Work Text:
The Justice League’s HR had suggested a report system as a means to avoid abuses of power, discrimination, and build trust with the general public.
All heroes, no matter how professional, got complaints filed against them. Ninety percent meaningless, like, “Flash ran near me, and I dropped my lunch,” or “Green Arrow punched me. Yes, I was stealing a car, but he went all in. Can I have some monetary compensation?”
They develop an algorithm meant to flag only the ones worth reviewing. The hero in question would be called to explain the situation to Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman as the founding members of the League, so they could choose appropriate measures.
It worked perfectly fine in theory, and most often in practice, the League could go months without a single occurrence - that was until they got three in a row, all about Bruce’s children.
“I can deal with this on my own.”
Diana raised her hand with a smile far too amused. “Equality above everything. We talked about this before.”
With a grumble, Bruce turned to the report again. A complaint from Gotham’s ornithological community about Red Robin for stalking and harassing, one about Nightwing and Orphan over psychological torture, and finally, Red Hood…Oh, God, Bruce would be leaving that one for last.
He considered leaving the League altogether just to avoid these moments. The last time he got a complaint was because Stephany decided to go on a road trip with an allegedly reformed Harley Queen over state borders. “Let's start with Nightwing and Orphan; their case is the tamest.”
“Psychological torture is the tamest?” Clark repeated that, despite the Kriptonian powers, he appeared to have hearing issues.
“That's what I said.”
Bruce sat in the middle of the main table with Diana to his right and Clark to the left. They changed based on who was better familiar with the case to take the lead. There were more seats around the room for serious hearings with criminals and League members who crossed unforgivable lines; they hadn't experienced the latter yet. Without the room filled to the brim with heroes and the electric restraints in the defendant's circle, the whole environment felt rather anti-climactic.
Dick strolled inside, his grin only widening at Bruce's disapproving glare. Behind him, Cassandra followed, waving politely at Clark and Diana before sending Bruce an apologetic glance that had nothing apologetic about it.
It wasn't a surprise Dick was so at ease, he knew he had nothing to worry about, Bruce had a suspicion he only agreed to come to take a stroll around the WatchTower and say hi to familiar faces. Cassandra, on the other hand, relaxed once she took the calm postures of all the Justice League members. Dick gave her a playful nod as he got ready to tell the story.
“We got an alert about two men robbing a supermarket, we got there, did our thing, and left them tied up for the police to find.” Cass nodded at the recount.
That part Bruce already knew from reading the incident report. “You are leaving out some details.”
“It was a joke.”
“The victim doesn't agree.”
“He was victimized by a lute.”
At that, Cass let out a chuckle, and Bruce had to stop his face from melting.
Clark tilted his head in confusion. “You hit him with a lute?”
Wordlessly, Bruce slid the incident report to him. Like a child, the Man of Steel had to put a hand over his mouth to prevent a snort, and failed.
“I was right,” Cass added, much more at ease now that Bruce had partially let his wall down. He would be lying if he said it wasn't on purpose.
“Yeah, yeah. She was right.” Dick waved his hand at her with fake annoyance. “While watching, we heard them talk about how one of them was afraid of the medieval era. I thought it was a joke, but Cass went off by body language and swore he was serious. So, to test, I put one of those bardcore playlists on the speakers.”
Neither Diana nor Clark was even pretending to take the matter seriously. Playful banter filled the room as if they were on a coffee break instead of a disciplinary meeting.
Maybe he could hack the algorithm to send reports about his children directly to him, or ask Alfred to come in his stead. The butler would impose much more respect than Bruce felt capable of at the moment.
“According to him, it caused severe psychological distress.”
“We stopped when he cried,” Cass offered.
Diana hummed. “Very considerative.”
As a last attempt to stop the whole thing from turning into a circus, Bruce clicked in a few keys, and security footage from said night appeared on the wall.
The two men approached the cash registers when a soft melody of a song he recognised as Bon Jovi’s, but an old-timey record filled the air. It was also Bruce’s first time seeing the images, and he couldn't deny astonishment when the tallest and burliest of the men, bigger than Bruce himself, fell to the floor in panic, looking around as if expecting a knight to come out of the shadows and duel him.
Nightwing and Orphan took care of the accomplice in seconds while the man rocked himself back and forth on the ground. In their defense, they did look awkward and a bit guilty, staring down at him.
“Okay, I can see it was mean.” Dick ran a hand through his hair. “We really didn't expect him to react like that.”
Clark was still looking at the images in bewilderment. “Does he have some trauma related to medieval times?”
“No,” Cass replied, “we checked.”
“He just really hates everything medieval. Says it's disturbing.” Dick added.
