Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wayne Manor had a specific way of existing that tended to be intimidating to the Drake-Kent kids, though the "why" of it was something Caitlyn was still trying to parse out.

It wasn't the gothic architecture or the sheer opulence of the place. Between her father’s history and her own aesthetic preferences, Caitlyn actually loved the moody, dramatic arches and the gargoyles that seemed to keep watch over the grounds. She was used to "fancy"; she just preferred it in smaller doses. Back home, their house was a comfortable, single-story sprawl—the rooms were large and airy, boasting two full bathrooms, a sun-drenched pool in the backyard, and a garage large enough to house Tim’s various projects and Conner’s penchant for tinkering with engines.

Tim and Conner had been intentional about that. They both wanted a sanctuary that didn't scream "billionaire's offspring." Tim, having grown up as the heir to Drake Industries, was fiercely protective of his children’s normalcy; he didn't want them categorized by their net worth or seen as spoiled by their peers. Conner, meanwhile, had spent too much of his early life in labs and cold, clinical spaces to ever tolerate a house that didn't feel lived-in. His only rule when they bought their home was that there were to be no blank walls. As a result, every vertical surface was a gallery of their lives: framed photos of beach trips, Thomas’s finger-painted masterpieces, Caitlyn’s charcoal sketches, and the jagged little scratches in the door frames that tracked their growth spurts like a topographical map of their childhood.

The Manor was intimidating because of its sheer, oppressive scale. It didn't just sit on a hill; it towered over the landscape, silhouetted against the bruised purple of the setting Gotham sun like a silent sentinel.

Thomas, whose brain worked in a series of rapidly firing facts and figures, had memorized the blueprints of the estate during their first summer visit two years ago. They had a system: every other summer was spent in the dark, rainy embrace of Gotham, while the off-years were dedicated to the bright, soaring glass of Metropolis. This year was a Gotham year, and Thomas was vibrating with the excitement of it.

“Cait, did you know there are sixty-six rooms?” Thomas chirped, bouncing so hard in his booster seat that the straps creaked. “There are six floors if you count the attic and the basement levels. There’s three living rooms, two dining rooms, and a library that has a ladder on wheels!”

“I know, Tommy, I’ve been here before,” Caitlyn said gently. She unbuckled her own seatbelt with the practiced ease of a teenager who had made this trip a dozen times, then leaned over to help Thomas with his.

Thomas’s grin didn’t falter; it was wide and gap-toothed, radiating enough energy to power the Manor’s East Wing. “I know! But it’s so cool! Do you think Grandpa got me a big bed? Because last time I was little and now I’m big! I had that race car bed that was on the floor, and that was cool, but I think it’s meant for five-year-olds. Seven is a big number,” he added, nodding with the solemnity of a judge.

Caitlyn matched his nod with a serious expression of her own. “Seven’s a very big number. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he upgraded you to a Batmobile bed. A high-tech one.”

Thomas’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “You think so? Do you think he’ll let me see the Batcave this time? I promise not to touch the giant penny!”

Tim, who had been behind the wheel for the entire duration of the New Jersey turnpike—mostly because Conner had a standing refusal to drive in a state where "people treat lane changes like a personal declaration of war"—turned his head to look into the backseat. He caught Caitlyn’s eye and shared a weary, knowing smirk.

“I think he’ll be more convinced to show you the secret stuff if you’re the first one he sees,” Tim suggested, his voice warm with fatherly conspiratorial charm.

Thomas didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled out of the car the moment the door was open, an impressive feat given the weight of the Batman backpack strapped to his small frame. He paused just long enough to ensure his laces were tied—Alfred’s influence was already taking hold—and then sprinted toward the massive front doors.

The oak doors were at least four times his height, imposing and heavy, but Thomas didn't hesitate. He knocked twice with the confidence of someone who owned the place.

The door groaned open within seconds. Alfred Pennyworth stood there, as composed and timeless as the Manor itself, his hands resting precisely behind his back. His gaze dropped down to the small boy at his feet, and his characteristically stoic features softened in a way that only happened for the grandkids.

“Hello, Master Thomas. We’ve been expecting you,” he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“Hi Alfie!” Thomas beamed. “Is Grandpa home? I have things to show him!”

“He is in the family room upstairs, currently pretending not to listen for the sound of the car,” Alfred replied. “Before I escort you, do your fathers require assistance?” He looked past Thomas to Conner, who was currently grinning like a loon while effortlessly hoisting four massive suitcases at once, looking like he was carrying nothing heavier than a few pillows.

Caitlyn and Tim both rolled their eyes in perfect synchronization.

“Daddy made Papa carry all the bags and Cait said it’s because Papa said everyone in New Jersey drives like a-holes,” Thomas reported cheerfully, completely unaware of the social faux pas.

Alfred’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “Indeed. Well, let us endeavor not to repeat that specific word within these walls, shall we?” Alfred stepped back, opening the door wider to usher Thomas into the grand foyer. He held it for Caitlyn and Tim, then swung the second leaf of the door open to accommodate Conner and his mountainous pile of luggage.

“Master Thomas,” Alfred noted, leaning down slightly to inspect the boy’s gear. “I noticed a distinct discoloration on the strap of your backpack. Would you like me to attend to that for you?” He pointed to a bright red fruit punch stain—a souvenir from a particularly bumpy stretch of the drive.

“Can you do it later, please? I wanna show Grandpa my backpack first. It’s special,” Thomas pleaded.

Alfred nodded gravely. “A reasonable request. Business before maintenance.”

“Where is B’?” Tim asked, glancing around the cavernous hallway, his detective instincts automatically scanning for the patriarch of the house.

“Probably brooding in a dimly lit corner,” Conner laughed, his voice echoing off the marble floors.

“I can redact your exception to my no-metas-in-Gotham rule, Conner. Don't test me.”

Bruce Wayne was descending the grand staircase, looking less like a dark knight and more like a grandfather in a soft navy sweater and charcoal slacks. However, the legendary Bat-glare was noticeably absent; his eyes softened perceptibly the moment they landed on Caitlyn and Thomas.

Tim raised an amused eyebrow. “You redact it for Conner, and you’d have to redact it for Kori, Wally, Kara, Clark, Jon...”

Bruce waved a hand dismissively as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I get your point, Tim,” he uttered, before kneeling down so he was eye-level with Thomas.

Thomas was practically vibrating out of his sneakers. “Grandpa, look!” He spun around in a circle, pointing frantically at the backpack.

Bruce smiled—a real, genuine Bruce Wayne smile that didn't appear in the Gotham Gazette. “It looks very impressive, Thomas. Very sleek.”

Thomas showed off his missing bottom tooth in a jagged grin. “I know! It’s very tactile and multiple!”

“Tactical and multipurpose,” Tim whispered from the sidelines.

“Tactical and multipurpose!” Thomas corrected himself with a cheer.

Bruce nodded solemnly. “I can see that. It looks like it could hold quite a few gadgets.” He then looked up, shifting his focus to Caitlyn. “And how has the season been? I saw the stats for your last game.”

Caitlyn beamed, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s going great. We took gold in CIF last season, and Coach told me privately that I’m on the shortlist for the state MVP award.”

“I’m not surprised in the least. You’ve always had an excellent sense of the court. Well done, Caitlyn,” Bruce said, the pride in his voice making her stand a little taller. “And how is Inaya? She couldn't join us this summer?”

Caitlyn’s smile faltered just a tiny bit. “I asked, but her parents... well, they referred to New Jersey as the 'epitome of law-breaking and moral decay.' I think the Gotham headlines scare them. But we’re going to call every night.”

“I can vouch,” another voice chimed in.

Selina Kyle appeared at the top of the stairs, looking effortless in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a silk shirt that Tim recognized as one of Bruce’s old ones. She descended the steps with the grace of a predator, her eyes sparkling as she took in the sight of her family. She bypassed the men entirely and went straight for Caitlyn, pulling her into a tight, lavender-scented hug.

“Oh, look at you. You’ve grown again,” Selina murmured, pulling back to kiss the top of Caitlyn’s head. “You’re nearly taller than me now.”

“What about me, Mima? Am I taller?” Thomas asked, tugging on the hem of her shirt.

Selina knelt down, ruffling his hair into a chaotic mess. “Hmm. Let me see. At this rate, Thomas, you’ll be looking down at your grandfather by Christmas.”

Thomas bounced with renewed vigor, as if trying to accelerate the process. “You really think so?”

“Oh, I know so,” she purred, throwing a wink at Bruce. “Bruce, be a dear and help the boys with their bags. Don’t make Alfred do all the heavy lifting just because you’re enjoying the reunion.”

Bruce stood and grabbed the Superman-themed children’s suitcase from Conner’s grip. The small, colorful bag looked almost comical in the hands of the Batman, but Bruce didn't seem to mind.

“I can get my own,” Caitlyn said quickly, stepping forward to reclaim her duffel from Conner before he could attempt to carry the whole car's worth of cargo up the stairs.

Tim reached for his own luggage as well, but Conner held onto it firmly, his fingers brushing against Tim’s. “Really?” Tim asked with a tired but amused smirk.

“We’re sharing a room anyway, let me carry your bag,” Conner mumbled, his voice dropping into that soft, private tone that made Tim’s eyes soften.

Tim rolled his eyes, though he didn't pull away. Alfred offered a faint, knowing grin from the doorway. “Chivalry is not as dead as the population presumes. I will begin dinner. Are we still expecting Master Jason and his family?”

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, looking every bit the weary patriarch. “I offered. Jason said he will think about it. Which usually means he’s checking to see if he’s still annoyed with me.”

“He’ll come,” Selina said firmly, placing a steadying hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“Lian is coming, right?” Caitlyn asked, glancing at her phone again.

“She comes to Gotham every summer, Cait, I highly doubt she’ll skip this one,” Conner reminded her as they began to move toward the stairs.

“I texted her, but she hasn’t responded,” Caitlyn said, frowning at the screen.

“She’s probably just busy,” Tim said. Caitlyn nodded, still biting her lower lip nervously, her thumb hovering over the silent chat.

“Can I see my room? Did I get a bigger bed? I got bigger, Grandpa,” Thomas said, looking between the adults. “Did you notice? I’m taller, so I won’t fit in the race car bed anymore. My feet would hang off!”

Bruce smiled and nodded. “I did notice. We actually moved everything to a new room and picked out a new bed that I think you’ll love.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “I get a new room?” he asked, his hands flapping excitedly at his sides.

“Well, I was told that you’re big enough to have your own bathroom now because you’re tall enough to reach the sink. It doesn’t have a shower for safety, but you have everything else,” Bruce explained, looking down at him with a glimmer of pride.

“Yay!” Thomas cheered, turning to his parents. “I have my own bathroom! I'm a big kid now!”

Tim and Conner nodded with matching smiles. “That’s very exciting, buddy,” Tim agreed.

“Can I go see it? Right now?”

“Of course, come with me,” Bruce said, holding his free hand out for Thomas to grab. Thomas snatched it instantly, his small hand disappearing into Bruce's.

“Caitlyn, dear, can I come catch up with you?” Selina asked, looking at her granddaughter with a sparkling gaze.

“Of course, Mima,” Caitlyn said, her mood brightening instantly at the prospect of some one-on-one time with Selina.

Selina and Caitlyn followed close behind Thomas and Bruce as they ascended the grand staircase. As they wound through the upper corridors, Caitlyn found herself glancing at all the recent photos that had been added to the manor's collection, turning the cold museum-like halls into a warm record of their chaotic family.

There was one of Kori, Dick, Wally, and Mar’i during New Years, all in matching pajamas on their large couch. Dick had an arm slung around Wally and Kori, while Mar’i was leaning her head on Wally’s shoulder, smiling wide.

Next was a photo of Jason, Roy, and Lian, taken right before a school dance. Lian was striking and confident in a teal and black pantsuit, while both her fathers were dressed in their usual uniform of busted jeans and torn-up t-shirts, looking slightly out of place but grinning with fierce pride regardless.

