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Bruce Wayne—No, Batman hated the news. Truly, deeply hated it.
He knew the relentless media circus was a necessary evil, a critical component of his meticulously crafted disguise. The citizens of Gotham needed to believe Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, was, in no shape or form, the silent, terrifying shadow that protected them. And unfortunately, the media was having a field day today, tearing down his façade with a different kind of weapon: accusations.
He tossed his phone onto the sleek cherry wood of his desk, the screen illuminating to show the worst offender before going dark.
GOTHAM GAZETTE: WAYNE ENTERPRISES CEO BRUCE WAYNE IMPLICATED IN ANTI-LGBTQ+ DONATION SCANDAL: HOMOPHOBIC BILLIONAIRE?
Bruce rubbed his temples, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Ridiculous. Absolutely, unequivocally ridiculous.
He huffed, sinking back into his leather chair. The irony was so thick he could choke on it. The headline practically felt like a personal insult from the universe. Homophobic? He had a roster of children, adopted and otherwise, who could staff an entire Pride parade.
Dick? Bisexual. Jason? Queer and definitely the least subtle about it. Cass? Bisexual too. Duke? Pan. Damian? He was too focused on swords to care. And Tim? Well, Tim was practically the poster child for young, openly queer Gothamites, and he’d never hesitated to use his status as a Wayne to champion the cause.
The sheer absurdity of the accusation, the very idea that he, Bruce Wayne, of all people, could be labeled a homophobe made his blood boil. He’d fought gods, men, and monsters, but apparently, the biggest battle he’d face today was against a malicious, anonymous source and a desperate, hungry media.
The phone immediately buzzed, lighting up again with a familiar contact ID. Speak of the devil.
"Tim," Bruce answered, his voice tight with controlled irritation.
"Hey, B. Have you seen these headlines?" Tim Drake's voice was clipped, a warning sign. Tim only used that tone when he was running on two hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and a major crisis.
"Unfortunately," Bruce grit out. "I was just attempting to scrub them from the internet, which is proving to be a challenge, even for me. I’ll probably call Barbara."
There was a slight pause on the other end, a silence Bruce immediately recognized as the analytical, calculating stillness of the third Robin.
"Right. Okay," Tim said slowly, drawing out the words. "But I need to know. Since I’m getting absolutely slammed by reporters, social media, and even a few board members right now, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be your most visible ‘PR defense’ against this, I have to ask: are you?"
Bruce froze. He was so stunned that Tim, the most openly queer member of the family, the one he'd always fiercely protected, would even entertain the question, let alone ask it. The shock short-circuited his brain, and he responded too quickly, too defensively.
"No! Of course not! How could you even—"
"Whoa. Okay, that was a little fast," Tim interrupted, the suspicion now clear and sharp in his voice. "Look, I know what you’re trying to say, but you sound stressed and... evasive. Just breathe, Bruce. It’s just me. Am I going to have to hack the Wayne Enterprises accounts to find out what you allegedly donated to?"
Bruce closed his eyes, his momentary fury with the news evaporating and replaced by the cold, heavy realization that he'd just completely botched the most important call of the day.
Bruce closed his eyes, his momentary fury with the news evaporating and replaced by the cold, heavy realization that he'd just completely botched the most important call of the day.
"No, Tim. That's unnecessary," Bruce said, forcing his voice to slow and regain its typical, authoritative composure. "I have nothing against the community. You know this. This entire thing is a gross mischaracterization of an anonymous donation that was not made by W.E.."
Silence. The analytic stillness was back on the line, but this time, it felt less like Tim investigating a case and more like a son weighing his father's words.
Bruce’s gut twisted. He needed to fix this, now. He hated having his integrity questioned, but he hated the thought of hurting his kids more. "Listen to me, Tim," Bruce insisted, "I support you. I support all of your siblings and their identities. Every single one of them. You know how much I... how much I care about you."
He needed to prove it. He needed a grand gesture. He needed them around him, immediately, to remind himself of the truth and to show Tim he wasn't running from the subject.
"You know what?" Bruce continued, the idea suddenly forming, sounding far too bright for the current crisis. "It's been too long since we've all been together. Why don't you let everyone know to clear their schedules. Dinner at the Manor this Friday. Alfred will make that ridiculous five-cheese pasta Jason is always asking for."