“I hope he never ends up at a Renaissance fair,” Diana mumbled.
The video disappeared and with it, apparently, also Dick’s time. “Look, I have things to do. What about we say sorry to him and call it a day?”
With a quick glance and a nod, the matter was settled.
“Clark,” Bruce said.
“Hmm?”
“Ready the next file before we start, it only gets worse from here.”
Tim walked in next.
“You have to trust me, this is a trick to get me off a lead.”
“Tim.” Bruce rubbed his fingers on his temples. “You have been harassing senior citizens.”
“Very nice, senior citizens,” Clark chimed in, “they sent biscuits with the complaint.”
Almond and cinnamon, not a bad choice. Bruce would have gone for dark chocolate, and Diana wasn't a fan of candy, but she also took one to try. A little too sweet, not as good as Alfred’s, although nothing was, still good.
“They are up to something.”
“Do you have proof?” Diana asked.
Tim nodded vigorously. “They always go out together at odd hours and take lots of photos of buildings.”
“They go out at odd hours because they are an ornithology club and take pictures because they are an ornithology club,” Bruce spoke slowly.
“That's what they want you to believe.”
There was no denying Tim was a great detective, better than Bruce himself or would be soon. Still, when he started with conspiracy theories, it was hard not to question his sanity, if only his crazy hunches weren't right so often.
“Who starts a club to watch birds?”
“We have lots of those in Metropolis,” Clark protested.
“Yes, in Metropolis,” Tim said the name as if it were an insult, and Bruce took some pleasure in Clark's offended expression. “Gotham doesn't have birds; it barely has nature. Have any of you seen our pollution levels?”
Astronomically bad and, according to experts, likely to give them all lung problems and possible mutations. Wayne Enterprises did their best to promote the creation of green spaces and laws to prohibit other companies from further destroying the city to save money. It was an endless uphill battle.
Sometimes Bruce wondered if the villains and vigilante personas weren't just the fumes getting to their heads.
“They have spotted you watching and are afraid.” Bruce continued. “They think you are going to put cameras on their homes.”
“So they haven't found the cameras yet,” Tim mused, “or they did, and it's a trick.”
“Tim,” Diana repeated more forcefully, “do you have proof?”
He shifted on his feet, which was a signal he was working on twenty energy drinks and hadn't slept in days, right on the verge of entering the chronically sleep-deprived phase, where he would fall asleep everywhere.
“Pearl was suspected of a bank robbery in the seventies, and Eddie and Joe are always talking about going to play chess, but from what I saw, they are awful. There is no way they play that much; it must be a code.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“I took a six-hour nap on top of a truck before coming here.”
Bruce didn't have enough energy to question the truck part. “And before that?”
“Hmm,” Tim bit his lip, “I think Tuesday.”
It was Friday.
The three founding members exchanged looks with each other. Clark leaned in to whisper, “It might be stress; maybe a consultation with Dinah would do him good.”
“That's not all.” Tim cut them. “Dolly was the one who sent you the sweets, wasn't she?”
They glanced at the white box adorned with a small bow and a handwritten note saying, “Thanks for your service” with a heart.
At that point, Tim was gesturing imaginary connections in the air. “She gives them to everyone, nurses, coffee workers, supermarket employees, security guards.” He snapped his fingers. “It's building trust, so when they come laced with something no one will expect.”
“Laced with what?” Diana tried her best to keep the concern from her voice.
“Poison, sedatives, liquid fear serum.” Tim shrugged. “That woman is twisted; she will do anything.”
Glancing back at the cutesy note, Bruce felt a headache forming behind his eyes. “You said the same thing about the Jehovah's Witnesses.”
It had been six months prior, and it also took them to this room. Tim had got into his mind that the man who went knocking on the Manor’s gate to preach was a spy using it as an excuse to keep coming back. He joined the church to keep a better eye on him and was two days away from getting baptised before Bruce put a stop to the operation.
In the end the man wasn't a spy but the church was a front for an underground criminal network responsible for a big chunk of the drug trade to launder money and the minister's wife, whose murder case had been under GCPD investigation, had faked her death and ran away with her sister in law to Mexico, where she became a moderately famous singer. Tim's solo missions led to very strange reports.
“We don't live in a surveillance state.”
“Oracle might disagree," Tim grumbled.
“And so,” Bruce kept going undeterred, “you are going to say sorry to the pensioners and offer to help with bird watching as a peace offering.”
“Fine, when they commit a murder, don't say I didn't warn you.”
“We are going to look into it,” Clark assured. The only reason Bruce didn't remind him he wasn't allowed to work in Gotham without permission was that it appeared to have appeased Tim.
Or, more likely, he was merely pretending to get away.
