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The Morning After
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The kitchen was already too bright.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, catching on the polished counter, the silver coffee pot, and the edge of the long table. Everything looked exactly as it always did in the mornings—orderly, calm, faintly domestic.
Which was the problem.
Bruce sat at the head of the table with a mug cradled in both hands, as it might run away from him. He looked vaguely betrayed by it. His tie was gone. His hair was doing something uncooperative. He blinked a little too slowly.
Dick lounged in his chair opposite him, one leg hooked over the rung, cereal abandoned in favour of coffee he’d already refilled twice. He looked fine. Annoyingly fine.
“This,” Dick announced, tapping his mug against Bruce’s, “is why I don’t drink red wine with billionaires who treat a persona like a contact sport.”
Bruce made a low, wounded sound and tipped his forehead briefly toward the table. “I was selling it.”
“Oh, you sold it,” Dick said, bright and unrepentant. “Very convincingly. I’m pretty sure at least three people now believe you don’t know how doors work.”
Damian glared at his toast like it had personally wronged him. “You were all embarrassing,” he said flatly. “Publicly. Repeatedly.”
His oldest brother grinned. “You loved it.”
“I did not. And I dread to think what you achieved after the restaurant. You didn’t come home for hours.”
“You absolutely did love it,” Dick answered, unsubtly dodging the accusation. “You corrected a waiter’s pronunciation out of spite.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. He did not look up from his plate.
Halfway down the table, Tim sat perfectly straight, hands folded neatly around his mug. He hadn’t touched his breakfast. Steam curled up in front of him, drifting away unnoticed. His expression was mild, composed—
—and just amused enough to be dangerous.
Alfred moved quietly between the counter and the table, the soft clink of china marking his progress as he set out plates with habitual precision. He paused at one place setting. Clean. Untouched. Unoccupied.
Bruce squinted at it.
His gaze snagged on the empty chair, then slid away, then circled back like his brain hadn’t quite accepted it the first time. He shifted in his seat, winced faintly at the movement, and cleared his throat. “Did—”
No one looked at him.
“Did Jason come in already?”
Dick glanced around, then leaned back, peering theatrically at the hallway. “If he did, he managed to avoid all known forms of human interaction. Impressive, but unlikely.”
Damian scoffed. “He would not.”
Bruce frowned. He checked his watch, then his phone, then the watch again, as if time might have rearranged itself while he wasn’t looking.
“I haven’t heard from him,” he said at last, aiming for casual and overshooting into something a little too deliberate. “Since last night.”
The words landed and stayed there.
Tim did not look up. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, like he was enjoying a joke no one else had been told yet. “If it helps,” Tim added, stirring his coffee, “last time he disappeared overnight, it was on purpose. So this is actually an improvement.”
Damian’s fingers tightened around his fork.
Dick’s grin softened, just a fraction. “He probably crashed somewhere,” he said lightly. “You know Jason. Dramatic exits, late mornings.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Bruce nodded, a little too quickly.
Alfred set down a cup and straightened, hands folding behind his back.
No one spoke.
The empty chair stayed empty.
Alfred cleared his throat softly.
The sound carried just enough weight to draw Dick’s attention before anyone else’s. He turned, eyebrow lifting, as Alfred approached the table—not with the usual breakfast accoutrements, but with a neatly folded newspaper tucked under his arm.
“I took the liberty of retrieving the morning press,” Alfred said, placing it within Dick’s reach with deliberate care. “I thought you might find it… illuminating.”
Dick glanced down, then up again, already smiling. Bruce didn’t look. He was still staring at the empty place setting, jaw set, as if refusing to acknowledge the direction the morning was taking.
Alfred stepped back, hands folding behind him, expression serene.
Dick unfolded the paper— and started laughing.
“Oh no,” he said, delighted. “Oh no. Bruce, this is bad.”
Bruce, hunched over his coffee like it had personally betrayed him, groaned. “If this is about the restaurant, I know. I leaned too hard into the bit.”
Dick cleared his throat dramatically and read aloud. “Wayne Patriarch Appears Overwhelmed Outside Midtown Bistro.”
