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The Manor's living room had been peaceful for approximately forty-seven minutes.
That was, of course, when Tim had walked in holding a USB drive with an expression that Dick recognized immediately as I have made a terrible discovery and you're all going to suffer with me.
"Before anyone panics," Tim said, already plugging the drive into the television's port, "this is entirely Bruce's fault."
"Everything is entirely your fault," Damian muttered from his perch on the armchair, Alfred the Cat curled in his lap. "This is not new information."
Jason looked up from the book he was definitely not reading. "What did the old man do now?"
"I found his backup drive of training footage." Tim's fingers flew across the remote. "Specifically, the section labeled Lessons Learned Through Failure."
The room went very, very quiet.
"No," Dick said.
"Yes," Tim said.
"Timothy," Damian said slowly, "what exactly is on this footage?"
"Remember how Bruce always says that fear is a tool, and that we should use every resource available, including calling for backup when—"
"No," Jason said, sitting up straight. His eyes had gone wide. "No, no, no. He did not keep that. He promised he deleted that."
"He also promised he wouldn't put tracking devices in our suits without telling us," Tim replied. "Now gather round, everyone. We're doing this together."
Cass appeared silently on the couch beside Steph, who squeaked. Duke, who had been trying to sneak past the doorway, froze mid-step.
"I can hear the television from the kitchen," he said hopefully.
"Get in here," Steph said, grabbing his arm. "If we're suffering, you're suffering."
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Tape One: Richard Grayson, Age 16
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Location: Abandoned chemical plant, Blüdhaven
Threat Level: Moderate
Actual Level of Threat According to the Footage: Apparently very high
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The screen flickered to life, showing a younger Nightwing—still in the modified Robin suit with the scalloped cape, still with hair that defied every law of physics, backed against a chemical vat.
Three armed men advanced on him. One had a flamethrower. It was unclear why someone in a chemical plant had a flamethrower.
"Come on, come on," young Dick muttered, clutching his side where a bullet had grazed him. His escrima sticks were on the ground, too far to reach. "Okay. Okay, I can—"
One of the men fired.
Dick dove behind the vat, barely avoiding the burst of flame. His communicator crackled.
"Nightwing to any available Bats," he said, and his voice had that particular pitch of I hate this I hate this I hate this. "I'm in the old Ace Chemicals plant in Blüdhaven, I need—"
"I'm on my way."
The voice came through the speakers. Low. Calm. Completely unsurprised.
"You didn't stayed in Blüdhaven?" Bruce asked. "I told you that territory was too dangerous alone."
"I'm fine, I just need a little—"
"You called for backup."
"I called for assistance, there's a difference—"
A boot appeared in the corner of the frame.
Not one of the thugs' boots. A different boot. A familiar boot.
The thug with the flamethrower turned. "What the—"
Batman came around the corner like he had materialized from the shadows themselves. No footsteps. No warning. Just there, suddenly, seven feet of armored nightmare with cape flaring behind him.
The thug didn't even get a chance to scream.
Batman's hand closed around the flamethrower's barrel. He twisted. Metal screeched. The thug stared at his now-useless weapon, then looked up into the white lenses of a man who had absolutely zero business being that quiet in tactical boots.
"Hi," Batman said.
The thug fainted.
The other two tried to run. Batman didn't even move faster. He just walked, and somehow he was still faster, still there, appearing around corners they had already passed, stepping out of shadows they had already cleared.
In forty-three seconds, all three were unconscious.
Batman turned to Dick, who was still crouched behind the vat, looking equal parts relieved and mortified.
"You had this under control," Bruce said flatly.
"I did—"
"You called me because a man had a flamethrower."
"It was a chemical plant! Fire is dangerous!"
Bruce sighed. "Get in the car."
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Present Day....
The television paused on young Dick's face, frozen mid-argument.
"Holy shit," Jason breathed.
"I was sixteen," Dick said defensively. "And it was a flamethrower! In a chemical plant! Name one person who would handle that well!"
"Bruce handled it well," Tim offered.
"Bruce is a paranoia engine wearing a human skin suit. That doesn't count."
Damian was staring at the screen with an expression of profound betrayal. "You called Father because of a flamethrower?"