They passed the portrait of Tim, Conner, Caitlyn, and Thomas from the photoshoot Tim had painstakingly prepared because Martha Kent requested more photos for the farm. Tim and Conner stood next to each other, pillars of stability, with Thomas in front of Tim and Caitlyn off to the side of Conner, both adults with arms draped over the kids' shoulders.

Further down, a shot of Cass and Stephanie from their trip to Peru showed them with their backs to each other, turning their heads to smile at the camera with the Andes stretching out behind them.

Caitlyn slowed down to look at a new one: Duke holding his dual master's degrees at his college graduation, holding both up with a bright, triumphant smile. Isabella was at his side, beaming as she held her own dual master's degrees.

Next to that was a candid shot of Barbara, Luke, and Harper at a restaurant, caught in the middle of an animated conversation over a table full of appetizers, all three of them smiling wide.

There was Helena with her cat perched on her lap; the animal was a fluffy ball of white fur that stood out sharply against the black clothes she wore.

And a hilarious one of Julia, Kate, and Renee in Aruba; Kate was mid-gesture flipping off the camera while both Julia and Renee looked like they were barely holding back laughter at her antics.

Finally, there was Damian standing outside his medical school. He had a flat, professional expression even in his blue scrubs, holding his MD degree with a quiet, intense pride that only Damian could manage.

They passed many more before arriving at the family wing. Conner and Tim’s suite was actually Tim’s old room, renovated to add more space for Conner’s things, though it surprisingly still had some of his old posters from his teen years up—a small touch of the boy Tim had been.

Caitlyn’s room was a little further down the hall. Her first summer here had been a whirlwind; she had only been ten, and the room had seemed massive then. It still felt huge now, almost twice the size of her room at home. It was a space that grew with her, covered in posters from her previous obsessions and photos of her friends back home. A box of Barbies sat in the corner, a dusty relic from that first summer she couldn't quite bring herself to pack away.

Thomas’s new room was right next to Caitlyn’s. It featured the new bed, which was indeed in the shape of a sleek, black Batmobile. It held the same familiar toys he had in his previous room, but with new Justice League-themed wallpaper featuring a mix of insignias around all four walls.

Thomas jumped up and down at the sight, then ran to launch himself onto the bed. “This is mine? Really? It's a car bed for big kids!”

Bruce rolled the suitcase over to the dresser, which was still covered in the dinosaur stickers Thomas had applied years ago. “It’s all yours, kiddo. Every bit of it.”

Thomas giggled, sitting up to inspect every detail of the car-shaped frame, his small hands tracing the "tires."

— 

Meanwhile, Caitlyn began the process of unpacking her suitcase into her dresser, which had been left empty in anticipation of her arrival. Gotham summers always required a different wardrobe than Jump City ones.

Speaking of wardrobes, Selina pushed open the closet door and pulled out several heavy shopping bags with a flourish. “I figured since Thomas was receiving an upgrade, you deserved one as well,” she said. “I may have taken a glance at your social media recently to see the style you’ve been leaning into. I went to some of Gotham’s best thrift stores and found a few items I thought you might like.”

Caitlyn beamed, abandoning her half-unpacked suitcase to dive into the bags. She pulled out a selection of gothic clothes Selina had curated—velvet skirts, lace-up tops, and dark, distressed denim that fit her aesthetic perfectly. “Oh this is so cool, thank you, Mima!” she said, holding a velvet top against her chest and grinning at her grandmother.

— 

Down the hall, the atmosphere was much quieter. Tim’s childhood bedroom had undergone several transformations over the years, but the core of it—the sharp lines, the technical gadgets, and the lingering scent of old books and soldering iron—remained like a preserved specimen.

Conner was currently standing in the center of the room, looking at a series of posters on the wall that Tim had stubbornly refused to take down during his various "rebranding" phases. Conner looked massive in the space, his broad shoulders making the room feel like it was shrinking around him.

“I still can't believe you had a poster of the original Mercury astronauts,” Conner said, gesturing toward a faded print near the window. “And you were, what? Sixteen?”

Tim, who was busy transferring his gear into a secure, fingerprint-locked drawer, didn't look up, but his voice was full of fond exasperation. “I was fourteen when I put that one up, actually. And they were pioneers, Kon. I liked the idea of people going into the unknown with nothing but math and a lot of guts. It felt... relatable.”

Conner walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. The mattress groaned slightly under his weight, a reminder of the physical difference between the boy who grew up here and the man visiting now. He looked at the dresser, where a few old trophies and a framed photo of a young Tim with a much younger Dick Grayson sat in a layer of thin, meticulously cleared dust.

“This place always feels like a museum of ‘Before’,” Conner said softly. “Before me. Before the kids. Just you in this big house, solving crimes in your head before running around the city with Batman.”

Tim finally stopped what he was doing and turned around. He leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were tired from the drive, but they softened as they settled on his husband. “It’s where I learned how to be who I am. I love that you get to see it every visit.”

Conner reached out, grabbing Tim’s hand and pulling him forward until Tim was standing between his knees. “I still feel like I’m going to break something in here,” Conner admitted, his thumb tracing the back of Tim’s knuckles. “Everything is so... delicate. So mysterious.”

“That’s why I need you here,” Tim replied, leaning down to press his forehead against Conner’s. “You balance out the brooding and mystery. Bruce is already grumpier just having your ‘Smallville sunshine’ within the city limits.”

Conner laughed, the sound deep and resonant, vibrating against Tim’s chest. “I aim to please. Although, I think Thomas might have him beat on the excitement front. Did you see his face? I think he’s going to try to sleep in that Batmobile bed with his backpack still on.”

“I’d put money on it,” Tim smiled, closing his eyes for a brief moment, letting the silence of the Manor wrap around them. “It’s good to be back. Even if I have to drive everywhere.”

“Everyone in Jersey drives like they’re trying to win a gladiator match, Tim! I stand by it!”

Tim just chuckled, squeezing Conner’s hand. “I know you do, I know you do.”

—

The grand dining room of Wayne Manor was typically a cathedral of stiff formality—a place where the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall felt like a reprimand. But whenever the extended family descended, the atmosphere underwent a violent chemical shift. 

Alfred had already moved through the space with the invisible precision of a master architect. The long mahogany table was a landscape of gleaming silver and bone china, all reflecting the amber glow of the heavy crystal chandelier above. Bruce sat at the head, his usual tension replaced by a rare, relaxed posture. To his right, Selina moved with grace, already deep in a quiet, sharp-witted conversation with Tim about the latest encryption vulnerabilities in Wayne Enterprises’ infrastructure. Near the sideboard, Conner was helpfully—and perhaps slightly dangerously—assisting Alfred. His Kryptonian strength made the massive, twenty-pound roasted chicken look like a stray turkey wing as he lofted the platter with a single hand.

"I told you, I heard the motorcycles," Thomas whispered to Caitlyn. He was vibrating with excitement, perched on the edge of his velvet-cushioned chair and swinging his legs so hard his heels thudded against the wood. "It was the loud ones."

As if on cue, the heavy oak front doors echoed with a rhythmic, unmistakable knock. It wasn't the polite tap of a socialite or the tentative ring of a guest; it was the assertive, heavy thud of someone who still felt like he owned the place but held a lingering grudge about the wallpaper.

"They're here!" Thomas cheered, nearly sliding off his seat in his haste.

A heartbeat later, Jason Todd strode into the room, followed by Roy Harper and Lian. Jason was a stark contrast to the manor’s elegance, dressed in his "civilian" uniform of a scuffed leather jacket and dark jeans. His sharp gaze swept the room out of habit, only softening when his eyes landed on the kids. Roy was right behind him, looking windblown and weary, carrying a bulging duffel bag and wearing a grin that suggested he’d just won a very expensive bet.

Lian, however, didn't wait for introductions. Dressed in a cozy oversized flannel and baggy jeans, she bypassed the adults entirely, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor as she headed straight for Caitlyn.

"You took three hours to text me back!" Caitlyn accused, though her face was split by a wide, relieved smile. She stood up and pulled Lian into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by some B-list rogue on the way here."

"I was on a plane, no connection," Lian laughed, squeezing her back just as hard. "I couldn't exactly lean out the window to get a signal."

Roy dropped his bag by the sideboard with a heavy clump and navigated the maze of chairs to clap Conner on the shoulder. "Good to see you, Big Guy. I see you're still stuck with the heavy lifting duty."

"Every year," Conner grinned, carefully set the chicken down. "Alfred says I have the most 'consistent' grip."

Jason made his way toward the head of the table. He stopped behind Bruce’s chair, the air between them thick with years of complicated history. He offered a curt, stiff-necked nod. "B."

"Jason," Bruce replied. His voice was level, but there was a flicker of genuine warmth in his eyes that he saved specifically for his wayward sons. "I'm glad you decided to make the trip."

"Roy wanted Alfie’s cooking," Jason countered quickly, though the way he settled into his usual chair betrayed the lie. Everyone in the room knew he wanted to be here just as much as Roy did. He turned to Thomas, who was staring up at him with pure, unadulterated hero-worship. "Hey, Tiny Titan. I hear you got a new room. Is it true it’s got better security than the Cave?"

Thomas nodded so vigorously his hair flopped over his eyes. "It has my own bathroom, Uncle Jay! And a Batmobile bed! The lights under it glow red!"

Jason snorted, casting a dry, judging look at Bruce. "A Batmobile bed? Really, Bruce? You're starting them earlier and earlier. What’s next, tactical pacifiers?"

"Jason," Bruce sighed, though there was no real bite to it.

"Sit, everyone," Alfred commanded gently. His voice wasn't loud, yet it effortlessly cut through the mounting volume. "The roast is at its thermal peak, and it will not stay there for the duration of your bickering."

As the group scrambled to find their designated spots, the room filled with the rhythmic clink of silverware and the overlapping hum of a dozen different lives reconnecting. Lian slid into the chair next to Caitlyn, immediately leaning in until their shoulders touched.

"So, tell me everything," Lian whispered, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial low. "How is Inaya? Did you actually survive the flight and drive with your dads without losing your mind?"

Caitlyn leaned in, grateful for the shield of the general dinner noise. "Barely. Pops spent the entire trip yelling about Jersey drivers and 'the sanctity of the turn signal,' while Dad just kept telling him to find his 'inner peace' while secretly using his wrist-computer to calculate three different faster routes. It was a lot of energy for one SUV." She paused, her eyes brightening. "And Inaya is good. She’s obsessed with the architecture here—she sent me a list of three museums in Gotham she wants me to photograph for her."

Lian winced in sympathetic solidarity. "At least my dads are just embarrassing, not strict. Dad actually tried to convince me to wear my archery medals to dinner. He said I needed to 'intimidate' Damian if he showed up."

"It might have worked," Caitlyn chuckled, reaching for the bowl of garlic mashed potatoes. "Mima bought me some incredible clothes today, by the way. Very gothic, very 'we haunt this manor' vibes. You have to see the velvet coat after dinner."

"Oh, I'm there," Lian promised, piling her plate high.

Across the table, the dynamics were shifting. Jason was surprisingly engaged in a civil, high-level debate with Tim about a new security patch for the Titan’s network, while Roy and Conner were comparing notes on the best late-night pizza joints in their respective cities, arguing over the merits of thin crust versus deep dish.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, his plate mostly untouched as he watched the chaos. There was a look of quiet, profound contentment on his face—the kind of expression he rarely allowed the public, or even his enemies, to see. Thomas was currently using a dinner roll to demonstrate the flight path of a Batarang, gesturing wildly to an amused Selina.

Caitlyn smiled, feeling the familiar, heavy warmth of the Manor finally settle into her bones. Between Lian’s gossip, Thomas’s infectious energy, and the miracle of Jason and Bruce sharing a meal without a single explosion, it felt like the summer had finally, officially begun.

However, the peace was fragile. Roy shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing the small of his back with a grimace that looked genuinely painful. "Man, my back is absolutely killing me. That plane ride was brutal. Middle seats should be illegal for anyone over five-foot-ten."

Tim looked up from his plate, an eyebrow arched in genuine, clinical surprise. "You flew commercial? In economy?"

