Crusader up.

Krypto, finally settled by Kara - who pets him and sneaks him treats - wags his tail happily, grinning at everyone like he’s the happiest creature alive. Which, on that rooftop, he probably is.

By the time the chaos settles, the rooftop’s a mess of splintered stone, random potato features, and tufts of white fur.

“Next time,” Bruce says darkly, propped up against Clark, “we play chess.”

Jason’s voice drifts up from the ground: “Hey, B- think you could help us untangle this slinky thing before Grayson strangles me with his tail?”

Dick’s laughter rings out. “No promises!”

With some effort from Tim and Kon, during which Bruce sighs and Clark disappears in search of the Super Sons - shortly returning with them - the two eldest Robins are laid out side-by-side.

"Could have been worse," Jason says, leaning into Dick’s side. His words, Dick realises, are supposed to be reassuring.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Jason shrugs. "Could have been a rotisserie chicken."

Dick huffs a laugh at that. "And what's worse than a rotisserie chicken?"

Jason thinks for a moment. "Two rotisserie chickens?"

“I… truly marvel at how your mind works.”

At Jason’s answering goofy grin, Bruce groans into his hands.

Clark slips an arm around his shoulders again, shaking his head fondly. “Ready for patrol?”

Bruce mutters, “I’m deleting your contact.”

Clark chuckles. “Sure you are, Trash Knight.”

Chapter Text

Morning light washes over Wayne Manor, sweeping away the chaos of the night.

Silence reigns within its walls, the rooms eerily quiet save for the faint buzz of notifications. Every phone, tablet, iPad, smart watch, heck even the Batcomputer, lights up with the same trending hashtag: #TrashKnight.

At the head of the kitchen table, robe wrapped tightly around him, large coffee mug in hand, Bruce sits - a look of long-suffering etched into his brows.

Oh the things he’s seen.

The things he’s become.

Tim walks in, an oversized shirt brushing his thighs as he eyes his phone. “Bruce.”

“No.”

“You’re trending.”

“No.”

“Have been for like… ten hours. You’re famous. Well, even more so.”

Bruce’s eye twitches.

Jason strolls in next, his hands tucked into shorts that definitely aren’t his. He wears a hoodie with the words Gotham’s #1 Garbage Man painted on with, what appears to be glitter(?), nail polish. A lot of it. “Mornin’, boss. You seen the memes?”

“No,” Bruce says flatly.

“Oh, they’re peak.” Jason immediately digs for his phone, leaning forward to present Bruce with his phone. There’s a sudden whiff of Dick’s cologne to which Bruce immediately makes a face. “There’s one of you with the caption,” Jason pauses to scroll down, “he cleans up crime AND the streets. You’re holdin’ a mop.”

Bruce wants to die.

Dick skips into the room, wearing sunglasses indoors and a pair of sweats that hangs way too low on his hips. He rests an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, his voice full of laughter as he brings his phone before Bruce - next to Jason’s - to present- “Oh my God, B, someone edited Krypto into the League’s annual pic. He’s standing in your spot, Bruce.”

Barbara’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway, “He’s getting more positive press than Batman has in ten years!”

“Alfred,” Bruce says, voice gravelly and resigned, “delete the internet.”

“I’m afraid that’s beyond even my capabilities, sir,” Alfred replies smoothly, setting down a plate of pancakes. “However, might I recommend embracing the fame? You’ve gone viral.”

Bruce looks physically ill.

In the next room, on the sofa, the Super boys are scrolling through their phones whilst Clark watches - his eyes gentle. When Bruce enters the room, his dressing gown a lot looser around him now, like some homemade replica of the cape, Clark hushes his boys, gesturing Bruce forward.

“They love you,” he tells the billionaire with a smile, “the people can’t get enough.”

Bruce sighs, long-suffering, but takes a seat next to Clark. “I need to hibernate. For six years.”

“Yeah well, six million views says people will miss their big scary vigilante,” Kon adds with a smirk, some faint rendition of The Garbage Man playing on his phone. Later, Bruce will discover a remix of the song is currently trending online.

Bruce just sighs, half-collapsing to the side - onto Clark’s shoulder. Clark pats him lightly, his eyes twinkling as he eyes the grouchy man.

In the kitchen, away from everyone else, Jason leans against the counter, his shirt still tossed over one shoulder like a waiter’s towel. “Sooo,” he begins, his attention on where Dick’s digging for something in the fridge. “Guess who slid into my DMs to ask if we’re a thing?”

Dick sighs, the sound echoing in the fridge. “The voices in your head?”

Jason smirks. “Good guess but nope.” He pops the ‘P’ loudly. “Half of Gotham did.”