The suggestion hung in the air, a blatant, clunky attempt to pivot from the homophobic headline to a cozy family gathering.
"A family dinner?" Tim finally asked, his tone flat. "Bruce, we're talking about a multi-million dollar scandal and a potential PR disaster that’s targeting our family, and your solution is a five-cheese pasta distraction?"
"It's not a distraction, Tim," Bruce countered, though it absolutely was. "It's a necessary show of solidarity. A... a gathering of the clan. Tell me you'll come."
Tim sighed, a sound of long-suffering resignation. "Yeah, I'll come and take some good photos to anonymously submit to the media. But if we're doing a 'show of solidarity,' let's really do it. Tell Alfred to put out the good china. And tell everyone to bring their significant others. We're running a crisis PR event, Bruce. The more happy, public couples, the better the optics for 'Bruce Wayne: Non-Homophobe.' You know how much I love throwing a wrench into the media."
The sheer audacity of Tim trying to co-opt his guilt-driven dinner party for a public relations stunt stunned Bruce, but also, paradoxically, relieved him. At least Tim was using his brain again, not just his emotions.
"Significant others," Bruce repeated slowly. "Fine. Just keep it low-key, Tim."
"No promises," Tim chirped, his tone suddenly much lighter. "See you Friday. Don't stress too much, B. Or do. It keeps you sharp."
Tim hung up, leaving Bruce staring at his silent phone, the image of his desk now overlaid with mental blueprints for a very, very complicated Friday night.
—
Bruce was Batman.
He was one of the greatest detectives in the world. Analytical, relentless, and clinical, he always knew what to do and how to do it. He could plan for any contingency, disarm any device, and outwit any villain.
There was only one thing he couldn't do. One critical social skill he had never mastered, nor had he ever needed to: be normal.
He was fine around Alfred, who had raised him, and he was even accustomed to the chaotic, shifting dynamics of his adopted children. But their partners—the outsiders, the people who saw his kids as people, not just extensions of his mission—were something else entirely. He was supposed to host a dinner for them on Friday, and the terrible truth was, he wasn't even confident he knew who they were dating.
He didn't know how to prepare for this, so he did what any rational person in his position would: he called two of the people he trusted most in the universe, people he trusted could help him know what to say and keep him from stumbling over his words.
The video conference flickered on, showing the worried, familiar faces of Clark Kent and Diana Prince.
"You're having a dinner party to show the media you aren't homophobic?" Clark asked, his brow furrowed in classic journalistic skepticism.
Diana crossed her arms over her gleaming armor. "And you want us to come? As support?"
Bruce nodded once, tightly. "Yes," he said. "It's imperative. And yes, you are both necessary. Conner and Cassie are invited," he said, nodding to Clark and Diana respectively.
"Oh, because Conner is dating Cass?" Clark asked, suddenly interested.
"I thought he was dating Cassie," Bruce said.
Diana shook her head, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "No, they broke up after he was resurrected," she clarified. "She said they no longer connected on a spiritual level."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, genuinely perplexed. "I thought Cass was dating Stephanie," he mumbled.
Clark leaned back a little, his fingers dancing over his crossed arms. "You don't know who your kids are dating?" he asked, a hint of genuine amusement now warming his tone.
Bruce straightened his spine. "Do you know who your kids are dating?"
Clark opened his mouth to defend himself, then snapped it shut.
"Oh, I am definitely going," Diana declared, releasing a genuine, hearty laugh. "This will be almost as entertaining as the battles between sisters on Themyscira."
—
Bruce sat awkwardly at the head of the impossibly long dining table, nursing a glass of sparkling cider—an alcohol-free dinner, a request from Dick that Bruce had happily and immediately complied with. The table was empty save for the meticulous spread of placemats, sparkling crystal, and polished silverware.
A shadow fell over the room as Damian descended the main staircase, dressed in a crisply tailored suit that was far too formal for a "simple family dinner", but it was normal for Damian.
Damian took his seat at the very far end of the table, as if distancing himself from the inevitable noise. “Father, I was told the Kents were coming. When is that?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“Hopefully before everyone else. Why?” Bruce asked, watching his youngest son closely.
Alfred, who was pouring water for Damian, answered for him with an unreadable expression. “He wishes to see the youngest Kent, Master Jonathan. He has been rather… preoccupied with the notion.”