Jason let out a sharp, amused huff, pointing a fork toward the middle of the table. "Well, your ass was apparently preoccupied with the Batplane, and Damian has the private jet but his ass isn’t getting here until tomrrrow because he had an ‘emergency surgery’— or whatever. We took what we could get."

Tim stopped mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air as he looked genuinely confused. "Wait... who has the Batplane?"

Jason blinked at him, his expression turning from amusement to utter bewilderment. "You? I checked the hangar logs, Timbert. It was flagged as out for 'personal use.'"

"No," Tim said slowly, shaking his head with a look of dawning realization. "I didn't touch the Batplane. I took the Drake Industries private jet."

Roy paused with a mountain of peas halfway to his mouth, staring at Tim. "How the hell do you have the Drake Industries private jet, Timmy? I thought that you cut contact like… years ago."

Tim looked around the table as if the answer should have been printed in the morning news. He took a calm, deliberate sip of his water, letting the silence stretch for maximum effect before leaning back. "Well, it was from when I sued them? I got the private jet, the secondary headquarters in Jump City, and the family manor in the settlement."

The table went dead silent for a heartbeat. The only sound was the faint clink of Thomas’s spoon. Jason stared at Tim, his jaw practically dropping as he processed the information. "When the hell did you sue them? What chapter did I miss?"

Tim set his glass down with a precise clink and looked Jason dead in the eye. "Well, it was actually a little over a year after you tried to kill me, so I can see why you don’t reme—"

"How many times do I have to apologize!" Jason barked, though the anger was gone, replaced by a weary, familiar exasperation. "I said I was sorry about the whole Titan’s Tower thing! It’s been years! You can't just drop that every time you want to win an argument!"

"Enough," Bruce said.

It wasn't a shout; it was that low, gravelly frequency that seemed to vibrate the very liquid in their water glasses. The bickering ceased instantly. Jason’s mouth snapped shut mid-sentence, and even the clink of silverware died away. Bruce set his fork down with a deliberate, singular clack against the china. His gaze moved slowly around the table, lingering on each face—the wards, the sons, the partners, and the stray heroes—all gathered under his roof.

"Since everyone is finally here," Bruce continued, and for a moment, the 'Batman' mask slipped entirely. A rare, soft expression—something bordering on vulnerability—touched his features. "I wanted to share some news. It’s been a long time coming, but the Wayne Foundation will be officially funding and organizing the Gotham Pride Parade this year."

The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, suffocating kind. It was a stunned, warm stillness. In a city as jagged and dark as Gotham, a statement like that from its most prominent son was a tectonic shift.

"The city needs more moments of unity," Bruce said, his voice regaining its steady strength. His eyes met Tim’s first—acknowledging the battles Tim had fought for his own identity—before moving to Jason and Roy, and finally settling on Conner. "And more importantly, I want this family to be represented. This isn't just about a corporate sponsorship. I’ve already arranged for a Wayne Enterprises float, and I would really love it if all of you came. It would mean a lot to me—and to Gotham—to see us all there together. Standing as one."

The gravity of the request hit everyone at once. Bruce Wayne wasn't just asking for a public appearance; he was asking them to share in a moment of genuine, visible pride. Selina, who had been watching him with a softened gaze, reached over and squeezed his hand, her wedding ring catching the light. Her smile was one of unadulterated pride.

"I'm in," Tim said immediately. There was no hesitation, no calculation. He looked over at Conner, whose entire face had lit up.

"You kidding?" Conner’s grin was blinding, the kind of expression that usually preceded him lifting a car just for the fun of it. "I’m there. We’re there."

"Count us in, too," Roy added, leaning forward over his plate, his previous back pain seemingly forgotten in the excitement. "I've got a vintage red leather jacket that was practically made for a parade. Jay, we're going."

All eyes turned to Jason. For a second, the old, defensive wall looked like it might slide back into place. He leaned back in his chair, his scuffed boots hitting the expensive rug, but the snarky comeback everyone expected never came. Instead, his tough exterior flickered and softened. He looked at Bruce—really looked at him—and a small, genuine smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah," Jason muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "We'll be there, B. Wouldn't miss it."

The sentimentality of the moment lasted exactly three seconds before Thomas, who had been absorbing the news with wide-eyed intensity, began to vibrate in his seat again.

"Does the float have a Batmobile?" he demanded, his voice jumping an octave. "Can we put a giant rainbow flag on the back of the tank? Can it shoot glitter?"

The table broke into a chorus of startled, genuine laughter. Even Alfred, standing by the sideboard, allowed a small, satisfied smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

"We'll see about the glitter, Thomas," Bruce chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "But I think we can manage something spectacular."

— 

The following morning, Wayne Manor was at its most deceptive. To any outsider, the sun-drenched breakfast nook—a cathedral of glass and mahogany—looked like a postcard of aristocratic peace. Dust motes danced in the shafts of golden light that danced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the silver service and the steam rising from a carafe of expensive, dark-roast coffee. The air carried the comforting, yeasty scent of Alfred’s famous sourdough, fresh from the oven, sitting warm beneath a linen cloth. On the surface, it was a tableau of absolute stillness, the kind of quiet that suggested the world outside simply didn't exist.

But the peace lasted exactly until the sound of a high-performance engine screamed up the driveway, a savage, high-pitched mechanical wail that cut through the morning birdsong like a serrated blade. The gravel groaned under the weight of tires moving far too fast for a residential approach.

Inside the nook, the reaction was instantaneous. Tim Drake didn't look up from his tablet, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes, but his thumbs froze mid-scroll. His shoulders instinctively squared, the muscles in his neck tightening into cords of suppressed tension. Across the table, the casual clink of silverware stopped.

"He’s early," Tim muttered. It wasn't a guess; it was an observation of a known atmospheric shift.

A moment later, the sound of the latch was a sharp, metallic report that echoed through the vaulted foyer. Damian stepped into the manor, radiating an aura of crisp, lethal efficiency that seemed to physically displace the air in the room. He moved with a terrifyingly controlled economy of motion, every step a statement of intent. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that looked less like clothing and more like a suit of modern armor, the fabric perfectly pressed, the creases sharp enough to draw blood. His posture was so straight it bordered on a challenge, a spine made of tempered steel and uncompromising expectation.

He stopped at the very edge of the breakfast nook, the threshold between the public halls and the private sanctum of the family. With a slow, deliberate movement, he adjusted his cuffs, the gold links catching the light with a clinical glint. Then, he leveled a sharp, predatory gaze at the assembled adults.

"I see the 'circus' has officially set up its tents," Damian remarked. His voice was a cool, cultured drawl, the vowels rounded and precise, dripping with the effortless arrogance of someone who had never known what it felt like to be second in a room. His eyes drifted over the table, landing on Tim like a laser sight. "Drake."

Tim finally looked up, offering a slow, tired blink that spoke of long nights and too many spreadsheets. He didn't rise to the bait, but there was a flicker of genuine life in his expression that hadn't been there a minute ago. "Nice to see you too, Damian. I see medical school didn't do anything for your temperament. Did they not teach bedside manner, or did you just fail that elective?"

"Medical school was productive," Damian countered. He didn't walk to his seat; he glided, sliding into the heavy chair with the grace of a stalking panther. He moved with a silence that was unnatural in a house of creaking wood.

Alfred appeared instantly, moving from the shadows of the sideboard with the fluid grace that matched Damian’s own. He placed a cup of Earl Grey in front of the younger man, the steam swirling in a perfect plume. Damian didn't look at the tea, but he gave the older man a genuine, respectful nod—a tilt of the head that was reserved for only a handful of people on the planet.

"Thank you, Pennyworth," Damian said, his voice dropping an octave in temperature. "At least some things in this house remain civilized despite the... congestion."

The "civilization” was abruptly interrupted by a frantic, rhythmic thumping of feet against the hardwood floors. Thomas slid into the room in his Superman pajamas, his socks providing zero traction as he skidded to a halt near the table, his arms flailing for balance. His face was lit with the kind of pure, unfiltered joy that usually didn't survive the manor's heavy atmosphere.

"Uncle Damian! You're back!" Thomas cheered, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings.

The change in Damian was subtle but profound, a microscopic shifting of the tectonic plates of his personality. The sharp, defensive ice in his eyes—the gaze he used to dissect enemies and rivals—didn't melt, but it certainly softened, the edges blurring into something approachable. As Thomas scrambled toward him, a whirlwind of flannel and unbrushed hair, Damian didn't pull away or recoil from the impending collision. Instead, he reached out a gloved hand, steadying the boy with a firm but surprisingly gentle grip on his shoulder, anchoring him before he could topple a chair.

"Uncle Damian, did you bring the sword? Can I see the sword? Is it the one with the dragon on the handle?" Thomas was a fountain of questions, his eyes wide and searching Damian’s luggage-less form for weaponry.

Damian looked down at Thomas, his expression shifting into one of intense, serious focus. It was the exact look he gave a complex surgical diagram or a tactical map—the way he looked when he was teaching someone something he considered vital to their survival and character.

"The katana is currently secured in the armory, Thomas," Damian said, his tone grave and instructional. "Weaponry is not for the breakfast table. However," he reached into the interior pocket of his charcoal jacket, his fingers moving with surgical precision, "while I was in Kyoto, I visited a traditional woodcarver's workshop. I found this."

He pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. The grain of the wood was polished to a soft luster, the details of the feathers etched with obsessive care. He held it out on the flat of his palm, presenting it like a sacred relic.

"It is a traditional whistle," Damian explained, his eyes locking onto Thomas's. "It is not a toy. It requires breath control, steady lungs, and discipline to operate correctly. If you blow too hard, it shrieks. If you blow too soft, it is silent. You must find the middle path."

Thomas beamed, his small fingers trembling slightly as he reached out to take the carving. He clutched the wooden bird to his chest as if it were made of solid gold, his eyes shining with the weight of the responsibility Damian had just handed him.

The quiet moment was broken by the sound of light footsteps and the soft murmur of voices as Caitlyn and Lian wandered into the nook. They looked a bit more awake than Tim, though they still carried the languor of a summer morning. Damian’s gaze flickered toward the doorway. While he kept his chin high and his spine rigid, the biting wit he usually kept sharpened for Tim or Jason remained sheathed. He didn't smile—Damian didn't do something so common as a grin—but he gave them a stiff, formal nod. In the complex lexicon of Damian’s body language, it was the equivalent of a warm, crushing hug.

"Caitlyn. Lian," he acknowledged, his voice holding a note of formal recognition. "I trust your travels from your respective homes were without incident? I have already recalibrated the Manor’s perimeter sensors and the internal security nodes to recognize your updated biometrics. You will find that the previous 'dead zones' in the north garden have been eliminated, should you wish to... socialize outdoors without the risk of undetected approach."

Caitlyn didn't look intimidated by the mention of security nodes. She offered him a knowing, lopsided smile, sliding into a chair nearby. "Thanks, Uncle Dami. Good to know the satellite is watching my back while I'm reading. Did you actually get us anything from Kyoto, or just security upgrades?"

Damian let out a sharp huff of air through his nose—the closest he came to a laugh—though there was no real heat in the sound. He reached back into his pocket, producing two small packages wrapped in heavy, indigo-dyed silk and tied with intricate knots. He slid them across the table toward the girls without a word, his movements quick and efficient.

"They are omamori—charms for protection and luck," Damian said, his voice returning to its cool, clinical baseline. "Given this family's peculiar penchant for attracting unnecessary trouble and high-velocity projectiles, I felt they were a logical necessity for your stay here."

Jason, who had been leaning silently against the doorframe with a mug of coffee the size of a soup bowl, let out a sharp snort. He looked as rugged as ever, a stark contrast to Damian’s tailored perfection. "Go easy on them, Dames. You're going to give them a complex with all this 'protection' talk. They’re just here for the summer, not a deployment to a war zone."

Damian didn't even turn his head toward Jason, but the atmosphere didn't spike with the usual venomous retort. "Todd. I see you’ve brought the archer. I assume the manor’s insurance premiums have been adjusted accordingly to account for the increased probability of arrow-related property damage?"

"Missed you too, kid," Roy’s voice called out from further down the hallway, punctuated by the sound of a bowstring being checked.