"Damian, you called him because you ran out of granola bars on a stakeout."
"That was different. I was nine and it was a survival necessity."
"It was a twenty-four-hour stakeout and you had packed exactly four granola bars—"
"ENOUGH," Jason shouted over them. "Play the next one. I need to see whose trauma is worse than mine."
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Tape Two: Jason Todd, Age 15
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Location: Gotham Docks, Warehouse 7
Threat Level: Low (Allegedly)
Actual Threat Level According to Jason's Commentary in the Present: "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him."
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
"I don't remember this," Jason said, but his voice had gone slightly higher.
"Liar," Dick and Tim said in unison.
On screen, a younger Jason—still wearing the Robin suit with the leggings that he would never admit he secretly loved was cornered by a group of thugs. There were six of them. They were all holding crowbars.
"Oh no," Steph whispered.
"Stephanie, I swear to God, if you say one word—"
"It's just. Crowbars. Specifically."
"I will end you."
On the screen, young Jason was doing surprisingly well, despite the very obvious psychological warfare happening with the weapons. He'd taken down three of them when the fourth clocked him across the back with—yes, a crowbar.
Jason went down hard.
"Okay," he gasped into his communicator. "Okay, okay, fine. Batman. I need Batman."
"I'm already here," Bruce's voice came back.
"Why are you always—"
Batman dropped from the ceiling.
Not the rafters. Not a catwalk. The ceiling. As in, he had been clinging to the corrugated metal roofing like a goddamn spider, waiting.
The thugs looked up.
Batman landed in their midst like a meteor. No fancy martial arts. No dramatic choreography. Just pure, brutal efficiency. He caught the nearest thug by the collar of his jacket, slammed him into the second thug, used both of them as a battering ram against the third, and had the fourth in an arm bar before anyone could blink.
The fifth thug ran.
He got exactly three steps before Batman's grapple caught him around the ankle.
"I believe you dropped something," Batman said, reeling him in.
The sixth thug—the one who had been holding the crowbar dropped his weapon and raised his hands. "I surrender. I surrender! Please, just—"
Batman tilted his head. It was the most terrifying thing any of them had ever seen.
"You hit Robin with a crowbar."
"It wasn't—I didn't—he was moving—"
"Do you know what the symbol on his chest means?"
"...No?"
"It means I'm his father."
The thug's face went white. "Oh god."
"Oh god indeed."
The screen cut to black.
▀▄▀▄▀▄────۶ৎ────▀▄▀▄▀▄
Present Day...
"I'm sorry," Dick said, turning to Jason with tears in his eyes—whether from laughter or genuine emotion, it was unclear. "He said I'm his father?"
"Shut up."
"Jason, that's—that's beautiful—"
"SHUT UP."
Damian looked almost impressed. "Father threatened a man over you."
"Don't."
"He said I'm his father."
"I will burn this house down with all of us inside it."
Cass signed something that made Steph burst into laughter. Jason's face went red.
"What did she say?" Duke asked.
"She said," Steph translated, gasping for air, "that Jason called Bruce before the crowbar even made contact."
"The footage shows—"
"I KNOW WHAT THE FOOTAGE SHOWS."
Tim hit play before Jason could tackle him.
▀▄▀▄▀▄ılıılıılıılıılıılı▀▄▀▄▀▄
Tape Three: Tim Drake, Age 17
────۶ৎ────
Location: Gotham Cemetery
Threat Level: Minimal (Incorrect)
Actual Threat Level: "I literally thought I was going to die, what do you mean Bruce didn't even break a sweat"
────۶ৎ────
"This one's my favorite," Bruce said from the doorway.
Everyone screamed.
Bruce stood in the doorway of the living room, still in his day clothes—gray sweater, reading glasses, the whole mild-mannered father aesthetic, holding a mug of coffee.
He looked deeply amused.
"How long have you been standing there?" Dick demanded.
"Long enough."
"You're enjoying this," Jason accused.
Bruce took a sip of coffee. "Continue the video."
On screen, a younger Tim was pinned behind a headstone—a headstone that, upon closer inspection, belonged to the Wayne family plot. Because of course. Because the universe had a sense of humor.