He snorted. “That’s not even subtle. They really committed to that wording.”
Damian didn’t look up from his toast. “You resemble a man contemplating abdication.”
“I was tired,” Bruce said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Dick tilted the paper so Bruce could see the photo. “Bruce. Your face is in your hands like you’re auditioning for a stock photo called Midlife Crisis.”
Tim, staring into his mug, added mildly, “The lighting’s good,” Tim said. “Unfortunate, but good.”
Bruce exhaled. “Wonderful.”
Dick lowered the paper, still smiling to himself—just in time for Alfred to glide in and place another newspaper neatly in front of him.
“Might I suggest the Gotham Gazette, Master Dick,” Alfred said pleasantly.
The paper appeared beside Dick’s elbow braced on the table where he held the previous paper with quiet finality.
Dick blinked down at it. Then his mouth split wide as he laughed, sharp and delighted. “Oh. Oh, you absolute menace.”
Bruce straightened, suddenly alert. “What.”
Dick unfolded the paper, the soft crackle suddenly very loud in the bright kitchen. “Okay, headline—” He stopped. Stared. Then laughed again, incredulous. “Oh! That’s Jason.”
Bruce was halfway out of his chair before the words finished landing. Wood scraped against tile. “That’s what?”
“Wayward Wayne Heir Arrested After Late-Night McDonald’s Altercation,” Dick read, dragging out the alliteration like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
“Arrested?” Bruce repeated, one hand braced on the table.
Dick leaned closer to the page, squinting at the photo. “Yeah. Police cruiser. Multiple officers.” He tilted his head. “He looks—honestly? Mostly annoyed.”
“Todd is painfully predictable,” Damian said without inflexion, eyes flicking to the image and away again.
Bruce didn’t look at him. “Is he hurt?”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Dick said. “He’s still arguing with someone in the picture.”
He leaned in further, scanning.
“Oh,” he said suddenly, brightening. “This gets better.”
“It does not get better,” Bruce said faintly, sagging a fraction.
Dick read the caption aloud. “Brother Timothy Drake-Wayne appears nearby during the incident, reportedly uninvolved.”
He lifted his head slowly, reverent. “Tim.”
“Yes?” Tim said, raising his mug innocently, just enough to acknowledge the summons.
“You’re in the background,” Dick said. “Eating ice cream.”
“McFlurry,” Tim corrected.
Bruce turned toward him in slow disbelief. “You were there.”
“I was present,” Tim said calmly. “Briefly,” he added almost as an afterthought. “And only geographically.”
Damian leaned in just long enough to assess the image. “He appears content.”
Dick wiped at the corner of his eye, laughter spilling out again. “You look like you’re watching street theatre.”
“Jason paid,” Tim added.
Bruce closed his eyes. “Of course he did.”
Pages flipped. Paper rustled.
“Oh!” Dick said suddenly, cheer returning with a vengeance as he flipped another page. “And for tonal contrast—”
Alfred was already there, hovering just behind his shoulder like a stagehand with perfect timing. “Page twelve, sir,” he supplied smoothly.
A laugh burst out as the headline came into view. “Wayne’s Youngest Spotted at Cat Café with Family Butler.”
Across the table, Damian lifted his chin sharply. “I was removed from an untenable situation.”
Dick tilted the paper. “You’re holding the cat like it owes you money.”
“It purred most agreeably,” Alfred said fondly.
“They do oat milk,” Tim supplied helpfully. “That seemed relevant.” he added with a shrug when Dick shot him a pointed look with a confused smile.
The chair at the head of the table creaked as Bruce sank back into it. “So,” Bruce said, voice dulled by fatigue, “while Jason was being arrested—”
“—I was drinking tea,” came the clipped reply.
Pages rustled again, laughter spilling unchecked now. “And to conclude—gossip column—”
“Of course,” Bruce muttered, staring into the middle distance.
“Bruce Wayne Later Seen Bar-Hopping with Eldest Son,” Dick read.
“That was one bar,” Bruce said weakly.
“There are three photos.”