The heavy air of the room shifted as Bruce entered. He moved with the quiet authority of the manor’s true master, his presence grounding the swirling energies of his various sons and protégés. He walked past Damian and, in a rare display of paternal physical contact, placed a hand on his shoulder—a brief, grounding touch that lasted only a second but seemed to settle Damian deeper into his chair.

"Glad you're home, Damian," Bruce said, his voice a low rumble. "You're just in time. We’re in the final stages of planning the Pride float."

Damian took a slow, measured sip of his tea, his sharp eyes darting between the children playing with the whistle and the rest of the chaotic, sprawling family tree. He set the cup back down on the saucer with a precise, muted clink.

"I heard rumors of this... parade," Damian said, his gaze fixed on Thomas, who was currently attempting to figure out the "middle path" of breath control with the wooden bird. "I trust the security logistics have been handled with more than just 'optimism'? Thomas will require a position on the float that affords him maximum visibility of the festivities but maintains optimal ballistic cover. I shall oversee the tactical overlay myself this morning to ensure the children are not inconvenienced by the crowds or any... unsanctioned Gotham elements."

Tim let out a long, dramatic sigh that turned into a small, tired laugh. He leaned back in his chair, watching Damian pull a digital stylus from his pocket as if preparing for battle. "He's definitely back," Tim murmured, though he was actually smiling now, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "And he's already gone into 'Protector Mode.'"

The breakfast nook, once a postcard of quiet peace, was now a loud, messy, and complicated hub of planning and gifts, the aristocratic stillness replaced by the vibrant, jagged energy of the family being whole again. Damian didn't join in the laughter, but as he began to sketch out a security perimeter on his own device, he didn't look away either.

While the foyer was still thick with the tension of Damian’s "conquest" of the Manor, the side entrance—a heavy, vine-shrouded door that led toward the gardens—creaked open with practiced stealth.

Duke and Isabella stepped into the mudroom, moving with the synchronized silence of two people who had spent the last several years navigating high-level lecture halls and late-night research labs together. Duke was carrying three different messenger bags, his expression a mix of exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of a man who had finally finished a grueling marathon. Isabella was right beside him, clutching a stack of bound theses like they were holy relics.

They had timed it perfectly—or so they thought. With Damian’s high-octane arrival currently sucking all the oxygen out of the breakfast nook, they figured they could slip upstairs, dump their luggage, and present themselves as "civilized adults" once the initial chaos had simmered.

"If we move now," Duke whispered, stepping over a discarded pair of crocs, "we can make the back stairs before Jason finishes his first cup of coffee. We don’t have to explain anything about the Batplane until at least dinner."

Isabella nodded, her eyes darting toward the hallway. "Agreed. I am not emotionally prepared to defend my thesis to Damian before I've had a shower."

They made it exactly four steps into the main corridor.

"Duke! Bella!"

The shout came from the floor level. Thomas, who had been distracted by his new wooden whistle, had wandered into the hall just in time to see the two "intruders." He didn't just see them; he lunged, abandoning his new whistle on the table to sprint toward them with the speed of a heat-seeking missile.

"You're back! You're back! You're back!" Thomas cheered, colliding with Duke’s knees and nearly sending the stack of academic papers flying.

"Abort mission," Duke groaned, though a massive, genuine smile broke across his face as he dropped the bags to ruffle Thomas's hair. "Hey there, little man. Good eye. You're getting way too fast for me."

The noise immediately drew the attention of the breakfast nook.

"Ah, the scholars have returned," Alfred’s voice drifted from the kitchen, sounding immensely pleased.

Damian appeared in the doorway of the nook, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He didn't move to help with the bags, but his eyes swept over the pair, taking in the weary lines around their eyes and the sheer volume of academic cargo they were hauling.

"Thomas, release them," Damian commanded, though there was a hint of uncharacteristic approval in his tone. He looked at Duke and then at Isabella. "I assume since you have both successfully acquired dual masters' degrees, you have finally reached a level of intellectual competence that will make dinner conversations marginally more bearable?"

Isabella laughed, leaning against the wall as she caught her breath. "Nice to see you too, Damian. And yes, we're officially educated and under-slept. Don't start a debate with us; we'll probably just fall asleep mid-sentence."

Duke reached out and shook Damian’s hand—a firm, respectful greeting between two men who had grown to appreciate each other's very different brands of discipline. "We tried to sneak in, but the kid’s got a future in surveillance."

Tim and Conner looked down at their son with pride in his future stalking abilities. 

"I will assist the graduates with their luggage. They have clearly spent their energy on more... theoretical pursuits,” Alfred smiled. Duke and Isabella allowed Alfred to grab a few things from them, but not everything. 

Bruce appeared at the threshold of the breakfast nook, his expression warming at the sight of the two newest arrivals. "Duke. Isabella. Congratulations on your degrees. I read both of your dissertations—excellent work."

Duke blinked, momentarily thrown. "You... you read both? The socio’ one was three hundred pages."

"And the urban planning thesis was two-seventy," Bruce said, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "I'm proud of you both."

Isabella's eyes went suspiciously bright. She cleared her throat, adjusting her grip on the bound papers. "Thanks, Bruce. That means a lot."

"Come eat," Selina called from inside the nook, already pulling out chairs. "Alfred's made enough to feed an army, which is fortunate because we essentially are one."

As Duke and Isabella settled into their seats—Duke immediately reaching for the coffee while Isabella went straight for the pastries—Bruce's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression shifting to something between bemused and resigned.

"We have visitors arriving in approximately fifteen minutes," he announced.

"Who?" Tim asked, already mentally running through the security protocols.

"Harley and Pamela." Bruce's tone was carefully neutral, the kind of neutral that suggested he was still processing the fact that he was about to have breakfast with two of Gotham's most notorious rogues.

Jason let out a long sigh. "You invited Harley Quinn to the Manor?"

"I invited her to discuss parade security," Bruce corrected. "Selina suggested it."

All eyes turned to Selina, who was looking extremely pleased with herself. "Harley's been doing good work lately. Real, legitimate good work. And she has... connections that might be useful."

"Connections," Damian repeated, his voice flat. "You mean her ability to communicate with the criminally insane element of Gotham's underworld."

"I prefer 'networking across diverse social strata,'" Selina said primly. "But yes, essentially."

Tim set down his fork, his brain already working through the implications. "You want her to make sure the rogues gallery stays quiet during the parade."

"Not just quiet," Selina said. "Harley suggested she could get them to take the day off. Completely. No heists, no schemes, nothing. Let Gotham have one peaceful day."

"And you think they'll actually listen to her?" Conner asked skeptically.

"They did for her birthday last year," Roy pointed out. "Remember? Not a single major crime for forty-eight hours. Gordon thought there was something in the water."

"That's actually true," Duke confirmed. "I was monitoring it. It was eerie."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nevertheless, they'll be here soon. Everyone please be... civil."

"I'm always civil," Damian said, which was such an obvious lie that even Thomas giggled.

—

Fifteen minutes later, the Manor's front doors opened to reveal Harley and Pamela, and they made quite an entrance.

Harley was in denim shorts, a tank top with "SMASH THE PATRIARCHY" in glittery letters, and combat boots that had seen better days. Her hair was up in her signature pigtails, now dyed in rainbow ombre. Pamela was in a flowing green sundress that looked like it had been grown rather than sewn, flowers blooming at the hem, her red hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Batsy!" Harley chirped, spreading her arms wide. "Look at this place! I forgot how fancy you live! Pam, check out these ceilings!"

"The gothic architecture is quite impressive," Pamela agreed, her voice warm as honey. "Though the gardens could use more native species. I'd be happy to consult."

Bruce stood in the foyer, looking like a man who had made a series of choices and was now living with the consequences. "Harley. Ivy. Thank you for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it!" Harley bounded forward, then spotted the assembled family in the breakfast nook doorway. "Oh wow, you got the whole crew here! Mini Red Robin! Superbaby! Arsenelle! Even Jason-boo!"

"Don't call me that," Jason said, but there was no real heat in it. He'd worked with Harley enough times over the years to have developed a grudging respect for her particular brand of chaos.

"And you must be the famous Thomas!" Harley crouched down to the seven-year-old's eye level. "I heard you got yourself a Bat obession. That's pretty cool, kid. I knew someone like that."

Thomas, who had been hiding slightly behind Conner's legs, peered out cautiously. "You're Harley Quinn. You used to be a bad guy."

"Used to be is the important part," Harley said seriously. "People can change, kiddo. 'S the whole point of growin' up—figurin' out who you wanna be and then bein' brave enough to be it."

Thomas considered this with the gravity of a supreme court justice. "Okay. Do you wanna see my wooden whistle? Uncle Damian got it for me from Japan."

"I would love to see your wooden whistle," Harley said, and she sounded like she genuinely meant it.

As Thomas dragged Harley off toward the breakfast nook—Conner trailing behind with the resigned air of a parent who had learned to just roll with the chaos—Bruce gestured for Pamela to follow him to his study. Tim, Selina, and Damian followed automatically.

The study was quieter, more controlled. Bruce closed the door and turned to face Pamela, his expression serious. "Selina said you had a proposal."

Pamela settled into one of the leather chairs with the kind of grace that suggested she was more comfortable here than she had any right to be. "I did. I do. It's simple, really. Gotham's criminal element takes the day off for your parade. Completely. No interference."

"And in exchange?" Tim asked, because there was always an exchange.

"Nothing," Pamela said, and smiled at their expressions. "I'm not asking for anything. This is... a gift. For what you're doing."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "You expect us to believe you're orchestrating this out of altruism?"

"I expect you to believe that some of us understand what it's like to be different," Pamela said, and there was steel beneath the honeyed voice now. "To be told you're wrong for existing. To have to fight for the right to love who you love." She looked at Bruce directly. "Harley and I have been together for four years now. We know what it costs to be visible. And we know what it means when someone like you—someone with your power, your influence—stands up and says 'this matters.'"

The study was silent for a long moment.

"Besides," Pamela continued, her tone lightening, "Harley's been texting with half the rogues gallery anyway. Riddler's going to a museum. Freeze is taking Nora to the botanical gardens. Even Scarecrow agreed to stay in his lab. They're all surprisingly... supportive."

"Scarecrow," Tim said flatly. "Jonathan Crane. The man who weaponizes fear. Is being supportive."

"He's been in therapy," Pamela said with a shrug. "Apparently it's helping. Who knew?"

Bruce looked like he was trying to process this information and failing. "And Joker?"

"In Arkham," Pamela said. "Has been for six weeks. Harley made sure of it personally." Something dark flickered across her face. "He won't be a problem. I guarantee it."

Selina reached over and squeezed Pamela’s hand—a brief, knowing gesture. "Thank you, Pamela. Truly."

"Thank me by making it a good day," Pamela said, standing. "Show Gotham what family looks like. All kinds of family."

As they filed back toward the breakfast nook, they found Harley sitting cross-legged on the floor, Thomas demonstrating his whistle technique while Caitlyn and Lian watched with amused expressions. Roy was asking Harley about her bat (the animal, which she apparently had three of now), and Duke was engaged in what looked like a surprisingly in-depth conversation with her about urban renewal projects.

"You know," Jason said quietly to Bruce, "I never thought I'd see the day where Harley Quinn was giving my nephew a pep talk in Wayne Manor."

"Neither did I," Bruce admitted. "But here we are."

"Here we are," Jason echoed, and despite everything—the strangeness, the impossibility of it all—he was smiling.

—

The rest of the morning continued in that strange, surreal way. Harley and Pamela stayed for coffee (Harley) and tea (Pamela, who produced her own blend from somewhere in her bag). The conversation ranged from parade logistics to Harley's new community outreach program to Pamela’s work on sustainable urban gardens.

At one point, Alfred appeared with fresh pastries, took one look at the scene—Gotham's Batman sitting at a table with two reformed rogues, a half-Kryptonian, three former Robins, two graduate students/former The Robins, and an assortment of children—and simply nodded as if this was completely normal.

"Will our guests be staying for lunch?" he asked.

"If that's okay," Harley said, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "We don't wanna impose."