Three goons with guns were advancing on him. They were not particularly skilled. They were not particularly clever. But they had guns, and Tim had run out of throwing stars approximately four minutes ago, and there were a lot of places to hide in a cemetery.
"I'm fine," Tim was saying into his communicator. "I don't need backup. This is completely manageable."
"You're behind your grandfather's grave," Bruce's voice replied.
"That's—I didn't—you don't know that—"
"I have you on satellite."
"You have satellites?"
"I have seven satellites. Now stop hiding behind your dead relatives and tell me the situation."
Tim peeked over the headstone. One of the goons fired. He ducked back down.
"Three hostiles," he admitted. "Armed. I'm out of ranged weapons."
"And?"
"And I might have tripped over a grave marker and twisted my ankle."
"You tripped."
"It was dark."
"You have night vision in your mask."
"I was startled!"
There was a long pause on the communicator. Then: "Stay where you are."
"I'm not going to—"
The goon with the gun screamed.
Tim looked up just in time to see Batman materialize from behind a massive angel statue—a statue that Tim had cleared personally not sixty seconds ago. There was no way Bruce had been hiding there. There was literally no physical way.
And yet.
Batman moved through the cemetery like a revenant, appearing and disappearing between the headstones, never quite where the gunfire was directed. One goon spun around and found nothing. Another fired at a shadow and hit a tree.
The third goon, the one who had screamed—was already on the ground, unconscious.
"Where is he?" one of the remaining goons shouted.
"I don't know!"
"I'm right here," Batman said, directly behind them.
The fight lasted exactly eleven seconds.
Bruce stood over the unconscious bodies, dusted off his gloves, and turned to where Tim was still crouched behind the headstone.
"Your ankle?"
"Fine. It's fine. I was exaggerating."
"You were hiding behind a grave."
"It was tactical cover."
Bruce extended a hand. Tim took it, and Bruce pulled him to his feet with a gentleness that belied everything they'd just witnessed.
"You called," Bruce said quietly. "That's what matters."
"I didn't call. You were just—"
"I was monitoring."
"You were stalking."
"Monitoring," Bruce repeated. "Now come on. Alfred made soup."
────۶ৎ────
Present Day....
Tim buried his face in his hands. "I forgot about the cemetery."
"You were behind your grandfather's grave," Steph said, delighted.
"It was dark!"
"You have night vision in your mask," Jason mimicked in a high-pitched voice.
"I was startled!"
Duke shook his head slowly. "This family is a disaster."
"You haven't even seen the best part," Bruce said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Bruce took another sip of coffee. "Play the next one, Tim."
Tim hesitated. "Bruce, maybe we shouldn't—"
"Play it."
--- . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. ---
Tape Four: Damian Wayne, Age 10
୨ৎ . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. ୨୧
Location: Gotham Botanical Gardens
Threat Level: "I handled it perfectly"
Actual Threat Level: Poison Ivy, a swarm of mutated bees, and an existential crisis
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
"I'm going to kill Grayson," Damian said flatly. "He edited these."
"I didn't edit anything," Dick protested. "I didn't even know these existed until today!"
"Then I'm going to kill Father."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "For documenting your training?"
"For documenting my humiliation."
On screen, a tiny Damian, still new to the Robin suit, still adjusting to the cape was standing in the middle of the botanical gardens' greenhouse. His posture was perfect. His expression was furious. And he was surrounded by approximately two hundred oversized bees.
"I do not require assistance," ten-year-old Damian announced to his communicator. "I am perfectly capable of handling—"
A bee the size of a golf ball landed on his nose.
Damian went cross-eyed looking at it. He did not move. He did not breathe.
"Robin," Bruce's voice came through. "Status."
"There is a bee on my face."
"I can see that."
"Can you remove it?"
"You said you didn't require assistance."
"FATHER."
The greenhouse door opened. Batman stepped inside, took one look at the situation, and calmly pulled a small device from his belt. He pressed a button.
The bees dropped out of the air simultaneously, immobilized but not harmed. They landed on the greenhouse floor like rain.
The bee on Damian's nose fell off.
Damian stood frozen for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he turned to look at Batman.
"Was that a bee tranquilizer?"
"I prepared for contingencies."
"You prepared for bee contingencies?"