The paper turned just enough for the image to catch the morning sun inching tauntingly across the kitchen table: Bruce Wayne outside a bar, jacket slung loose, arm hooked around Dick’s neck, grin wide and unfocused. The caption used the word spirited.
“You look happy,” Tim offered, mild and unhelpful in the way only he could manage. “Hey and people seem reassured,” Tim said. “You look like you tip well.”
“Wait,” Dick said, leaning closer. “Why am I quoted.”
Bruce glanced over. “What does it say.”
Dick read it once. Then again. “…I did not say ‘we’re celebrating family.’”
The photo held Bruce’s attention a beat too long.
A short, incredulous laugh escaped him — more breath than sound — followed by a hand dragged through his hair, fingers catching, tugging harder than intended. “We went to dinner,” he said. “Why couldn’t that be enough. A simple family dinner to distract from all this stupid speculation—”
“Oh,” Dick cut in mildly, tilting his head. “So you admit the dinner was a ploy.”
A sharp look answered that. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s kind of exactly what you said.”
Bruce opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I wanted to see you boys too,” he said, defensive now, words stacking up too fast. “I did. But yes— maybe— maybe there were benefits to being seen, and I didn’t think that—”
A single laugh cut clean through it. Sharp. Satisfied.
“I fucking knew it.”
Alfred didn’t miss a beat. “Language, Master Timothy.”
Tim gestured vaguely at the newspaper without looking at it. “He dragged us all out to dinner to play decoy, and somehow Jason’s in a police cruiser and I’m the one in the background eating ice cream. I feel entitled to one swear.”
Dick snorted despite himself.
Both of Bruce’s palms came down flat against the table, the sound dull and final. “That is not what I wanted.”
Damian’s voice cut in, cool and precise. “Intent is irrelevant.”
Bruce looked over, exhaustion finally stripping the edge from his expression. “Thank you, Damian. Very helpful.”
“It is,” Damian said. “You wanted a spectacle. You received one.”
A gentle clearing of the throat cut in, careful not to claim the room. “If I may, sir—regardless of motive, the evening appears to have… diversified.”
Dick huffed a laugh that didn’t quite land. “That’s one way to put it.”
The empty chair drew Bruce’s gaze again, unavoidable. When he spoke, the volume had dropped. “This was supposed to reduce speculation.” Fingers dragged slowly down his face, lingering at his jaw.
Dick glanced toward Alfred, a grin surfacing out of habit. “Mission accomplished. No one is talking about Batman.”
“One must celebrate the small victories, sir,” Alfred replied serenely.
Dick’s laughter tapered off in uneven bursts, the sound catching on itself until it didn’t quite know where to go anymore.
He folded the paper, once. Then again. Slower this time.
“Well,” he said finally, voice lighter than the room deserved. “That’s… a hell of a scrapbook.”
No one answered.
Bruce hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the headline, eyes unfocused, like he was waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something less damning. His coffee had gone untouched. The steam was gone.
The table felt larger now. Emptier.
A soft scrape cut across the tabletop as a plate was pushed away, porcelain protesting faintly against wood. “Is he still in custody,” came Damian’s question, sharp but carefully measured, “or have they released him?”
Dick glanced up, instinctively ready with a quip, but managed to restrain himself somehow.
The chair at the head of the table remained still.
Behind them, Alfred’s attention drifted — just briefly — to the empty place setting before returning, composed as ever. “I have not yet received confirmation, sir.”
Silence settled again. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just there.
Tim took a measured sip of his coffee. Set the mug down. The sound was too loud in the quiet that followed.
A slow breath followed. Bruce reached for the paper at last, fingers catching the edge and bending it slightly, the crease forming without intention. His eyes snagged, inevitably, on the same block of text they’d circled all morning.
“Fucking hell Jason,” he said.
“In retrospect,” Tim huffed a laugh, “letting him freelance was bold.”
Outside, somewhere in the distance, a car passed. The morning went on.
And now — finally — it mattered what had happened the night before.
Bruce didn’t say anything.