"Madame, the day I cannot accommodate two additional persons for lunch is the day I retire," Alfred said with perfect seriousness. "What are your dietary restrictions?"

"Pam’s vegetarian, obviously," Harley said. "I'll eat literally anything."

"Excellent. I shall prepare accordingly."

As Alfred departed, Harley turned to Bruce. "Your butler is terrifying and I love him."

"Everyone does," Bruce said, and there was genuine fondness in his voice.

The conversation eventually turned to the parade itself. Tim pulled out his tablet, showing them the route map, the security plan, the positioning of the various floats.

"You got the nonprofit groups in front of the corporate sponsors," Harley observed, nodding approvingly. "That's good. Keeps it from bein' all about the money."

"That was Barbara's suggestion," Tim said. "She's coordinating a lot of the logistics."

"Babs is the best," Harley agreed. Then, more carefully: "She gonna be there? In person?"

"She's planning to," Tim said. "Why?"

"Just wonderin'. I know crowds can be tough for her sometimes. But she's tougher, so." Harley shrugged. "Tell her I said hi, yeah?"

It was strange, watching these connections form and reform. Harley had been an enemy, then an ally, then something in between. Now she was sitting in Wayne Manor, drinking coffee from antique china, asking after Barbara's wellbeing with genuine concern.

People could change, Tim knew. Harley had told Thomas that, and it was true. The question was whether Gotham could change too—whether a city built on fear and darkness could make room for something as bright and vulnerable as pride.

He guessed they were about to find out.

—

As Duke and Isabella settled into their seats—Duke immediately reaching for the coffee while Isabella went straight for the pastries—the energy in the room shifted from the sharp, tactical focus of Damian's security planning to something warmer and more chaotic.

Roy wandered in from the hallway, his bow now thankfully absent, and immediately zeroed in on the graduates. "Look at you two. Matching degrees. You planning to revolutionize Gotham's infrastructure or something?"

"That's the idea," Isabella said around a mouthful of croissant. "Someone has to fix this city's mess of a public transit system."

"Good luck with that," Jason snorted from his position near the window. "The mob controls half the subway lines and the other half are held together with duct tape and spite."

"Which is exactly why it needs people who actually know what they're doing," Duke countered, though there was no real heat in it. He looked tired but satisfied, like someone who had spent years climbing a mountain and could finally see the view from the top.

Thomas, who had been temporarily distracted by his wooden whistle, suddenly remembered something crucial. He scrambled down from his seat and positioned himself directly in front of Duke and Isabella, his small face serious.

"Did you really steal the Batplane?" he asked, his voice dropping to what he clearly thought was a conspiratorial whisper but was actually perfectly audible to everyone in the room.

The breakfast nook went silent.

Duke froze with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Isabella's eyes went wide, her hand stilling on her pastry. They exchanged a look—a rapid, wordless conversation that involved a lot of panicked eye contact.

"We didn't steal it," Duke said carefully, setting down his cup with deliberate precision. "Technically."

"'Technically' is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence," Tim observed, his brain clearly already working through the logistics. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression shifting from amused to genuinely curious. "The logs showed it left the hangar three days ago. I assumed Bruce took it."

"I thought Jason did," Bruce said, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

"I thought Tim had it," Jason offered, though he was clearly enjoying the chaos. 

“My guess was Damian,” Conner said. 

All eyes turned to Damian, who looked mildly offended. "I have been in Tokyo for the past month completing my surgical rotation. I have an alibi for the last seventy-two hours that includes three emergency appendectomies and a panel review. I assure you, I did not abscond with family property."

"Then who—" Bruce started, but he was interrupted by Lian, who had been quietly observing from her seat next to Caitlyn. She was trying very hard not to smile.

"Uncle Duke asked if he could borrow it to fly back from grad school," Lian said, her voice innocent but her eyes sparkling with mischief. "He said it was faster than commercial and he wanted to surprise everyone."

Duke shot her a look that was half betrayed, half resigned. "Thanks, Lian. Really appreciate the backup."

"You flew the Batplane," Jason said slowly, a grin spreading across his face like wildfire. "You and Isabella took Bruce's extremely expensive, highly classified stealth aircraft... to move your stuff back from grad school."

"We had a lot of stuff," Isabella said defensively. "And Duke has a pilot's license. Multiple, actually. We weren't joyriding; we were being efficient."

"Did you at least use the stealth mode?" Tim asked, and there was genuine professional interest in his voice now, the kind that suggested he was mentally cataloging this for future reference.

"Of course we used stealth mode," Duke said, looking insulted. "What do you think we are, amateurs? We filed a flight plan under a civilian registry, maintained radio silence once we hit Gotham airspace, and landed at the auxiliary hangar on the east side of the property. Nobody saw us."

"Except Thomas, apparently," Roy said, ruffling the kid's hair. "How'd you figure it out, little man?"

Thomas puffed up with pride. "I heard the engine yesterday! It sounds different from all the other planes. Like... whoooosh but quieter." He made a swooping motion with his hands.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, though the gesture lacked any real frustration. "Duke. Isabella. In the future, if you need to borrow the Batplane, please ask first."

"Noted," Duke said quickly. "Sorry, Bruce. We really did think you knew."

"How did you think I knew if you used the stealth mode and landed at the auxiliary hangar?" Bruce asked, his voice dry.

Duke opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Isabella, who was suddenly very interested in her orange juice.

"We... may have overestimated your omniscience?" Duke offered weakly.

Jason barked out a laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. "Oh man, I love this family. We steal from each other and just assume everyone's fine with it because Batman's supposed to know everything."

"I didn't steal it," Duke protested. "I borrowed it. There's a difference."

"Tell that to the extremely expensive fuel you used," Tim said, though he was smiling now, the sharp edges of his detective mode softening into something more familial.

"I'll pay you back," Duke sighed. "Add it to my tab."

"You don't have a tab," Bruce said.

"I do now, apparently."

Selina, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, leaned over and patted Duke's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. Bruce has more money than anyone needs. He's not going to miss the fuel cost. He's just annoyed he didn't figure it out before Thomas did."

Bruce shot her a look that suggested this was absolutely accurate but that he would die before admitting it out loud.

"Can I see the Batplane?" Thomas asked, bouncing on his toes. "Please? I promise I won't touch anything! I just want to look at it!"

"After breakfast," Bruce said, his tone firm but not unkind. "And only if you finish your food."

Thomas scrambled back to his seat with renewed purpose, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth with the single-minded determination of a child on a mission.

The conversation drifted after that, moving from the Batplane incident to Duke and Isabella's thesis defenses, to Damian's surgical rotation stories (which were equal parts fascinating and horrifying), to Roy's latest archery competition. The breakfast nook filled with the comfortable noise of family—overlapping voices, the clink of silverware, the occasional burst of laughter.

Caitlyn leaned over to Lian, lowering her voice. "You totally knew about the Batplane the whole time, didn't you?"

Lian's grin was unrepentant. "Duke texted me when they landed. He wanted to make sure someone knew where it was in case Bruce asked. I just... forgot to mention it to anyone."

"You're terrible," Caitlyn said, but she was smiling.

"I learned from the best," Lian said, nodding toward her fathers, who were currently engaged in an animated debate with Conner about the structural integrity of the Manor's east wing gargoyles.

—

An hour later, the breakfast dishes had been cleared, the coffee had been consumed in truly alarming quantities, and the family had fragmented into smaller groups scattered across the Manor's sprawling first floor.

Bruce had made good on his promise to Thomas, leading the overexcited seven-year-old—along with Caitlyn, Lian, Duke, and Isabella—down to the auxiliary hangar to see the Batplane. Thomas's delighted shriek when he saw the sleek, angular aircraft was loud enough to echo through the underground space.

In the main study, Tim had commandeered the massive oak desk, his laptop open and surrounded by a fortress of color-coded file folders. Damian sat across from him, his own tablet displaying what looked like architectural schematics of downtown Gotham overlaid with threat assessment matrices.

"The parade route is nine blocks," Damian said, zooming in on a particular intersection. "This area here, between Fifth and Seventh, has three buildings with rooftop access that are not currently monitored by Wayne Enterprises security. I recommend we install temporary surveillance for the duration of the event."

Tim nodded, making a note. "Already on it. I've got teams scheduled to sweep those buildings the night before. What about crowd control at the staging area?"

"GCPD will have barricades up, but their crowd management training is... minimal." Damian's tone suggested he had opinions about GCPD's competence that he was graciously keeping to himself. "I've drafted a supplemental security plan that positions our people at key choke points. Oracle will have eyes on everything."

"Barbara's already setting up the monitoring stations," Tim confirmed. "She's pulling in Harper and Luke to help with the technical side."

Damian nodded, his stylus moving across the screen with surgical precision. "The Wayne Enterprises float will be third in the procession, behind the opening banner and the community sponsor vehicles. I've calculated the optimal positioning for the children—Thomas in particular will want maximum visibility, but he'll need to be positioned where the crowd density is lowest to avoid overstimulation."

Tim looked up, his expression softening slightly. "You've been thinking about this a lot."

"Thomas is seven," Damian said, as if this explained everything. "He will want to wave at everyone. He will want to see everything. He will become overwhelmed if not properly managed. It is... logical to plan accordingly."

The corner of Tim's mouth twitched. "You're a good uncle, Damian."

Damian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn't look up from his tablet. "I am simply ensuring the event proceeds without incident."

"Sure," Tim said, his voice warm with understanding. "That's definitely all it is."

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the soft tap of keys and the scratch of Damian's stylus. Outside the study's tall windows, the Gotham sky was its usual bruised gray, threatening rain that might or might not actually fall.

"Drake," Damian said eventually, still not looking up from his screen.

"Yeah?"

"The parade. Father is... he's genuinely invested in this. More than I've seen him invested in a public event in years."

Tim set down his pen, giving Damian his full attention. "I know."

"He wants us all there. Together. As a family." Damian's voice was carefully neutral, but there was something underneath it—something that sounded almost like vulnerability. "It's important to him."

"It is," Tim agreed quietly.

Damian finally looked up, his green eyes sharp and assessing. "You'll be on the float. With Kent. With the children."

It wasn't a question, but Tim answered anyway. "Yes."

A long pause. Then: "Good."

The word hung in the air between them, carrying weight beyond its simple syllable. Damian looked back down at his tablet, but his shoulders had lost some of their rigid tension.

"For what it's worth," Tim said carefully, "I'm glad you'll be there too."

Damian's stylus paused for just a fraction of a second. "Someone needs to ensure Todd doesn't attempt to shoot t-shirt cannons into the crowd."

Tim laughed, the sound genuine and surprised. "Is that an actual concern?"

"Harper mentioned wanting to 'make it memorable,'" Damian said darkly. "With Todd, that could mean anything from confetti to actual pyrotechnics."

"I'll talk to them," Tim promised, though he was still smiling.

"See that you do."

—

In the Manor's sprawling garage—a space that held everything from vintage motorcycles to experimental Wayne Tech vehicles—Conner, Jason, and Roy had naturally gravitated toward the most expensive, complicated machinery they could find.

Conner was currently lying on his back beneath a sleek black motorcycle, his enhanced hearing tracking every ping and whir of the engine even when it wasn't running. He wore a white tank top that was so beat up and stained with oil that it had to be Roy’s. Roy was perched on a nearby workbench, cleaning his bow but mostly just watching the other two work, adorning Jason’s Gotham University hoodie. Jason stood over the motorcycle's other side, his hands buried in his pockets of his jeans. 

"So," Jason said, his tone deceptively casual. "Big family outing to Pride. You nervous?"

Conner slid out from under the bike, his face smudged with motor oil. "Should I be?"

"I don't know, man. It's Gotham. Anything could happen."

"Anything could happen at the grocery store in Gotham," Roy pointed out. "That's kind of the city's whole deal."

"Yeah, but this is different," Jason insisted. "This is Bruce putting the Wayne name on a Pride parade. That's going to get attention. And not all of it's going to be the good kind."

Conner sat up, wiping his hands on a rag. "You worried about security? Because Damian's probably already war-gamed every possible scenario."