“Alfred!” Damian hissed, his dark eyebrows furrowing into a spectacular scowl.
“Am I wrong, Master Damian?” Alfred asked, a perfect picture of innocence.
“Yes,” Damian snapped, crossing his arms and looking dramatically away.
Alfred hummed, about to deliver another verbal dart, when the clear, loud chime of the front door echoed through the cavernous Manor. He set down the water pitcher and walked away to greet the new arrivals.
“It’s okay to be excited, Damian,” Bruce said, softening his voice slightly.
“I am aware, Father,” he replied stiffly, still refusing to make eye contact.
A moment later, Alfred re-entered, followed by Diana Prince. She was in her civilian attire: a sharp, elegant navy pantsuit, with simple glasses perched on her nose—a look that managed to be simultaneously intimidating and approachable. She was followed closely by Cassie, who wore a simple black blouse with dark jeans.
“Welcome, Diana, Cassie,” Bruce said, immediately standing to shake Diana’s hand.
“Thank you for inviting us, Mister Wayne,” Cassie said, offering a polite nod toward him.
“Call me Bruce,” he said, giving her a genuine, if slightly awkward, smile as he sat back down. Diana took the seat to his immediate right, and Cassie sat right next to her.
Cassie let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, slumping slightly into the high-backed chair. “Oh, thank the gods. I had been so used to calling you Bruce because of Tim, I thought you’d… not kill me, but I don’t know. Maybe turn me to stone or something if I did it to your face.”
Diana laughed, a bright, clear sound that immediately lightened the atmosphere. "Bruce has been having a crisis of social etiquette all week, my dear. I assure you, he's just relieved that two non-Bats have arrived."
"I am not having a crisis," Bruce mumbled, adjusting his collar.
“He is having a crisis,” Damian added, keeping his eyes on his water glass but clearly enjoying the chance to pile on.
Bruce cleared his throat, ignoring him. “Diana, have you heard anything from Clark?” he asked, attempting to redirect the conversation back to the known variables.
“We passed him helping Jon fly over here. Conner said he’s still having trouble with long distances,” Cassie said, watching as Alfred smoothly poured some sparkling cider for them. “I texted Tim, he said he and Conner are still getting ready,” she added.
Bruce hummed. “Tim is bringing Conner?” he asked. He hadn't realized their relationship had reached this level of seriousness. Or, truthfully, any level. Or even that there was a relationship.
Cassie nodded. “I mean, yeah, we just finished up a mission, but I wanted to meet up with Auntie Di’ first. They stayed back to make sure the mission report was done correctly.”
“Sounds like Tim,” Bruce nodded, finally settling in his seat with a small sense of relief that at least that was predictable.
“Wassup, Fuckers and Diana!”
Bruce sighed at the voice echoing loudly through the hall. He immediately rubbed the bridge of his nose, the headache he thought he’d dodged slamming back into him. He looked up and physically leaned back in his chair.
Jason Todd stood there, an agent of pure, deliberate anarchy. He was dressed in a simple button-up shirt and dark pants—the nicest clothes Bruce had seen him in in years—and was accompanied by a man whose unsettlingly familiar grin belonged to Oliver Queen’s protégé, Roy Harper. Roy was dressed in similar attire to Jason, his hair tied up.
“Hi Jason,” Diana greeted warmly, completely unfazed by the language.
Jason took the seat across from Damian, the furthest seat away from Bruce as possible. “I am only here for the pasta and to see Diana,” He said.
Diana smiled at that, “I am honored. Is little Lian coming?” She asked, looking around the doorway.
Roy shook his head. “No, she had a sleepover with some friends, but she did ask for us to bring some pasta for her tomorrow.” He said with a casual smile, sitting next to Jason.
Bruce cleared his throat, a sound that clearly signaled his anxiety. “So, Jason, is this your…?” He trailed off. Last time he checked—which was the last time he was able to unnoticeably stalk Jason about two years ago—he had been… flirting with Artemis.
Jason raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge in the gesture. “My fiancé,” he said, letting the word sink in. “You got a problem, old man?”
“You’re engaged?” Bruce asked, the words barely above a whisper.
“As of a few weeks ago, Jay agreed to make an honest man out of me,” Roy said, grinning broadly and slinging an arm over Jason's shoulders.
“Was there a ring?” Diana asked, her smile wide with genuine happiness.