The paper lay open in front of him, creased where his fingers had dug in without him noticing. His gaze had gone distant, unfocused, fixed on the same photograph Dick had already laughed himself hoarse over. Jason’s name. Jason’s face. The moment was caught and flattened into ink.
For just a second, the kitchen felt too still. Like everything had paused, waiting for him to move first.
Instead, his eyes drifted back to the photograph.
And just like that, the morning loosened its grip.
The restaurant had been loud.
Not unpleasantly so — just full. Plates clinking, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off polished surfaces. Bruce had leaned into it, buoyed by the noise, by the attention, by the easy rhythm of being seen and harmless and human.
The boys had understood immediately.
Jason had grinned too sharply for it to be accidental, leaning into the bit with exaggerated enthusiasm. Dick had smoothed over every raised eyebrow with charm and a credit card, turning excess into endearment. Tim had sounded boring on purpose—wealthy, distracted, innocuous. Damian had been scathing in a way that read as precocious rather than hostile to anyone watching from a distance.
It had held.
Bruce had thought, This is fine.
He had thought, This will do.
Something had shifted anyway.
Nothing obvious. Just Jason, clearly having a great time being difficult. The grin that said he’d found a line and was already considering stepping over it. Bruce remembered noticing— thinking, not for the first time, that letting Jason wander off mid-bit in Gotham was probably an error in judgment. Gotham had a way of responding to provocations. Gotham always took them personally.
Outside, the night had broken the spell. Cold air, traffic noise, the city rolling on like it always did. They’d stood there for a moment beneath the restaurant’s glow, uncertain in the way people get when the thing holding them together has already passed.
Jason had gone first.
Not unsteady. Not dramatic. Just moving away with purpose, like someone who’d decided the night wasn’t finished yet.
The others had followed their own paths soon after. No discussion. No coordination. It had felt natural. Inevitable, even.
Bruce and Dick had stayed behind the longest, telling themselves it was done. That whatever had been set in motion had already run its course. That the noise would fade on its own.
At the time, it hadn’t felt like a mistake.
Just an ending. Clean. Contained.
Bruce hadn’t yet learned how wrong that feeling could be.
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The Night Before
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The restaurant was loud in the way Bruce had hoped for.
Not rowdy, just full. Glassware clinked, voices overlapped, laughter bounced off polished surfaces and warm lighting. It was the kind of place where no one listened closely to anyone else, where attention slid easily from table to table, and nothing lingered long enough to matter.
Perfect.
He clocked the angles automatically — the distance between tables, the blind spots created by pillars and hanging lights, the way interest rose and fell in soft waves. Nothing stuck. No one listened too closely. Even the staff moved with practised distraction, attentive without being curious.
Brucie leaned into the role with enthusiasm.
Too much enthusiasm, probably, but that was the point.
He laughed loudly at his own jokes, head tipped back, voice carrying just far enough to be noticed and dismissed. He gestured expansively with his wineglass, sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and waved at people who weren’t actually looking at him—though a few of them turned when he did, startled into polite smiles.
“Great choice,” Bruce said warmly to the couple at the neighbouring table who made the mistake of meeting his eye. Or perhaps they’d wanted to. It was hard to tell. “The risotto’s excellent.”
The man blinked. The woman laughed, uncertain. Bruce nodded to himself like he’d done them a favour.
He flagged down the waiter and asked questions he already knew the answers to, then reacted with open delight anyway.
“Is this one gluten-free?” Bruce asked, squinting at the menu upside down. “I don’t know why I care. I eat whatever Alfred puts in front of me.”
The waiter smiled, patient in the way of someone who’d seen worse.
“This is fascinating,” he said, peering at the menu upside down. “Did you know there are six kinds of salt?”
Jason snorted. “Bruce, that’s just—”
“—irresponsible?” Dick supplied smoothly. “Excessive? A cry for help?”
Bruce beamed. “Exactly!”
Dick played it like second nature. It probably was at this point. He’d been raised on Brucie Wayne after all. He smiled at the right moments, smoothed over Bruce’s volume with charm and generous tips, leaned in conspiratorially to waitstaff and nearby tables alike, apologising on his adoptive father's behalf without actually apologising, as if this were all part of a grand, endearing farce.