"I'm not worried about security," Jason said, and there was something in his voice that made both Conner and Roy look at him more closely. "I'm worried about... I don't know. It's a big deal. Bruce doing this. Making it public. Making it Wayne family official."

Understanding dawned on Conner's face. "You're worried it matters too much."

"Everything with Bruce matters too much," Jason muttered. "That's kind of his thing."

Roy hopped down from the workbench, moving to stand next to Jason. His hand found Jason's automatically, their fingers lacing together with the ease of long practice. "It's okay to care about this, Jay. It's okay to want it to go well."

"I know that," Jason said, but his voice was rough.

"Do you?" Roy pressed gently. "Because you've got that look. The one you get when you're trying to convince yourself you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

Jason was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Lian's excited. Like, really excited. She's been planning her outfit. And I just... I want it to be good for her, you know? I want her to have this."

"She will," Conner said with quiet certainty. "We're all going to make sure of that."

Jason looked at him, then at Roy, and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Plus," Roy added, his tone shifting back to something lighter, "if anyone tries to ruin it, they'll have to deal with Batman, Robin, Red Robin, Red Hood, Arsenal, Superboy, Oracle, and whatever the hell Duke and Isabella calling themselves these days. I like those odds."

"Signal and Robina still," Conner supplied.

"The point is, anyone stupid enough to start something is going to have a very bad day."

Jason snorted, but he was almost smiling now. "You know what? You're right. Let them try."

"That's the spirit," Roy grinned. "Aggressive optimism. It's a good look on you."

"Shut up," Jason said, but he didn't pull his hand away.

Conner slid back under the motorcycle, his voice echoing slightly from beneath the chassis. "For what it's worth, I think it's going to be good. Thomas is already planning to wave at everyone in Gotham. Caitlyn's been texting Inaya pictures of potential outfits. Even Damian seems... I don't know. Invested."

"Damian's invested in the security plan," Jason said.

"Which is his way of being invested in the people," Roy pointed out. "He doesn't care about strangers' safety. He cares about Thomas's. About Lian's and Caitlyn's. About all of us, even if he'd rather eat glass than say it out loud."

From under the motorcycle, Conner's voice came again: "He's not wrong. Damian's threat assessment was three times longer than it needed to be. Tim told me that Damian’s worried about Thomas getting overwhelmed by the crowd noise."

Jason was quiet for a beat. Then: "That's... actually kind of sweet."

"Right? Our murder baby has a heart after all."

"I'm telling him you called him that."

"You absolutely will not," Conner said, sliding back out with an alarmed expression. "He'll stab me."

"With what? His feelings?" Roy teased.

"With whatever's closest. The man's resourceful."

—

By mid-afternoon, the Manor had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Thomas had finally exhausted himself showing Duke and Isabella every inch of his new room and had crashed hard on his Batmobile bed, the wooden whistle clutched in one small hand. Caitlyn and Lian had disappeared into Caitlyn's room, ostensibly to work on their Pride outfits but mostly to gossip and listen to music.

Before the dinner prep could begin in earnest, there was a commotion at the front gate. The security system chimed, and Alfred's voice came through the intercom in the study where Bruce was reviewing final parade permits.

"Master Bruce, we have additional visitors. The Montoya-Kanes and Julia."

Bruce's expression shifted to something fond and exasperated. "Ask them to come up, Alfred."

"Kate’s here?" Tim asked, looking up from his tablet.

"And company," Bruce confirmed. "I should have known Kate wouldn't miss this."

Five minutes later, Kate strode into the Manor like she owned it—which, technically, she partially did as a Wayne family member. She was in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, her dark hair cut short, military-precise. Behind her, Renee looked only slightly less intense in slacks and a button-down, her detective's eyes already cataloging exits and sight lines out of habit. Julia rounded out the trio, looking travel-worn but happy.

"Bruce!" Kate didn't bother with pleasantries, just walked right up and hugged him. "Heard you're throwing a parade. About damn time."

"Kate," Bruce said, returning the embrace with genuine warmth. "When did you get back from—"

"Bolivia, this time. Three days ago. Dick called and said I needed to be here for this, so." Kate pulled back, looking around the foyer. "Where's the rest of the circus? Dick told me him, Wally, and Kori are throwing one with the rest of their friends in Central City."

"Various locations throughout the Manor," Bruce said dryly. "Tim's in the study. Jason, Roy, and Conner are probably in the garage. The kids are scattered."

"Good. I brought presents for the kids." Kate held up a bag that clinked suspiciously. "Don't worry, it's just European chocolate. I'm not completely irresponsible. Y’know Caitlyn actually called me a bit ago? I was really surprised."

"Just mostly responsible," Renee said, but she was smiling. She stepped forward to shake Bruce's hand. "Good to see you, Bruce. This is... it's a big deal, what you're doing."

"So I've been told," Bruce said. "Multiple times. Today alone."

Julia hugged her father, who had appeared to greet the new arrivals. "Hi, Dad. Sorry for the surprise visit."

"You are never a surprise I do not welcome, my dear," Alfred said, his usual composure cracking slightly with paternal affection. "Though I wish you had called ahead. I would have prepared your room."

"We can do that," Julia said. "We're not completely helpless."

"Speak for yourself," Kate interjected. "I'm absolutely helpless without Alfred. It's a medical condition."

The new arrivals were quickly absorbed into the Manor's ecosystem. Kate immediately gravitated toward the garage, where she found Jason and Roy and proceeded to give them both grief about their bikes ("Are you actively trying to get pulled over, or is that just a bonus?"). Renee found Tim in the study, and the two fell into easy conversation about security logistics. Julia joined Duke and Isabella, the three of them swapping stories about grad school and academic nightmares.

Dinner that evening was even more chaotic than breakfast had been. Alfred had prepared a feast that somehow managed to accommodate everyone's dietary needs and preferences. The formal dining room was packed, conversations overlapping in a symphony of organized chaos.

Thomas, recovered from his nap, was in heaven with the attention from new adults. He'd somehow convinced Kate to tell him about her "adventures" (heavily edited versions of actual vigilante work), and was hanging on her every word.

"And then what happened?" Thomas demanded, his eyes wide.

"Then I rappelled down the side of the building, landed on the roof of a moving train, and saved the very important package," Kate said solemnly.

"What was in the package?"

"Classified," Kate said, which just made Thomas more excited.

Across the table, Caitlyn was deep in conversation with Renee about criminal justice reform and police accountability. Renee, to her credit, was taking the teenager's pointed questions seriously, not talking down to her.

"The system's broken," Caitlyn said. "Everyone knows it. So why don't they fix it?"

"Because fixing it would require people in power to give up some of that power," Renee answered honestly. "And that's the hardest thing in the world to convince anyone to do."

"That's bullshit," Caitlyn said, then glanced at her fathers. "Sorry. But it is."

"You're not wrong," Renee agreed. "But being right and being able to change things are two different animals. That's why we need people like you—people who see the problems and decide to do something about them."

Caitlyn looked thoughtful at that, turning it over in her mind.

At the head of the table, Bruce was watching his assembled family with an expression that was difficult to parse. Pride, certainly. But also something that looked like disbelief, as if he still couldn't quite believe this was his life—this loud, chaotic, beautiful mess of people who'd chosen each other.

Selina leaned over, her voice too quiet for anyone else to hear. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," Bruce said immediately. "I just... sometimes I forget how far we've come."

"From the angry little boy in the empty manor to this," Selina said, gesturing at the table. "Yeah, I'd say that's pretty far."

—

Later that night, after the dishes were cleared and the coffee had been consumed, the adults gathered in the main sitting room. It had the feeling of a war council, except instead of planning an assault, they were planning a parade.

Barbara had arrived at some point during dinner, her wheelchair navigating the Manor's halls with practiced ease. She'd set up a command station in the corner, multiple monitors displaying various security feeds and communication channels.

"Okay," she said, commanding everyone's attention effortlessly. "Let's talk about potential problems."

"Do we have to?" Roy asked. "Can't we just pretend everything will be fine?"

"That's not how anything works in this city, ever," Barbara said dryly. "Tim, what are you worried about?"

Tim, who had been reviewing his notes for the hundredth time, looked up. "Honestly? Everything. The crowd size, the security, the counter-protesters, the possibility of someone using the parade as a distraction for something else—"

"Breathe, Timbert," Jason interrupted. "You're spiraling."

"I'm being thorough," Tim countered.

"You're being neurotic," Damian said. "Which, admittedly, is your default state."

"Can we focus?" Bruce's voice cut through the bickering. "Barbara, what's your assessment?"

"We're in good shape," Barbara said. "I've got eyes on all the major intersections. Luke and Harper have the technical side locked down. Kate's people are positioned throughout the crowd. GCPD is cooperating, mostly because my dad personally told them to."

"Mostly?" Renee picked up on that.

"There are elements within the department who aren't thrilled about this," Barbara admitted. "But they'll keep their opinions to themselves if they know what's good for them."

"And if they don't?" Roy asked.

"Then I'll make sure there are professional consequences," Renee said flatly. "Gordon backs me on that."

Kate stretched out in her chair. "What about the counter-protesters? We know they're coming."

"They have a permit for their own demonstration," Tim said. "Legally, we can't stop them from showing up. But they'll be kept to designated areas away from the parade route."

"And if they try to break through the barriers?" Jason's voice had an edge to it now.

"Then they'll be arrested," Bruce said firmly. "We've been very clear about this with GCPD. Any violence, any harassment, will be met with immediate legal action."

"Good," Conner said. He'd been quiet up until now, but his jaw was tight. "Because if anyone tries to hurt my kids—"

"They won't get the chance," Damian interrupted. "I have calculated every possible angle of attack. The children will be safe."

There was something in his tone—a fierce protectiveness that went beyond tactical planning. Damian had always been protective of the younger members of the family, but this was different. This was personal.

"Dami," Tim said quietly. "We know you've got this."

"I do," Damian said, not looking at anyone. "I will not allow anything to happen to Thomas or Caitlyn or Lian. Or any of them."

"We know," Bruce said, and his voice was gentle in a way it rarely was. "We trust you."

The moment hung there, heavy with unspoken things.

Then Roy, bless him, broke the tension: "So what you're all saying is, we're as prepared as we're gonna get, and now we just have to actually do the thing."

"Essentially, yes," Barbara confirmed.

"Great," Jason said, standing up. "Then I'm going to bed before Timberlina has another anxiety spiral and tries to reorganize the entire event at midnight."

"I resent that," Tim said.

"But you don't deny it," Conner pointed out.

"I hate all of you," Tim muttered, but he was smiling.

—

The next morning—parade day—dawned gray and cool, which was about as good as anyone could hope for in Gotham. The Manor was chaos from the moment the sun crept over the horizon.

Thomas was awake before anyone else, bouncing off the walls with barely contained energy. By six a.m., he had already woken up Caitlyn (who groaned and threw a pillow at him), attempted to wake up Damian (who had looked at him with such a withering expression that even Thomas backed down), and successfully convinced Alfred to let him help make pancakes for everyone.

By eight, the entire family was assembled in various states of wakefulness. Damian looked annoyingly alert, dressed in civilian clothes but with the kind of tactical awareness that suggested he was mentally calculating threat vectors even while eating breakfast. Duke and Isabella were nursing coffee like their lives depended on it. Jason and Roy looked surprisingly well-rested, though Lian was barely awake, slumped against her dad's shoulder.

"Okay," Tim announced, standing at the head of the table with a clipboard because of course he had a clipboard. "The parade starts at eleven. We need to be at the staging area by ten. That gives us—"

"Two hours," Damian interrupted. "I am aware of how time works, Drake."

"Great, then you're aware that we need to get everyone dressed, coordinated, and out the door without losing anyone," Tim shot back.

"I'm not a child," Damian said icily.

"No one said you were," Conner interjected diplomatically. "But coordinating this many people is like herding cats. Very opinionated, occasionally armed cats."

"I resent that analogy," Selina said, though she was smiling.

"Me too," added Jason. "I'm not a cat."

"You literally have a temper and mood swings and occasionally disappear for days at a time," Roy pointed out. "You're very cat-like."

"I will shoot you with your own arrows."

"Boys," Bruce said mildly. "Let's focus."