"Poison Ivy exists, Damian. Bees are a known variable."
"I was not—I had a plan—"
"You were going to set the greenhouse on fire."
"That was a excellent plan."
"It was an arson plan."
"It would have worked."
Batman knelt down to Damian's level. The gesture was so at odds with the terrifying figure who had just annihilated a swarm of bees that the contrast made Dick's heart clench, even watching it years later.
"You called," Bruce said quietly. "That's all that matters."
Damian looked away. "I did not call. You were simply—"
"Monitoring."
"Stalking."
"Monitoring," Bruce agreed. He reached out and brushed a stray leaf from Damian's hair. "Now. Let's discuss why arson is not an acceptable backup plan."
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Present Day....
The room was silent for exactly three seconds.
Then Jason lost it.
"The bee was on his nose," he wheezed, doubled over. "On his nose, Dick, did you see—"
"I saw," Dick said, also crying with laughter. "I saw everything."
"It was the size of a golf ball—"
"Todd, I swear on the League of Assassins—"
"And he just stood there! He just stood there!"
"I was ten!"
"The assassin trained since birth—"
"I will end your bloodline!"
Cass was signing so fast she was almost blurring. Steph was translating: "She says the best part is that Bruce had a specific device for bees. A bee device. He looked at Poison Ivy's entire deal and said 'I should probably carry around a thing that puts bees to sleep.'"
"I have a device for most of my rogues' gimmicks," Bruce said, completely unbothered.
"That's not the flex you think it is," Duke told him.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Tape Five: Barbara Gordon, Age 15
꒰ྀི১ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ ໒꒱ིྀ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ꒰ྀི১ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ ໒꒱ིྀ
Location: Gotham Public Library
Threat Level: Riddler (So, Threat Level: Annoying)
Actual Threat Level: "I could have handled this, Batman just happened to be in the area, this doesn't count"
꒰ྀི১ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ ໒꒱ིྀ /\ ꒰ྀི১ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ ໒꒱ིྀ
The screen flickered, and a much younger Barbara, still Batgirl, still with the red hair spilling out of her cowl was standing in the library's rare book room.
"I have this under control," she was saying into her communicator. "The Riddler's puzzles are laughably easy. He's hidden the bomb in the—"
Her voice cut off as a section of the floor gave way beneath her.
Barbara caught herself on the edge of a bookshelf, dangling over a pit that had absolutely not been there before.
"Okay," she said. "That's new."
"Batgirl." Bruce's voice was sharp. "Report."
"The floor just—you know what, never mind. I'm fine. I have my grapple. I can—"
The bookshelf she was holding onto began to tilt.
"Okay," she said again, voice slightly higher. "Okay, okay. Batman. I need Batman."
"I'm in the elevator."
"What?"
"The elevator. To the fourth floor. The library has very strict security protocols, by the way. I had to knock out three guards."
"You're in the elevator?"
The door to the rare book room opened.
Batman stepped inside, took in the situation—Barbara hanging from a tilting bookshelf, a pit beneath her, a green question mark painted on the far wall, and walked calmly to the edge of the hole.
"Can you reach my hand?" he asked.
"Bruce, the floor—"
"Can you reach my hand?"
Barbara stretched. Her fingers brushed his gloves. Bruce grabbed her wrist and pulled her up in one smooth motion, setting her on solid ground like she weighed nothing.
"The bomb," Barbara said immediately. "It's in the—"
"Fiction section. Section F, to be specific. The Riddler's clues all pointed to '-iction.'"
"I knew that."
"Of course you did."
"I was going to say that."
Bruce's lips twitched. It might have been a smile. "I know."
They stood there for a moment, the pit still gaping between them and the door.
"The floor just gave out," Barbara said quietly. "I didn't—I didn't fall. I caught myself."
"I saw."
"I would have been fine."
"I know."
"But I called anyway."
Bruce put a hand on her shoulder. "You called anyway. That's what matters."
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Present Day....
Barbara had walked into the room halfway through the video. No one had noticed her until it ended.
"I was fifteen," she said flatly.
"We know," Steph said, patting the couch cushion beside her. "Sit down. You're not escaping this."
"I could have escaped that pit."
"We know."