Tim committed in his own way by being aggressively boring, the kind of boring that signalled safety.
“Yes,” he said mildly when asked about work, “investments are doing fine.” No, nothing exciting. No, nothing innovative. Just spreadsheets and meetings and a truly regrettable amount of email.
It was flawless. He sounded like every other wealthy young man who had never once thought about vigilantism in his life, like his greatest hardship was deciding which inbox to ignore first.
Damian, meanwhile, radiated disdain so pure it looped back around into charm. He corrected pronunciations with surgical precision, stared down anyone who looked at the table too long, and delivered scathing remarks in a tone so flat they came off as precocious rather than hostile.
“This establishment is… adequate,” he said, folding his napkin with military precision. He pitched it just loud enough to carry.
Bruce nodded approvingly. “High praise.”
Jason leaned into the chaos with relish.
He exaggerated his reactions, laughed too loudly, and leaned back in his chair until Dick kicked his ankle under the table. He made a show of being unimpressed by the wine list, then demanded the most expensive item on it purely on principle.
“Gotta maintain appearances,” he said, flashing a grin that said he knew exactly what they were doing.
Dick laughed, then flicked a glance at Bruce — quick, assessing — before smoothing it over with a smile for the table.
“Let’s get two bottles,” Brucie said cheerfully. “What’s the point of money if you don’t spend it loudly?”
And it worked.
People glanced over, smiled, and went back to their meals. A few phones came out — but not discreetly. Not hungrily. Just casual, bored curiosity. The Waynes were the little sparkle of entertainment Gotham had to offer. Bruce clocked them, smile never slipping.
Somewhere between the appetisers and the second bottle, Bruce got pulled into a conversation with the table beside them—something about travel, or boats, or philanthropy. It hardly mattered.
Dick nudged him without looking. “Bruce, you should tell them about the yacht.”
Tim didn’t even glance up from his water glass. “The third yacht.”
Bruce nodded seriously. “It’s technically a catamaran.”
The table laughed. Someone repeated it. Someone else shook their head like this was exactly what they’d expected.
Bruce felt the tension ease from his shoulders.
This is fine, he thought, watching the kids fall into rhythm around him. This is enough.
They ordered too much food. They talked over one another. They laughed.
For a while, it felt almost easy.
The moment that broke their carefully practised charade was stupid.
It wasn’t about Batman. It wasn’t about secrets or control or responsibility. It wasn’t even about the dinner.
Jason leaned back in his chair, studying Bruce with exaggerated interest.
“You’re fucking insufferable like this,” he said cheerfully. “You know that, right?”
Dick snorted. Tim smiled into his glass. Even Damian huffed, affronted but amused.
Bruce laughed, broad and easy, lifting his wine as if to toast the observation. “You wound me.”
Jason grinned. “I’m serious. If you’re going to commit to the Brucie Wayne Experience, you should really commit.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Jason said, warming to it. “You know what would really sell it?”
Dick’s smile sharpened. He could see where this was going and didn’t entirely hate it.
“Let’s make it a real Wayne family dinner,” Jason continued. “Loud. Messy. A little embarrassing. Maybe someone storms off. Maybe someone else makes it worse. Very authentic.”
Tim glanced up now, interest flickering. Damian straightened in his seat, already bracing for impact.
Bruce’s laugh came a beat too fast. “Okay, that’s—”
Jason scraped his chair back, just enough to draw attention, hands spreading theatrically as if he were about to raise his voice.
A couple of heads turned.
Dick leaned in immediately, playing along. “Oh my god, Jason, don’t start.”
Damian scoffed. “This is undignified.”
Jason didn’t actually shout. He didn’t need to. The implication was doing the work for him.
It was a joke. A bit. It landed.
The table laughed.
Bruce laughed too — reflexively, professionally — and then smoothed a hand through the air. “Jason,” he said lightly, still smiling. “Let’s not push it.”
He didn’t look at Jason when he said it. He looked past him, calibrating the room.