“Should we be concerned?” Diana spun in her chair when Tim left.
“He is often right,” Bruce argued.
“Do you think he is right in this?”
“...I said often, not always.”
The most likely outcome was that the club was innocent of the crime Tim was accusing them of, but he would end up stumbling into something else in his investigations. Something that didn't lead him to create a fake identity as a music agent in South America this time, preferentially.
Having eaten the last biscuit, Clark threw the box in the trash and clasped his hands. “Okay, only one to go. What is it? Did Damian steal a dog?”
Looking back at the file, Bruce internally cringed. Dick and Cass had one sheet, Tim’s seven, this one sixteen, written by an attorney in tiny print. Over forty meticulously detailed occurrences.
“It's Jason,” he said as if it explained everything. In a way, it did.
Diana took the file from his hands, quickly scanning it. “Fuck.”
“I don't understand why I'm here.” Jason played with his empty pistol. “I'm not in the League, I'm not associated with the League, and the only reason I came was due to false pretences.”
So Bruce did put on the summons that it was about a mission involving an international cartel, sue him, it wasn't like Jason would have shown up any other way.
“You have done missions with me lately, which in a way makes you an associate.”
Jason's face twisted. “I might have to reconsider our truce.”
If the progress they had been making got ruined over this, Bruce would strangle Black Mask.
“The dude shouldn't even be able to complain,” Jason scoffed, “he is a villain, a very scummy one.”
The rule of limiting who could and couldn't write grievances was put in place after Lex Luthor sent three hundred in a single day, all making absurd claims about Superman. They would have to revalue the parameters once this was over.
“Unfortunately, Sionis has some good points.” Bruce begrudgingly admitted, “He is accusing you of theft, extortion, property destruction, harassment, intimidation, coercion, assault, criminal threats, and arson.”
Jason let out a low whistle. “He didn't leave anything out.”
“According to this,” Clark started in a tone both pacifistic and uncertain, “you broke into his penthouse, took two hundred thousand dollars from his private safe, shot at security, and flipped him off on the way out.”
Out of all the reports, Clark had chosen one of the tamest. Bruce could picture the scene perfectly, memories of a scrawny and scrappy child holding a tire iron filling his mind, and, inexplicably, he had to force his lips from tilting upwards.
Jason seemed to think the words over a bit, making sure it had happened that way, before nodding proudly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“That's a bad thing. You understand why, right?”
“Nop.” At Clark’s visible disbelief, Jason merely spun his pistol again. “He got that money from trafficking and would use it to commit more crimes. Besides, I needed new gear.”
“I offered to finance your equipment.” And his college fees, rent, and groceries. Jason had refused, claiming he was an adult, but Bruce got him to take an unlimited credit card for emergencies.
“I prefer to steal money from evil millionaires than morally half-decent billionaires." He rested his lower lip on the muzzle of his gun in thought. “Haven't found a good evil billionaire to exploit yet.”
“What about this one?” Diana cut Bruce off before he could protest. “You threw multiple grenades into his yacht, randomly and without provocation, then laughed as he had to swim to shore and said, and I quote. Drink oil, you son of a bitch.”
“That was a social commentary on the river’s pollution, that he is partially responsible.” Despite the cocky tone, Jason’s attitude did seem to mellow down a bit now that it was Diana abording him.
Clark stole a glance at Bruce, who was hiding his face in his hands in exasperation. He felt a bit bad for his friend, so many vigilante children were a herculean task, even for Batman. Jon and Conner gave him their fair share of headaches, and they were just two.
“You also grappled to a restaurant where he was, and when spotting him…approached and called him a loser in front of his date.”
“She could do better.”
“Is that why you-” Diana gave a double glance to the words, her lips twisting upwards until she put a hand over her mouth to hide- “Sat at the table. Ate his fries. Spilled wine on him. Left with the date and made him pay the bill after ordering nine thousand grams of caviar without his consent?”
In a mockery of a calming gesture, Jason lifted his hands. “I know what you are all thinking, but Lana and I did not sleep together. I just took her home after going for milkshakes.”
They didn't have the time to read all of the incidents out loud. Some of the most memorable ones got mentioned, like using his penthouses as vacation homes, ordering designer clothes with lifted credit card numbers, and the time Jason got Sionis shipped to Antarctica by locking him on a crate on a whim during a standstill at the docks.
“Jason, why would you show up in his bedroom at four am?” Bruce skipped the verbal abuse section altogether, or the meeting would be endless.
“I wanted to ask where he kept his cereals.” At the three disbelieving looks pointed at him, Jason added. “I was hungry.”