The "getting ready" process was predictably chaotic. Caitlyn and Lian had claimed the master bathroom an hour earlier and showed no signs of emerging. Thomas kept changing his outfit every fifteen minutes because he couldn't decide between his Superman cape or his Batman cape ("Why not both?" Conner had suggested, which had blown Thomas's mind). Damian had somehow produced a color-coordinated outfit that managed to be both parade-appropriate and vaguely tactical.

Tim was stress-organizing his backpack for the fifteenth time, making sure he had: first aid kit, portable chargers, protein bars, water bottles, sunscreen, backup sunscreen, and several other items that Conner had gently informed him they probably wouldn't need.

"You never know," Tim insisted.

"Tim. It's a parade. In Gotham. In daylight. With approximately forty-seven vigilantes scattered through the crowd. We'll be fine."

"Better safe than sorry."

"You're adorable when you're anxious," Conner said, kissing his temple. "Annoying, but adorable."

Stephanie Brown arrived around eight-thirty, letting herself in through the side entrance with the ease of someone who'd been doing it for years. She was in purple jeans and a shirt that said "Protect Trans Kids," her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"Morning, dysfunctional bat-family!" she called out cheerfully.

"Steph!" Caitlyn appeared at the top of the stairs, already dressed and looking excited. "Is Cass with you?"

"Parking the car," Steph confirmed. "She wanted to do one more patrol sweep before the parade. You know how she is."

"Paranoid?" Tim suggested, emerging from his room.

"Thorough," Steph corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there, though?"

"Yes, and the difference is that when Cass does it, it's cute, and when you do it, it's concerning."

Tim opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "Fair point."

Cass appeared moments later, moving with that eerie silence she'd perfected over the years. She was in all black, as usual, but she'd added a small rainbow pin to her jacket—a concession to the theme of the day.

"Clear," she said simply, which Tim understood to mean she'd checked the perimeter and found no immediate threats.

"Thanks, Cass," he said.

Cass tilted her head, studying him with those dark, knowing eyes. "You’re worried."

"Little bit," Tim admitted.

"Don't be." She moved closer, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Safe. Promise."

Something in Tim's chest loosened. If Cass said they'd be safe, he believed her. She'd never been wrong about these things.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

Steph appeared at Cass's side, slipping her hand into her girlfriend's. "We're gonna go say hi to the kids. I bet Thomas has been asking when his 'cool aunts' were going to show up."

"He has excellent taste," Cass said seriously, and Steph laughed.

— 

At 9:45, through some miracle of coordination (and Alfred's firm insistence), everyone was assembled in the Manor's entrance hall. They made quite a picture:

Bruce in dark jeans and a Wayne Enterprises Pride shirt that somehow made him look both approachable and intimidating. Selina in high-waisted black pants and a flowing rainbow-striped blouse that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. 

Tim and Conner in matching Pride flag t-shirts that Thomas had insisted they get. Caitlyn in the gothic Pride outfit Selina had found for her, complete with a velvet jacket with rainbow stitching. 

Lian in her carefully chosen pantsuit, looking confident and stunning. Jason and Roy in their leather jackets (because of course) with small Pride pins attached. 

Damian in black jeans and a surprisingly understated shirt that simply said "Love is Love" in small lettering. Duke and Isabella in coordinated outfits that managed to be both academic and celebratory. And Thomas, wearing both capes because Conner's suggestion had indeed been revolutionary, with rainbow face paint on his cheeks courtesy of Selina.

Alfred stood by the door, looking at his assembled family with an expression that could only be described as deeply fond pride.

"You all look wonderful," he said. "Now, please ensure no explosions happen during this event. Soot is hard to clean."

—

The staging area for the parade was organized chaos. Floats were lined up in their designated order, each one more elaborate than the last. There were community groups, local businesses, advocacy organizations, all buzzing with excitement and nervous energy.

And there, in the third position—right where Damian had calculated it should be—sat the Wayne Enterprises float.

It was spectacular without being ostentatious: a large platform decorated in Wayne Enterprise colors but accented with rainbow everything. The company logo had been redesigned for the event to include Pride colors. There were speakers for music, comfortable seating areas, and—because this was a Wayne production—probably seventeen hidden security features that only Tim and Damian knew about.

The float had three levels. The main platform was wide and sturdy, with railings decorated in rainbow bunting. A second level, slightly elevated, provided better visibility for the kids. And at the very back, a small raised section where Bruce and Selina would stand—the patriarch and matriarch of this chaotic family, visible to everyone.

"Holy shit," Roy breathed as they approached it. "Bruce, you went all out."

"It's important," Bruce said simply, but there was color in his cheeks.

"It's amazing," Caitlyn said, her eyes wide. "Grandpa, this is... wow."

Thomas didn't say anything. He just ran toward the float at full speed, Conner barely catching him before he could attempt to climb it unsafely. "Can we get on? Can we get on now? Please?"

"Let's wait for everyone else," Tim said, but he was smiling.

The family assembled around the float, and that's when the reality of what they were about to do really hit.

Tim felt it first—that cold spike of anxiety in his chest. They were about to parade through Gotham, publicly, as a queer family. They were about to make themselves targets for anyone who had a problem with what they represented.

His breathing started to quicken, his hands clenching into fists. Conner noticed immediately, stepping closer.

"Hey," Conner said quietly. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine," Tim said, which was such an obvious lie that Conner didn't even bother responding to it. "I just... what if something happens? What if someone tries to hurt the kids? What if—"

"Tim." Conner took Tim's face in his hands, forcing eye contact. "Look around. Look at who's here."

Tim looked. He saw Bruce, the Batman, alert and protective. He saw Jason and Roy, both armed in ways that weren't immediately obvious. He saw Damian, whose eyes were constantly scanning for threats. He saw Kate, Renee, Steph, Cass, Duke, Isabella—all trained, all capable, all fiercely protective of this family.

"We're the most secure parade float in history," Conner said. "Nothing's getting through us. Nothing."

"You can't promise that," Tim whispered.

"Watch me," Conner said fiercely. "I will personally fight every god before I let anything happen to our family."

Despite everything, Tim laughed. It was watery and a little broken, but it was real. "That's blasphemous."

"Good thing I'm technically an alien and not subject to human religious systems."

"That's not how that works."

"Isn't it though?" Conner pulled Tim into a hug, and Tim let himself be held for a moment. "We're gonna be okay, Tim. I promise."

Tim wanted to argue, wanted to list all the things that could go wrong, but he was interrupted by a commotion nearby.

A group of counter-protesters had broken through a barrier.

They weren't supposed to be here—they had their own designated area three blocks away—but somehow, six of them had slipped past security. They were carrying signs with vile slogans, shouting hateful rhetoric that made Tim's stomach turn.

"Stay with the kids," Bruce said sharply to Selina, already moving toward the protesters.

But before he could reach them, Cass appeared as if from nowhere.

She didn't say anything. She just moved.

The protesters found themselves suddenly and efficiently disarmed of their signs, which Cass collected with the bored efficiency of someone picking up litter. When one of them tried to grab his sign back, Cass simply looked at him—that dead-eyed stare that had made grown men confess to crimes—and he backed off immediately.

By the time Bruce reached her, Cass had confiscated all six signs and the protesters were being ushered away by security.

"Well," Kate said, impressed. "That was handled."

Cass walked back to their float, dumped the signs in a nearby trash can, and dusted off her hands. "Done."

Steph kissed her cheek. "You're terrifying and I love you."

"Love you too," Cass said simply.

But the incident had shaken some of the family. Lian's hand had found Caitlyn's, both girls looking pale. Thomas had plastered himself against Conner's legs. Even Jason looked tense, his hand reflexively going to where Tim knew he kept a knife.

"Hey," Roy said loudly, commanding attention. "That was six assholes out of thousands of people who came out today to celebrate. Six. Don't give them more power than they deserve."

"Roy's right," Renee added. She pointed to the crowds gathering along the parade route. Even from here, they could see the sheer number of people—families, couples, individuals, all waiting to celebrate. "Look at how many people are here to support us. That's what matters."

Thomas peered around Conner's legs. "Are... are they all here for the parade?"

"They're all here for us," Bruce said, kneeling down to Thomas's level. "For families like ours. To show that love is love, no matter what form it takes."

"Even with two daddys?" Thomas asked in a small voice.

"Especially with two dads," Bruce said firmly. "Or two moms. Or two dads and one mom. Or any combination of people who love each other. That's what today is about."

Thomas considered this, his seven-year-old brain processing. Then, with the resilience of childhood: "Okay. Can we get on the float now? I still wanna wave at everyone."

The tension broke like a dam. Laughter rippled through the family, releasing the fear.

"Yeah, kiddo," Conner said, lifting Thomas onto his shoulders. "Let's go wave at everyone."

They boarded the float, finding their positions. Thomas immediately claimed the front-most position on the elevated platform with the determination of someone planting a flag on conquered territory. "This is the best spot for waving!" he announced.

"Absolutely it is," Conner agreed, boosting him up to the slightly elevated section that had clearly been designed exactly for this purpose.

The rest of the family found their spots: Caitlyn and Lian together near one side, already taking selfies, their earlier fear transforming into defiant joy. Jason and Roy leaning against the back railing, Roy's arm around Jason's waist. Duke and Isabella in comfortable seats, Duke holding her hand tightly. 

Kate, Renee, and Julia forming a small cluster, Kate already making jokes to ease the lingering tension. Steph and Cass hand in hand, Cass's thumb tracing circles on Steph's wrist—her way of saying "I'm here, you're safe." Damian positioning himself where he had calculated the best sightlines would be, though he'd never admit that's what he was doing. 

Barbara in a specially designed secure spot on the platform, her wheelchair locked in place, her tablet already connected to the security feeds. Tim and Conner flanking Thomas, ready to help him wave at the crowds. Bruce and Selina in the center back, Bruce's arm around her waist, both of them looking more relaxed than they had any right to be given the magnitude of what they were doing.

Barbara's voice came through the comms that several of them were wearing: "All feeds are green. GCPD has the counter-protesters contained in their designated zones. Oracle out."

"We've got eyes on every intersection," came Luke's voice. "Harper and I are monitoring all channels."

"Rogues gallery is quiet," Harley's voice chimed in, surprising several of them. "Told ya I could handle it. Now go have fun, Batsy!"

Tim felt Conner's hand slip into his, their fingers lacing together automatically. On his other side, Thomas was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You okay?" Conner asked softly.

Tim looked around at his family—blood and chosen, perfect and flawed, complicated and beautiful. He thought about the little boy he'd been, growing up in Drake Manor, lonely and uncertain. He thought about the teenager who'd become Robin, desperate to prove his worth. He thought about the man he'd become, standing here with his husband and children, surrounded by people who loved him unconditionally.

"Yeah," he said, and meant it completely. "I'm perfect."

The parade marshal's voice boomed over the speakers: "Positions, everyone! We begin in five minutes!"

Thomas grabbed both his fathers' hands. "This is it! We're really doing it!"

"We're really doing it," Tim confirmed, squeezing his son's hand.

"Are you scared?" Thomas asked, looking up at him with those wide, earnest eyes.

Tim thought about lying, about being brave for his son. But he'd learned that honesty mattered more. "A little bit," he admitted. "But I'm also really proud. Because we get to do this together, as a family."

"I'm not scared at all," Thomas declared. "'Cause you and Pops are the bravest people ever. And if you're here, then nothing bad can happen."

Conner made a choked sound. Tim felt his eyes burn.

"That's right, kiddo," Conner managed. "Nothing bad's gonna happen."

The parade began with a roar of music and cheers. As their float started moving, rolling into the streets of Gotham, Tim squeezed Conner's hand and looked out at the crowds lining the sidewalks.

There were more people than he'd expected. Thousands of them, packed along both sides of the street as far as he could see. Some waving flags, some holding signs ("Love Wins!" "Gotham Loves All Families!" "Thank You, Wayne Family!"), some just watching with expressions ranging from curious to joyful to moved.

And yes, there were protesters too—he could see them being kept back by barriers and police, their signs ugly and hateful—but they were drowned out by the overwhelming wave of support. For every one voice of hate, there were a hundred voices of love.