Jason pulled a thin silver necklace from underneath his shirt, a simple silver ring dangling from it. “ Lian helped pick it. It says ‘Better than the sum of our parts’ because, well,” he gestured to Roy with a smirk.
“'Cause contrary to popular belief, I'm a sap,” Roy finished, beaming.
“Congratulations, Jason,” Bruce said, the words strained but sincere. It was just one more monumental event he hadn't known about his second oldest son, piling onto the mounting evidence that he was truly out of the loop.
The next to enter was Cass and Stephanie, both dressed in simple, yet nice clothes. Cass wore a black long-sleeve top with dark jeans and small gold hoop earrings, while Stephanie was in a simple purple dress with stylish cutouts at the sides of her waist.
“Cass! Steph!” Bruce welcomed them, a genuine smile finally reaching his eyes.
“Hey, B’,” Steph greeted. “Ugh, hi Jason,” she added, rolling her eyes with a clear, playful smirk.
“Ugh, hi Stephanie,” he reciprocated, the same familiar, antagonistic smirk on his face.
Cass slid into a seat, leaving the one directly next to Damian intentionally empty—everyone knew that space was reserved for Jonathan. She settled one seat away, while Stephanie sat next to her. Bruce didn’t comment or stare too long when he noticed Cass’s hand slide naturally onto Stephanie’s waist as she started talking quietly with Damian. He just let his shoulders relax for a moment. At least there was one thing he’d been right about, even if he hadn’t been completely sure a few days ago.
“Master Bruce, it appears Masters Clark and Jonathan have crashed into the ornamental bushes outside,” Alfred announced from the doorway, his tone as smooth and measured as if he were discussing the weather.
Stephanie and Jason both snorted with laughter while Bruce just rubbed his temples again. The headache was here to stay.
“Is Jonathan okay?” Diana asked, raising an eyebrow.
In seconds, the man of Damian’s hour, Jonathan, was standing in the dining room. His hair was tousled and the nice blue dress shirt he wore had noticeable dirt smudges on the sleeves. Clark followed him in with a nervous, apologetic smile.
“Did you miscalculate your trajectory again?” Damian asked, his expression severe as he looked at Jonathan.
Jonathan nodded, sliding into the seat next to Damian that had been waiting for him. “And then Dad tried to catch me, but I was going too fast and he overshot the landing,” he mumbled, turning his attention to Bruce. “Hi Mister Bruce,” he said, slightly shyly.
“I’ve told you to just call me Bruce,” Bruce said, the reprimand gentle.
Clark sat in the seat next to Bruce and across from Diana. “Yeah, but Ma’ found out about that last time and scolded both of us for not showing proper respect,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. His eyes moved to Cass at the end of the table. “Cass, Conner didn’t come with you?” Clark asked, raising an eyebrow. From his angle, he couldn't see the way Stephanie moved a hand to Cass’s thigh.
“No,” Cass said simply, not elaborating.
“Conner is coming with Tim,” Cassie supplied helpfully.
Clark raised an eyebrow. “Why’s he coming with—”
“Hello everyone!” Dick shouted as he walked in, his voice cutting off Clark's question. He had an arm linked with Wally West and the other with Koriand’r. All three were dressed in sophisticated, beautiful clothes, looking as if they had walked out of a magazine cover with their shiny hair and soft, confident expressions.
“He’s so dramatic,” Jason muttered, letting his head fall to the table with a thump. Roy snorted, patting Jason’s back.
Wally grinned widely, his usual vibrant energy filling the room. “Thanks for inviting us, Bruce!” he said.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, his mind already reeling from Jason's engagement and Cass's new girlfriend. "I invited Dick's significant other," he said, the plural suddenly becoming a very real possibility.
Koriand’r sat down next to Clark, then Dick next to her, and Wally settled on Dick's other side. Dick cleared his throat, lifting his hands that were intertwined with Koriand’r’s and Wally’s.
“About that…” he said, a sheepish, but ultimately triumphant, smile on his face. “We’re dating each other.”
Jason seemed to choke on his own saliva across the table. “Damn,” he said, shaking his head with a grudging respect for the sheer audacity of his oldest brother.
Diana nodded slowly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “The greed of man,” she mumbled, earning a sharp snort of laughter from Cassie.
“We all have two hands,” Koriand’r said simply, reaching over Dick’s head to high-five Wally.