Dick rolls his eyes but he’s grinning. “You wish.”

Jason just watches him, his head tilted to the side as something fond settles into his features. “Yeah,” he says softly, mostly to himself, “maybe I do.”

Upstairs, back in Tim’s room, Kon and Tim sit at the end of his bed, shoulder-to-shoulder as they scroll a compilation of Tik Toks detailing last night’s antics.

“Hey, look.” Kon nudges Tim, who looks over, his chin balanced on the Super Boy’s shoulder. “Mr. Potato Head Flirts with Superboy for 2 Minutes Straight”, Kon reads, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “The comments are asking why your moustache’s hanging off your chin.”

Tim ignores him, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the music playing. “Is that… is that A Whole New World playing in the background?”

“Hm.” Kon nods happily. “Most of them have some variation of a sappy song in the background. Y’know, for the #SuperSpud shippers.”

Tim blushes a deep red. “Delete it. Delete them all.”

“No way,” Kon says, brow rumpled in confusion. “We look good together.”

Tim makes a strangled noise, moving away from Kon to consider the wall to his left instead. “You’re insufferable.”

Kon grins, replaying the video. “You love it, really.”

Tim hides his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

Back downstairs, in an empty room mostly used for hosting, Damian sits in a window seat, his knees tucked into him as he sips tea. All evidence of the Oompa Loompa is gone save for some stubborn green streaks that cling to his hair.

Opposite him, nursing his own mug, and beaming in a way that’s a little too reminiscent of his father, Jon sits cross-legged. He’s on the floor, several suspiciously-orange makeup wipes littered around him.

“Father is going to bury the Supers in the Mano’s grounds,” Damian says calmly.

Jon nods. “That seems fair.”

“But…i-it was… kind of… fun,” Damian admits, so quietly that Jon almost doesn’t catch it.

“Yeah?” Jon’s face somehow lights up even more. “Wanna have a rematch some time?”

Damian just sips his tea.

Several hours later, when morning has given way to the early touches of a pale afternoon, both families find themselves in the living room again, where all the chaos had begun, their voices overlapping as they excitedly trade updates. Well, the Supers mostly.

The Bats are too busy brooding.

Other than Barbara, of course, who’s tucked into a loveseat with Kara, their voices intermingled as they laugh quietly together.

"Guys," Jon looks up wide-eyed from his phone. "The League just retweeted the video. The one where Bruce falls over and the trash can lid rolls away from him like-like some sad Oreo."

Bruce's soul leaves his body. Hal and Diana's faces suddenly flash before them - twin grins on their faces. There's the sound of a man dying as he drags his hand down his face. "Unhghhmn."

Clark looks over at Jon's face, trying - and failing - not to laugh. "Barry added a hashtag. It's...uh-" He quickly glances over at Bruce, creasing his face in apology, "...#TrashKnightRises."

Jason wheezes somewhere to the right, from under Dick who's wrapped around him like a cat. "I can't breathe, Barry is a fuckin' legend."

"Language," Tim mutters absentmindedly, his eyes on where Jason's gripping his ribs like they hurt. "Someone's clearly enjoying this despite the fact he looked like one half of a mouldy hot dog last night."

"Mm." Kon mumbles to himself, one arm casually slung around Tim's shoulders. "Can't say I'm not enjoying myself."

Alfred enters the room, his hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth as ever. "Would you like me to prepare lunch for the Kent family, Master Wayne? They appear to be moving in."

Bruce exhales deeply, face still in his hands. “…Yes. And poison their coffee.”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred says, and leaves.

Clark leans over, clearly fighting a grin. “You’re adorable when you're all broody, you know that?”

Bruce lifts his head just enough to glare. “Don't make me bring out the Kryptonite."

Clark retreats with his hands raised in surrender.

Chapter Text

November 1st.

The Gotham Gazette: Gotham's Trash, Our Dark Angel

By: Vicki Vale

He may be glad in a literal trash can, but make no mistake: no one takes the trash out like Batman. From crime to corruption to poor fashion choices, the Dark Knight reminds us that heroism comes dressed as the everyday - a trash can we may overlook on the daily.

[...]

The bottom line is: Metropolis can keep their farm boy. We stand with our Trash King.

Meanwhile, published seconds behind...

The Daily Planet: Superdad Soars Past Trash Knight in Viral Poll

By: Cat Grant

The results are in! 78% of participants voted Superman as America's Hero whereas Gotham's smelly Knight ranked high in categories such as Biggest Crash Out and Most Likely Single.

[...]