"I was fine."
"You called anyway," Dick said, grinning.
Barbara sat down heavily. "I hate this family."
"The bomb was in the fiction section," Jason said, still laughing. "He figured it out from iction. That's the dumbest—"
"The Riddler is a dumb villain! He makes dumb puzzles!"
"The floor gave out," Damian said, and his voice was almost gentle. "You were fifteen. It's not shameful to call for help."
Barbara stared at him. "Did the bee on your nose give you empathy?"
"It gave me perspective."
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The Final Clip
-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ-
The screen went dark. Everyone let out a collective breath.
"That's it," Tim said, reaching for the remote. "That's all of them—"
"Wait," Bruce said.
Everyone froze.
"There's one more."
Tim frowned at the screen. "No, the folder only had—"
"It's not in the folder."
Bruce walked to the television, pressed a few buttons on the remote, and pulled up a different file. One marked Private.
"I don't recognize this," Tim said, suddenly nervous.
"You wouldn't." Bruce pressed play.
The footage was darker than the others. Grainier. The audio crackled with interference.
A warehouse. Crates everywhere. And in the center of the frame—
All of them.
Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Barbara, Stephanie, Cass, Duke. Every single member of the current Batfamily, in their current suits, fighting a crowd of enemies that seemed to multiply every time the camera blinked.
They were holding their own. They were doing well, actually—coordinated, efficient, deadly.
But there were too many.
"I need a status report," Bruce's voice came through the speakers, tinny and distant.
"We're fine," Dick said, kicking a thug in the face. "We've got this."
"Nightwing. Status."
"We're fine—"
A thug got past Jason's guard. Then another past Tim's. Damian went down under a pile of bodies. Steph's staff was knocked from her hands. Cass was surrounded. Duke's light manipulation was flickering—he'd hit his limit.
"Okay," Dick said, and his voice cracked. "Okay. Batman. We need Batman."
"I'm here."
The warehouse door exploded inward.
Not metaphorically. The door exploded inward, torn off its hinges by a force that shouldn't have been possible for one man.
Batman walked through the smoke.
And for the first time, the Batfamily saw what their enemies saw.
The cape billowed despite no wind. The armor seemed to drink the light. The white lenses of the cowl glowed like something out of a nightmare, and when Batman moved, it wasn't like a man moving at all. It was like a presence. An inevitability.
The thugs froze.
"Run," Batman said.
They ran.
Some of them didn't make it three steps before Batman's hands closed around them. Others made it to the door before realizing he was already there, waiting. One made it outside, and the scream that followed was enough to make the rest drop their weapons and surrender on the spot.
It took ninety-four seconds.
Ninety-four seconds for Batman to clear a room of forty-seven armed men without breaking a sweat, without raising his voice, without trying.
He stood in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by unconscious bodies, and turned to look at his family.
"You called," he said.
And his voice was gentle.
"That's all that matters."
The screen went black.
No one spoke.
Then, very quietly, Jason said: "He was already there."
"What?" Dick asked.
"He was already there. Look at the footage. The door explodes three seconds after Dick calls for backup. He was standing outside the whole time."
"Oh my god," Tim whispered.
"He was waiting."
"He was monitoring," Bruce corrected from his position by the television.
"THAT'S THE SAME THING!"
Bruce picked up his coffee mug. Took a sip. Looked at his family—his loud, chaotic, stubborn, alive family—and allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
"You called," he said. "Every time. You called."
"And you came," Dick said quietly.
"Every time."
The room was silent for a long moment.
Then Damian spoke. "Father."
"Yes?"
"That video was taken three weeks ago."
"Yes."
"That means you've been planning this family therapy session for three weeks."
"I prefer to call it a training retrospective."
"You've been holding onto this footage for three weeks to make a point."
"The point being that asking for help isn't weakness. It's strategy."
Jason threw his book at Bruce's head.
Bruce caught it without looking.
"I'm telling Alfred you're being insufferable," Jason announced.
"Alfred helped me organize the footage."
The collective betrayal in the room was so profound that even the bats in the belfry probably felt it.
"I need new coffee," Bruce said, and walked out of the room.
Behind him, the Batfamily erupted into chaos.
𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡 ═══════ 𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