Bruce cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Right. Right— Well, welcome to the family," he managed, before taking a long, necessary drink of the sparkling cider.
He had invited a family dinner to debunk homophobia headlines. Instead, he was hosting a small, superhero-adjacent polycule convention, and he still had two more children and their partners to go. He needed stronger cider.
Speaking of, Duke entered a few minutes later, alone, but with a wide smile on his face as he slid into the seat next to Roy, leaving an empty chair between himself and Wally.
Bruce, seizing the moment before the chatter could drown him out, raised an eyebrow. “Where is Isabella?” he asked, his voice cutting through the noise.
Duke laughed easily. “I am not dragging her into whatever this is,” he said. “I can handle it, but I would never make her deal with… whatever this is,” he repeated, laughing still and gesturing around the table.
“Yeah, I don’t blame him,” Roy mumbled under his breath, earning a quick, audible huff of laughter from Jason.
Dick, ever the drama initiator, reveled at this. “Roy just made Jason laugh!” he exclaimed, eyes wide as he pointed.
“Oh my god, the world is going to end,” Stephanie added in, leaning forward on the table.
“Shut up,” Jason mumbled with a practiced eyeroll, though the grin was clearly trying to fight its way onto his face, earning an even wider, proprietary smile from Roy.
Bruce let out a weary sigh. “Tell Isabella I say hello.” Duke nodded before Bruce continued, his gaze drifting to the two empty seats between Stephanie and Cassie. “Has anyone heard anything from Tim or Conner?” he asked.
Cassie pulled out her phone. “Nothing from either of them, I’ll text them,” she said, her thumbs flying across the screen.
Bruce watched as Clark tilted his head, the tell-tale sign of him listening for something far away. He then turned to Bruce with wide eyes, shaking his head almost violently. Diana looked between the two of them with a confused look before shaking it off and continuing to observe.
“Don’t,” Clark said quickly, the single word sharp. Bruce raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Clark did not elaborate, instead staring intensely at the door as if anticipating the arrival of a world-ending event.
“I already did, Tim said they’re almost done,” Cassie shrugged, oblivious to Clark's warning. “He said to start without them.” She slid her phone back into her pocket.
“Conner is probably distracting him,” Jon said, earning a huff from Damian.
“He always is,” Damian muttered, rolling his eyes as he looked at Jon.
“Alfred, can you bring the appetizers please?” Bruce asked, not needing to turn his head to know Alfred was already standing behind him, probably having anticipated the request ten minutes ago.
Alfred glided forward with the effortlessness of a man who had mastered both formal service and dodging high-speed projectiles. He placed a beautiful, oversized platter down in the center of the table. It was laden with Prosciutto-Wrapped Melon Skewers, small Goat Cheese and Fig Tarts in phyllo cups, and a selection of aged cheeses with water crackers—a perfect blend of fancy and finger-friendly.
“Wonderful, Alfie,” Dick said, immediately leaning over Koriand’r to grab a skewer.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Diana added, taking a small tart.
Jason, ignoring the elegant display, immediately reached for the crackers and a block of sharp cheddar. “Finally. I was about to ask Alfred if he kept a crowbar hidden anywhere near the kitchen, just to be proactive.”
“Don’t joke about that, Master Jason,” Alfred said sternly, though his lips twitched.
Stephanie immediately grabbed a prosciutto skewer and held it up like a microphone. “Wait, wait. Jason, since you're engaged.” Bruce almost frowned at that. How many other people knew Jason was engaged before he did? “Does Roy get to pick the wedding food, or does he have to fight you for catering rights?”
Roy grinned, tossing an olive in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Oh, we already talked about it. We’re doing a two-day event. Day one is Jason’s biker bar chili cook-off. Day two is my attempt at a formal sit-down. It’s the only way to ensure nobody leaves hungry and nobody gets shanked.”
“You’re having a chili cook-off for a wedding?” Clark asked, genuinely appalled, but mostly because he realized Bruce would likely attend and look miserable in a tuxedo next to a bubbling cauldron of chili.
“It’s authentic, Clark,” Jason defended, mouth full of cheese. “It’s how my people show affection.”
Dick raised an eyebrow, “Your people?” He muttered.
“And how your people get food poisoning,” Damian muttered from the end of the table, only to have Jon elbow him gently.