Once again, Metropolis comes out on top with Superman, dressed as himself but with more 'dad energy' this Halloween, putting its neighbour to shame.

A few hours later, in response to the Metropolis post...

The Gotham Gazette: Metropolis declares Superman 'America's Hero', Gotham Declares War

By: Vicki Vale

Gotham's prince, Bruce Wayne, avid defender of the city yet huge critic of the Caped Crusader, made his feelings known on the whole debate. 'This is personal', he is quoted to have said, 'no one comes for my city.' It seems the Batman and the billionaire are in agreement for once.

[...]

A pushback, weaponising the hashtag #TrashKnightKing, is trending amongst those residing in Gotham (and even some defectors in Metropolis). One popular tweet read: 'Superdad has warmth alright, but #TrashKnightKing has trauma. You can'tfake trauma.' We, at The Gotham Gazette, are very much in agreement.

An hour later...

The Daily Planet: TrashKnight or Dumpster Fire? Why Gotham's Hero Needs A Day Off (And a Therapist)

By: Cat Grant

Experts weigh in on whether Gotham's Caped Crusader and his new girls fame reflects a cry for help or an elaborate branding move. Spoiler: It's both.

[...]

Gotham's largest bat is in dire need of an intervention. Perhaps one of those Robins he surrounds himself with should have advised him otherwise about the latest, alleged, PR stunt. Either way, #TrashKnight is here to stay for the foreseeable future.

The SuperBats Groupchat (Hah)

Dick: Guys i just woke up to 53 unread messages and a meme of B photoshopped onto a garbage truck

Dick: hold on, let me send it

[Image]

Jason:: oh yeah no that was me oops

Tim: our PR team (Babs) is recommending we 'lean into the meme' ? Thoughts ??

Kon: and prayers

Bruce: Absolutely not.

Tim: Kon stay the hell out of this !!

Damian: Father, your 'fans' are making body pillows out of the ordeal. It's... revolting to say the least.

Bruce: What.

Barbara: also #SuperBat is trending!! That selfie got leaked and the internet is ABLAZE

Kara: Oh nooo... How did that happennn...

Jason: tbf everyone already shipped them

Damian: Ew.

Jon: Why am I always the last to know? :(

Clark: Yeah, about that. So if anyone saw I liked that post, it was an accident!

Bruce: you WHAT.

Tim: oh yeah , found the screenshot

Tim: one sec

[Image]

Dick: Oh it's tagged #SuperTrash. That's not very nice :-(

Jason: that sounds like our family motto tbh

Kon: omg apparently the hashtag originated in Gotham lol

Damian: This city deserves to burn.

[Bruce left the chat]

Far away from the Manor, in the hearts of Gotham and Metropolis - the battle continues.

The Daily Planet: Superdad vs TrashKnight

By: Cat Grant

In one corner: the Man of Steel, wholesome and radiant. In the other: the Bat in a Bin, brooding and mysterious. Experts say this rivalry could redefine modern hero culture - or at least give Tumblr a new ship name.

Editor’s Poll:

Who Would You Let Babysit Your Kids?

Superdad: 89%

TrashKnight: 3%

Red Hood (??): 8%

An hour later.

The Gotham Gazette: TrashKnight - Gotham’s Menace or Its Muse?

By: Vicki Vale

Fashion analysts praise Batman’s bold embrace of industrial chic. One designer called it ‘a scathing critique of capitalist excess through wearable despair.

[...]

Point in case, the Gotham City of Antiquities are rumoured to already be clearing a space in order to exhibit the Bat's bold choice of anarchistic expression.

Several hours later.

The Daily Planet: SuperBat Unite, Can Gotham and Metropolis?

By: Cat Grant

Regardless of any ongoing feud, one thing is for sure: the fans love them together. In this article we have included various links (which have been publicly shared across different social medias) for you to feast your eyes upon. Will you join the cause?

[...]

Warning!!! Some of the images included are NSFW and depict sexual acts. Actually, most of them do..

A response swiftly follows.

The Gotham Gazette: SuperDad or SuperBad?

By: Vicki Vale

We Asked Gotham Who’d Win in a Chess Match: TrashKnight or Superdad?

[..]

Results were split 50/50. Gotham believes TrashKnight would play dirty. Metropolis believes Superdad would let him win. 'Love conquers all,' one respondent said, 'even checkmate.'

We are inclined to agree.

And finally, the article to end all articles is published.

The Daily Planet: Why We Can’t Stop Rooting for TrashKnight & Superdad”

Special by: Clark Kent

Maybe it’s the contrast; day and night, Gotham and Metropolis, superhuman and human. Or maybe, deep down, we all want to believe that even Gotham’s darkest hero can find a little light.