Thomas was waving with both hands exactly like he'd promised, his whole body moving with the enthusiasm of it. "Hi, Gotham!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the music but his joy unmistakable. "I'm Thomas and this is my family and we love you!"

A section of the crowd roared back, waving at him specifically, and Thomas's face lit up like the sun.

"Papa, did you hear? They love us back!" Thomas was bouncing now, his capes fluttering behind him.

"I heard, buddy," Conner said, his voice thick with emotion.

Caitlyn and Lian were dancing now, their earlier fear completely transformed. Someone in the crowd was holding a sign that said "Future Leaders!" with an arrow pointing at them, and Caitlyn laughed, pointing at it. Lian struck a pose, confident and proud, and the crowd cheered louder.

"That's my girl," Roy called out, and Jason's hand found his, squeezing tight.

Jason, who had been tense since the incident with the protesters, was slowly relaxing. A group of teenagers in the crowd were holding a banner that said "Jason Todd’s comeback was my gay awakening" with rainbow hearts around it. Jason's eyes widened fractionally, and then—impossibly—he waved at them. They went absolutely wild, screaming and jumping.

"You have fans," Roy said, grinning.

"Shut up," Jason muttered, but he was almost smiling.

Damian stood at his post, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd, the rooftops, the surrounding buildings. But even he couldn't completely resist the atmosphere. When Thomas called out "Uncle Dami, look! There's a dog in a Pride bandana!" Damian actually looked, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"The dog shows excellent taste in accessories," he said solemnly, and Thomas giggled.

Duke and Isabella were waving too, Duke occasionally pointing out architectural features of buildings they passed (some things never changed). A group holding a "Protect Queer Black Kids" banner with rainbow colors specifically cheered louder when they saw Duke, his grin bright and genuine.

Kate, Renee, and Julia formed their own little powerhouse at one corner of the float. When they passed a group of Latina women holding signs about queer visibility in the Latino community, Renee's eyes got bright. She waved back, calling out in Spanish, and the women cheered loud enough to shake the windows.

Steph and Cass were in their own world, dancing together unselfconsciously. Steph was singing along to the music playing from the float's speakers, intentionally off-key, making Cass laugh—that rare, precious sound that Steph hoarded like treasure. 

Barbara, from her position on the platform, was coordinating everything through her tablet, but she was also clearly moved. When they passed a group holding signs about disability rights and LGBTQ+ inclusion, she raised her hand in acknowledgment, and the group erupted in cheers.

Bruce and Selina stood at the center back, the anchor point of this chaotic family. Selina's hand was in Bruce's, their fingers intertwined, visible to everyone. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, was holding hands with his wife at a Pride parade, and it was a statement more powerful than any speech he could have given.

"You did this," Selina said softly, just for him. "You gave them this."

"We did this," Bruce corrected. "All of us."

They were passing through the heart of downtown now, where the crowds were thickest. The energy was electric, overwhelming in the best way. The music from various floats mixed together, creating a symphony of celebration. Confetti was falling like rainbow snow, glittering in what little sunlight managed to break through Gotham's perpetual clouds.

And then Tim saw them.

In the crowd, near a corner, was a family. Two dads, clearly, with a little girl between them who couldn't have been more than five. She was on one dad's shoulders, waving a rainbow flag that was almost bigger than she was. Both dads were crying—not sad tears, but the kind that came from seeing something you never thought you'd see, feeling something you never thought you'd feel.

One of them looked up, made eye contact with Tim, and mouthed: "Thank you."

Tim felt something crack open in his chest. All the fear, all the anxiety, all the what-ifs—they didn't disappear, but they transformed into something else. Something that felt like purpose.

This was why they were here. Not for themselves—though that mattered too—but for families like that one. For the kids who needed to see that they weren't alone, that their families were valid, that love came in infinite forms.

Conner, who was always watching Tim, saw the moment it happened. Saw the shift in his husband's expression from anxiety to understanding to determination. He leaned in close, his voice low enough that only Tim could hear over the music.

"You see it now, don't you? Why this matters?"

"Yeah," Tim said, his voice rough. "Yeah, I do."

Thomas tugged on Tim's shirt. "Daddy, why are you crying?"

"Because I'm happy," Tim said honestly. "Because I'm so proud to be your dad. And because I love our family so much."

Thomas processed this with the seriousness it deserved, then threw his arms around Tim's waist. "I love our family too. Best family ever."

"Best family ever," Tim agreed, hugging his son tight.

The parade route curved, and suddenly they were passing City Hall, where Commissioner Gordon stood on the steps with Mayor Hill. Gordon wasn't in uniform—he was in civilian clothes, clapping.

They were nearing the end of the route now. The parade would culminate at Robinson Park, where there would be speeches and performances and celebration. But before they got there, something unexpected happened.

The float ahead of them—a community organization Tim didn't recognize—suddenly stopped. Not a planned stop, but an emergency one. Through his comms, Tim heard Barbara swearing.

"We've got a situation," she said tersely. "Float ahead of you has a mechanical failure. They're blocking the route."

"Can they move it?" Bruce asked, his Batman voice coming through.

"Negative. It's dead in the water. They're trying to push it manually but it's too heavy."

"How long until they can clear it?" Damian demanded.

"Unknown. Could be five minutes, could be twenty."

Their float came to a stop. The music continued, the crowds kept cheering, but Tim could feel the shift in energy. Stopping wasn't in the plan. Stopping meant being a stationary target.

His anxiety spiked again. They were stuck. Exposed. If someone wanted to—

"Everyone stay calm," Bruce said through the comms. "We're assessing the situation."

But then, something else happened.

The crowd, seeing the parade had stopped, didn't disperse or get angry. Instead, they surged forward—not violently, but jubilantly. People started dancing in the street. Someone started a chant: "Love is love is love is love!" Others picked it up, until it became a roar that echoed off the buildings.

A group of drag queens near the float started performing an impromptu show, their energy infectious. The crowd ate it up, cheering.

Thomas was delighted. "Papa, look! They're dancing! Can we dance too?"

Before anyone could stop him, Thomas started dancing on the float. Just moving to the music, unselfconscious and free. And then Caitlyn joined him, pulling Lian with her. And then Steph pulled Cass into a ridiculous dance that made both of them laugh.

Roy grabbed Jason's hand. "Come on, you grump. Dance with me."

"I don't dance," Jason protested.

"Liar. I've seen you dance. You're good at it. Now move." Roy pulled him into a simple two-step, and despite his protests, Jason followed.

Duke and Isabella were already moving, while Kate spun Renee in a circle, both of them laughing. Even Julia started swaying to the music.

Conner looked at Tim, offering his hand. "May I have this dance?"

Tim wanted to say no, wanted to stay alert, wanted to keep monitoring for threats. But he looked at Thomas dancing with his sister, at Jason actually smiling, at this moment of pure, unexpected joy, and he thought: Why not?

"Yes," he said, taking Conner's hand. "Yes, you may."

They danced—nothing fancy, just moving together, Conner's hand on Tim's waist, Tim's head resting against Conner's shoulder. Around them, their family did the same. Even Damian was swaying slightly, though he'd probably deny it if anyone asked.

And in the center of it all, Bruce took Selina's hand and pulled her close, dancing with her right there on the float, in front of all of Gotham. The cameras caught it—the press was everywhere, of course—and by the next day, the image would be everywhere: Bruce Wayne and his family, dancing at a Pride parade.

But in the moment, none of them cared about the cameras or the press or what anyone would say. They just danced, together, a family united.

The mechanical issue was resolved after about fifteen minutes. The stalled float was pushed out of the way, and the parade continued. 

When they finally reached Robinson Park, the culmination point of the parade, the sun had managed to break through the clouds—an actual ray of sunshine in Gotham, which felt impossibly symbolic.

The family disembarked from the float to thunderous applause. Thomas was immediately surrounded by kids his age wanting to see his capes. Caitlyn and Lian were approached by teenagers thanking them for being visible, for being proud. Jason and Roy found themselves talking to a group of veterans about LGBTQ+ inclusion in the military. Duke and Isabella were discussing urban planning with community organizers. Kate, Renee, and Julia were being interviewed by press.

And Tim and Conner stood together, watching it all unfold, Thomas's hand in one of Tim's and Caitlyn's in one of Conner's, the four of them anchored together.

"We did it," Tim said softly.

"We did," Conner agreed.

"I thought I'd be more scared."

"Are you scared now?"

Tim thought about it. Really thought about it. "No," he said, surprised by his own honesty. "I'm not. I'm... I'm proud."

"Good," Conner said, kissing his temple. "You should be."

Bruce appeared at their side, Selina with him. "The mayor wants us for a photo," he said. "All of us. The whole family."

"Even me?" Thomas asked, looking up.

"Especially you," Bruce said, lifting his grandson onto his shoulders. "You're the star of this parade."

"I am pretty cool," Thomas agreed seriously, making everyone laugh.

They gathered for the photo—all of them, this impossible, chaotic, beautiful family. Blood relatives and chosen family, vigilantes and civilians, people who'd been heroes and people who'd been villains. All of them together, all of them proud.

The photographer counted down. "Three, two, one—"

The flash went off, capturing the moment. Capturing joy and pride and love in all its messy, complicated, perfect forms.

Later, when Tim saw the photo, he wouldn't remember the anxiety or the fear or the what-ifs. He'd remember Thomas's gap-toothed grin and Caitlyn's confident smile. He'd remember Conner's arm around his waist and Bruce's rare, genuine happiness. He'd remember feeling, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he was exactly where he belonged.

This was family. This was pride. This was home.

And it was enough.

—

That night, back at the Manor, the family gathered one more time. Alfred had prepared a feast to celebrate—because of course he had—and they ate and laughed and recounted the day's events.

Thomas fell asleep at the table, his head on Conner's lap, still wearing his capes. Caitlyn and Lian were scrolling through social media, showing each other all the posts about the parade. Jason and Roy were arguing affectionately about whether the drag queens or the marching band had been better. Duke and Isabella were already making plans for next year's parade, talking about how they could improve the route. Kate, Renee, and Julia were telling stories about Pride parades in other cities, other countries. Steph was braiding Cass's hair while Cass dozed contentedly. Damian was pretending not to listen to any of it while secretly cataloging every security success and failure for future reference. Barbara was compiling data on social media sentiment and press coverage.

And Bruce and Selina sat at the head of the table, watching over their family with expressions of profound contentment.

"You did a good thing today," Selina said quietly.

"We did a good thing," Bruce corrected. "All of us."

Tim, listening from his spot next to Conner, felt something settle in his chest. A peace he hadn't known he was looking for.

They'd done it. They'd stood up, stood together, and shown Gotham what family really meant. And Gotham—surprising, complicated, beautiful Gotham—had shown up for them in return.

It wasn't perfect. There would still be struggles, still be people who didn't understand or didn't approve. But they'd proven something today: that love was stronger than fear, that family was more than blood, and that pride—true pride—was worth fighting for.

As the evening wound down and people began heading to bed, Tim found himself standing at one of the Manor's tall windows, looking out at Gotham's skyline. Conner appeared beside him, slipping an arm around his waist.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Just thinking about Caitlyn and Thomas," Tim said. "About how different they’re childhood is from mine. How they’ll grow up knowing their family is proud of them, proud of us. How they’ll never have to hide who their parents are."

"That's because of you," Conner said. "Because you were brave enough to be yourself. To let yourself be loved."

"Because we were brave enough," Tim corrected. "Together."

They stood there for a while, watching the city lights. Somewhere out there, families like theirs were sleeping safely because today, they'd seen that they weren't alone. Tomorrow, there would be new challenges, new battles to fight. But tonight, they'd rest.

Tim leaned his head on Conner's shoulder and thought about the little boy he'd been—lonely, uncertain, desperately trying to prove his worth. If he could go back and tell that little boy what his future held, he wouldn't believe it. A family who loved him. Children who looked up to him. A husband who knew him better than he knew himself. A place in the world, a purpose, a home.

"I love you," Tim said softly.

"I love you too," Conner replied, kissing the top of his head. "So much."