Cassie was talking to Duke about a recent mission, but she pointed a cracker at Jason. "No, but seriously, Jason. Who is doing the cake? Because I heard from Tim that there was a vendor war between Steph and Dick about flavor profiles."
Bruce listened to the escalating discussion about wedding catering, polycule relationships, and near-fatal crash landings, slowly picking at his plate. So everyone but him knew about the engagement. He tried to ignore the feeling in his chest and instead focused on the sheer, overwhelming normality of the domestic chaos was exactly what he needed, but yet, it confirmed just how much his children compartmentalized their lives away from him.
He was reaching for another goat cheese tart when he felt the sudden, tiny vibration of the table beneath his hand. It wasn't the crash of a satellite or the rumble of a tunnel collapse. It was... something.
Bruce glanced at Clark and Diana, who were already staring at him, their mouths thin lines. They had heard it too. It was faint, but unmistakable: the sound of a super-powered youth attempting, and failing, to enter silently in the room next to them, followed by a low, exasperated groan.
Bruce sighed, resigned. "I believe," he announced to the table, cutting through a heated debate about whether Wally should be allowed to taste-test the chili, "that our two stragglers have arrived."
Clark winced. "I told you not to worry," he whispered to Bruce. "But I think they brought a little something extra with them."
Tim walked in from the opposite end of the dining room, where it connected to the main part of the house. His hair was a frantic mess, and the top few buttons of his shirt were haphazardly undone. Kon was next to him, looking superficially put together, except for the fact that his shirt was visibly on backwards.
Bruce opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. So Tim and Kon were officially a thing, and apparently a very busy thing.
Then, the final surprise guest burst in. Bart Allen appeared from behind them, dressed in a random, loudly colored T-shirt and jeans that had more holes than fabric.
“Hey! Tim and Conner needed a quick lift and said there was food. Can I stay?” Bart asked swiftly. He scanned the table and spotted Wally. “Oh hey Uncle Wally,” Bart waved enthusiastically.
“It’s my favorite lunatic,” Wally said, nudging Dick with a huge grin. In a blur of speed, Bart was already in the empty seat between Wally and Duke before anyone could say anything.
Kon and Tim slid quickly into their seats: Kon next to Cassie, fist bumping his ex, while Tim squeezed between Kon and Stephanie.
A silence—thirty-two seconds of excruciating, expectant quiet—fell over the table before Jason broke it with the delicacy of a wrecking ball.
“Are we just gonna pretend that Tim doesn’t have a massive hickey on his neck?” Jason deadpanned, leaning forward to inspect the bruise.
Tim slapped a hand to his neck, his face immediately flooding with crimson, and glared venomously at Kon, who sank lower in his chair. “Shut up,” Tim mumbled, looking off to the side.
“Wrong side to cover, genius,” Stephanie mumbled, poking his neck, right on the bruise, with the tip of her finger.
Tim moved his hand to the correct spot. “Thanks,” he gritted out.
“Your shirt is also backwards, Conner,” Dick added, fixing the half-Kryptonian with a pointed, elder-brother glare.
“Right,” Kon said, and with a barely audible whoosh, he used his superspeed to switch his shirt around. In the same motion, he buttoned up Tim’s shirt fully, though it did little to fully conceal the purple mark.
“Right before family dinner? Really, Drake?” Damian said, looking utterly disgusted. “Have some dignity. This was your idea.”
“Yeah, Tim, don’t be a slut,” Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair with a smug look.
“I am not!” Tim shouted back, his face still burning.
Bruce gave a pointed, exhausted look from where his head was resting in his palms. “No cursing or calling your brother a slut,” he muttered into his hands. He was too tired to even attempt intimidation.
“If anyone here is a slut, it’s Dick,” Tim shot back immediately, throwing a hand out toward the polycule across the table.
Dick visibly gaped. “I am not!” he protested, offended on a purely theatrical level.
“You so are.”
Dick cleared his throat and stood dramatically, seizing the opportunity to command the room. “Fine, let’s take a poll! If you have had romantic relations with Tim Drake at any point in the past or present, please raise your hand.”
Stephanie, Cassie, and Kon all slowly, unapologetically raised their hands.
Tim slumped further into his seat, letting out a defeated huff.
“Also, Bernard,” Cass added helpfully from beside Stephanie, not breaking her calm demeanor.