[...]

And if that light happens to wear a cape and brings him coffee... well there's nothing wrong with that.

Evening descends over the Manor, the air crisp outside. Cold nudges at the windows, in smuged plumes of white breath, as those inside settle - away from the dining table, where a third meal has just been shared - to sit around the living room's coffee table.

Bruce takes the place next to Clark, opposite the TV which is playing a summary of the day's events. He raises a brow at an image of Damian, dressed as an Oompa Loompa with an ice cream in hand, sticking his tongue out at Jon - dressed as Robin. The caption reads: Gotham's tiniest vigilante wrecks havoc upon Metropolis copycat.

By him, Clark leans in, smiling as his lips brush the faintest hint of skin. "You know, if you're not happy about the way things are going... we can more than give them all something to truly write about."

Bruce side-eyes him. "We are not leaking any more photos.

Clark shrugs, all innocent.

"I have some of these two," Kon waggles his fingers at where Dick's fully sat in Jason's lap whilst the taller man cards his fingers through his hair. "In and out of the dog costume."

"Why the fuck-" Tim starts, just as Damian makes a retching noise. "Who on earth would want to see that?!"

Clark ignores them all, leaning further into Bruce's space so that he's almost inhaling the other man. "I was thinking we could... make some of our own."

Bruce does his best to remain composed. He really does.

But, the Boy Scout's looking at him with fondness and a soft vulnerability in his gaze and that body, pressed against Bruce's own, promises to break the Bat in ways far better than the trash can did.

Slowly, he swallows - enraptured by the way Clark's eyes track the motion.

"The Batcave," he starts to say, as nonchalantly as possible, "there's something I have to do there. Excuse me."

He gets up, hoping the Kryptonian got the hint.

"Yeah, same." Clark pretty much leaps up from the sofa and Bruce has to stop himself from facepalming. Subtle indeed.

"Stay safe, Dad!!" Kon calls out.

"B, remember to use protection!" Jason adds. "One demon brat is enough!"

"Jason, he literally can't get preg-"

"He's literally about to fuck an alien, pretty Bird. Science has no say in this."

"That's it. I'm getting my sword."

Bruce sighs as they make their escape. However, as they pass a mirror in the hallway, he sees a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Come here." Strong arms wrap around him from behind. Clark's voice is in his ear, the words reverberating against his skin. '"Let me fly us there."

"No." Bruce turns to him, features firm. "No more playing games. Let's do this properly. Fly us upstairs. To my room."

Clark looks at him with a look so fragile, it's a wonder they call him the Man of Steel at all. Are you sure? His gaze seems to say. Are you really sure?

Yes, Bruce nods somewhat desperately, yes.

Clark kisses him against the mirror.

Night falls and the moon spins it's magic atop the Manor. It enters into rooms where bodies entwine, caressing the lines of their backs and threading it's fingers through their hair. When Bruce calls out, it responds with a wink - casting silver upon the man's worn body.

In and out of all rooms, it moves. Watching as a boy half-human holds the most human part of him against his chest, mumbling words of comfort into the boy's dark hair as he tells him he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and that he'd spend a whole lifetime righting the features upon your face.

There's magic to be made atop the two bodies pressed against each other in a room no one really frequents. In between the tiniest of gaps, the moon slivers it's thin fingers through - touching the scars that one young man traces as the other looks at him with nothing short of worship in his eyes. Worship. The moon is familiar and it smiles as one man falls to his knees in devotion, nudging his face against the other man's bare skin.

Two boys bask in the moonlight, unafraid and brushing shoulders as if invisible seams bind them together. One keeps his eyes trained upon the sky, focussed as if seeing past the thick blanket of stars into a world the moon knows, loves, and hides. By his side, the other boy considers him instead - tiny pinpricks of awe lighting up the softest of emotions there.

The morning will them all new men, absolved from their secrets of old. Gently, the moon blinks as it moves away from studying where two worlds meet; two cities, two planets, two souls divided only to be restored.

It moves away, casting one final glance down at where two young women interlock fingers as they stroll the path of a garden set alight in white. It brushes their hair and tickles their lashes before it moves off elsewhere - keeping watch over all cities below it.

"I’ve fought gods but not like this,” Bruce tells Clark later, in amongst the silk sheets of his now-thoroughly-debauched bed. "Never like this.

Clark holds him tighter. “No more playing games,” he promises.

Bruce hums, content for a moment. There’s a long pause before he looks up, into Clark’s blue gaze.

"Until the rematch, of course."

At that, Clark just beams.

Whelp, here we go again.