Once again, Bruce refrained from pointing out that Jason was always invited to stay at the manor and did not have to break into crime lords' homes. “Then why did you tie him up and lock him in the closet after?”
“He started freaking out, and it was four am, so it would be rude to wake up neighbours. Some people actually have to work.”
Clark clicked his tongue. Bruce followed his gaze into the security picture of Jason, cross-legged, sitting on a white leather couch in his pajamas, playing some farming game on a flat screen the size of the entire wall while eating Cap'n Crunch. So he did find where Sionis kept them. “I will be honest, I don't know what to do about this.”
“What about nothing?” Jason offered. “It's not like he is a damsel in distress. Dude tried to kill me like seventy-four times.”
“I would too if I were him, LittleWing.”
By the door, Dick, Cassandra, and Tim were trying their best to hold back laughter. Just as Bruce thought he was almost free, his mouth hurt from forcing his face to remain stoic, and he wasn't sure much longer he could pretend that hiding his face was from annoyance.
Jason turned to his sibling. “What are you doing here?”
Tim leaned against the door frame. “We heard you got in trouble and came to see.”
“But you would only know if you were already here.” The gun was pointed like an accusatory finger. “You also got in trouble.”
Dick pushed Tim in the arm, not with enough strength to bruise, but enough that he almost fell forward from his lean. “Well done, Tim.”
“Yours is the worst,” Cass pointed out.
Clark and Diana had been rendered mute. With some promises of favors, Bruce might be able to stop them from telling the rest of the League, or just Hal Jordan and Oliver.
“Then what did you do?”
“Psychological torture."
“Mine is not the worst.”
Dick chimed in. “It sounds worse than it is.”
“How!?”
Tim chose that moment as a good one to enter the room and elbow Dick as a bonus. “At least you all did your crimes. I'm being wrongfully convicted.”
“Wait a minute.” Clark raised a hand. “No one is being convicted.”
His children were beyond listening. They kept going as if Clark´s voice was forgettable background noise.
“That's what they all say, Timmy.” Jason took on a condescending tone. “Do the crime, do the time.”
“Look who is speaking. You have a life sentence in Belarus.”
“And China,” Cass added.
“And almost got one in the US,” Dick finished.
“Stop judging me, you tortured someone.”
At that, Dick turned back to Tim. “What do you mean, wrongfully accused?”
“I was just working on a case.”
“Don't tell me you were stalking again.”
Their voices turned into indistinct bickering. Diana looked to the side to see Bruce resting his forehead on the table, his arms encasing his head, but she could notice her friend's shoulders trembling. “Enough.” Her voice sent the room into silence. “You will give your father an aneurysm.”
“Bruce?” Dick took a step forward, uncertainly.
The others´ expressions matched his, unsure if they had crossed some line. It was just some harmless fun. Maybe embarrassing the man in front of colleagues hadn't been the move, he might have had some serious case pushing him to his wits' end, and then was forced to come to deal with four adults acting like children. Dick wouldn't have been so immature on any other occasion when dealing with Justice League business, but the situation had felt so silly, and his siblings kept pushing that he let himself go and act how he would at home.
“If we made him cry, I'm killing myself,” Jason muttered.
Tim snapped at him to shut up because Bruce wouldn't be crying. Still, the fact was that the man was shaking like a leaf, hiding his face and not making a sound.
The shaking became worse until Bruce´s form was making the table tremble.
He straightened up, through his hands they could get glimpses of his red face and breathless pants and…oh.
Oh.
Batman was laughing.
Not just a small chuckle. Bruce held onto his stomach, unable to control himself anymore. It was worse than Joker gas; he couldn't stop and didn't want to. He was so glad he had adopted these lunatics who were staring at him, mouths agape.
It lasted for around a minute, but for everyone but Bruce, it felt like an eternity.
That night, they all showed up to dinner at the manor. As the plates were being set down, they kept sneaking glances at Bruce and then at each other in a secret language of gestures.
“What's the meaning of this, Drake?” Damian finally snapped when Tim spilled a glass, making hand gestures to Cass.
Tim leaned forward on the table. “Bruce, is there something you want to say about what happened today?”
“No, except that I expect all of you to behave better in the future.”
After the meal, Cassandra suggested a movie. Bruce had no way to defend himself; he knew they were up to something, and he still followed like a puppet to the living room, where his booming laugh was leaving the television's speakers.
Damian rested his chin on a pillow. “Father?”
“Yes, Damian.”
“How do I get summoned to the next one of these meetings?”
Oh no.
Dick pulled his younger brother into a headlock that made Damian squeak in protest. “Just get into some trouble, Dami. It's easy, we can show you how to.”
Bruce had a feeling he would be called to more HR meetings very soon.