“Thanks, Cass,” Tim muttered sarcastically, pulling out his phone to hide his face. “I’m glad to see how much my family loves me.”
“I never said that, Slut,” Jason mumbled, taking a large, satisfied bite of a cracker.
Tim groaned, letting his head fall completely to the polished table with a thump. “I hate all of you.”
Bruce finally lifted his head from his hands and fixed the group with a tired, pointed gaze.
"Stop calling Tim a slut," Bruce instructed with weary authority. "And Tim," he continued, looking directly at the rumpled figure on the table, "please keep your activities with Conner to an appropriate time, and just focus on taking pictures of everyone."
Tim didn't move his head, but his voice came out muffled against the wood. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, his hand instinctively reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone, adjusting the camera settings to look less than professional.
“Next time you guys are being gross, don’t text me to cover for you. Do you know how awkward that is for me?” Cassie mumbled, glaring pointedly at both Tim and Kon, clearly having been roped into some kind of distraction plan.
Kon shrugged, “You owed me for covering for you and—”
"The appetizers are quite excellent, aren’t they, Master Bruce?," Alfred commented smoothly from behind Bruce, the diplomatic distraction cutting through the rising tension. "Perhaps we should discuss the foundation's annual gala schedule while we wait for the main course?"
Bruce nodded, relieved to pivot to a topic he understood. "Indeed, Alfred. And Clark, on Monday, I need you to join me for a meeting with—”
"I got it," Tim cut in, his voice sharper now that he was focused on his actual mission. He lifted his head, wiped away the lines on his face from where the table pressed into his forehead, and held his phone high. “Bart, do the honors?” he asked, sliding his phone across the table. Bart grinned, grabbed it and moved toward the end of the table.
"Smile, everyone! You're about to become the cover story for 'Bruce Wayne: Definitely Not a Homophobe's Extremely Queer Family Dinner!'"
The camera flashed, catching the diverse, dysfunctional, and deeply committed family in a frozen moment of pure, glorious chaos. It captured Jason's satisfied smirk with Roy’s grin and arm over the former’s shoulders, Wally and Kori's linked hands draped over Dick's shoulder, Damian and Jon leaning close together, Cass and Steph's quiet contentment, Duke's easy laugh, Diana and Cassie's elegant smiles, Clark’s nervousness, Bruce’s exhaustion and the distinct, dark bruise on Tim's neck that Kon was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while staring at.
Bruce closed his eyes as the flash popped, knowing the damage was already done. He had managed to prove a point by hosting a dinner that exposed a dozen other points he'd tried to keep hidden for years. The love he had for his kids was worth it.
—-
The following morning, the headlines across Gotham and Metropolis were no longer focused on Bruce Wayne’s possible homophobia. The story had been completely buried, replaced by a much more salacious, immediate, and utterly distracting piece of journalism, fueled entirely by the anonymous submission of a certain photo.
The digital banner of the Gotham Gazette's main site blared:
FROM HOMOPHOBIA TO HICKEYS: WAYNE FAMILY DINNER IS A PUBLIC RELATIONS POWER MOVE!
Below that, the biggest gossip sites ran wild:
TIM DRAKE-WAYNE & THE MYSTERIOUS HICKEY: SCROLL TO SEE THE MAIN CULPRIT— CONNER LUTHOR
DICK GRAYSON-WAYNE CAUGHT RED-HAIRED???
CASSANDRA CAIN: A WIN FOR THE LESBIAN COMMUNITY!
OLIVER QUEEN’S ADOPTED SON SPOTTED WITH MYSTERIOUS MAN AT WAYNE DINNER
Bruce stared at the screen on his office computer, sipping his black coffee. The five-cheese pasta distraction had worked, just not in the way he'd intended. The accusation of homophobia was gone. His reputation was... complicated. His children, however, were trending worldwide.
He picked up his phone, fully intending to lecture Tim about professionalism, optics, and the complete lack of subtlety. But before he could dial, a text came through from his youngest strategist.
Tim: B, Check the news. Crisis averted. You owe me an entire case of energy drinks and the good coffee beans.
Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples once more. He might hate the news, but he certainly couldn't argue with the results. He put the phone down, a faint, grudging smile touching his lips.
The most ridiculous thing about being Batman? Dealing with a villain was always easier than dealing with his kids, but he loved them more than anything that any universe could offer.