The table laughed again.
Jason laughed with them — quick, sharp, already pivoting.
“Oh, wow,” he said. “Sorry. Forgot we were doing controlled chaos, not authenticity.”
Dick barked a laugh, delighted now. “Jason, don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Jason cut in, still smiling, still very much in character. “Make it convincing?”
Tim hid his grin behind his glass. Damian’s mouth twitched, offended and entertained in equal measure.
Bruce kept smiling, but there was a warning in his eyes now. “Let’s dial it back.”
Jason held up his hands in exaggerated surrender. “Right. My bad. God forbid we look like a real family for five seconds.”
A couple of heads turned at nearby tables.
Jason noticed. Of course he did.
He pushed his chair back just enough to make it scrape — not a slam, not a scene, just sound. A punctuation mark.
Dick groaned theatrically. “Oh my god, here we go.”
Damian scoffed. “This is undignified.”
Jason stood, still grinning in a manic sort of way, still very clearly acting. “You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t push it.”
Bruce relaxed a fraction. “Jason—”
“No, no,” Jason said brightly, leaning forward and bracing himself on the table in such a way that when he lowered his voice, only the table could hear, but the look on his face and bluntness of his words were visible from all tables in their vicinity. “I get it. This is supposed to be fun. Light. Non-threatening.”
He glanced around the room, sweeping an arm out like he was presenting the restaurant itself.
“Which means,” he continued, voice carrying just enough, “we’re missing one crucial element.”
The table leaned in despite themselves.
Jason shrugged. “A dramatic exit.”
Dick snorted. Tim’s smile widened. Damian rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe he was related to any of them.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Jason.” And he rose from his chair with a placating hand gesture.
Jason clapped his hands together once. “Relax. I’ll make it tasteful.”
He grabbed his coat, still smiling in a visibly forced manner, still entirely in control of the bit. A few people were definitely watching now. A phone came out — not covertly, just curious.
Jason turned back to the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll storm off, cool down, and come back later. Authentic and contained.”
Bruce opened his mouth — not angry, just calculating.
Jason didn’t wait.
He turned and walked toward the door, posture loose, steps steady, the picture of someone play-acting a tantrum for an audience that would forget it in ten minutes.
The door swung shut behind him.
The noise rushed back in to fill the space he left.
Dick exhaled a laugh. “Wow. Ten out of ten. Note-perfect.”
Tim nodded. “Very convincing.”
Damian folded his arms. “I hate all of you.”
Bruce sat down.
Because staying standing was drawing more attention than he’d banked on attention.
And as far as anyone watching could tell, the Wayne family dinner was proceeding exactly as planned.
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Outside, the night hit like a reset.
Traffic hissed past on damp asphalt. A bus groaned at the corner, doors sighing open. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed too loudly. The city carried on, unbothered, as if a Wayne family dinner hadn’t just provided its promised entertainment.
Jason hadn’t hesitated.
He had shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and walked off at an easy clip, shoulders loose, posture relaxed. He didn’t slam the door behind him. He didn’t look back. He moved like someone stepping out of a role once the curtain had fallen—job done, bit complete.
Bruce watched him go through the bistro’s windows, jaw tight. From the inside, Jason’s exit had played exactly as intended: dramatic but contained, loud enough to be convincing, clean enough not to stick.
It didn’t take long before Bruce called for the check. Plates were cleared. Chairs scraped. The table broke apart with practised efficiency, and they all filtered out into the cold as if this had always been the plan.
For a moment, they all stood there beneath the restaurant’s glowing sign—too many bodies, too many directions, the energy of the scene still humming in the air.
“He’ll circle back, probably,” Dick said easily, already shifting his weight, the tension bleeding out of him now that the worst of the attention had passed. “Give him five minutes. He just needed to sell it.”
Bruce nodded. That tracked. Jason always took a lap when he committed to theatrics — burned it off, let the adrenaline settle, then reappeared like nothing had happened.
Bruce’s phone buzzed.
A message popped up in the group chat.
“that was fun, we should do it again sometime”
Dick barked a laugh before Bruce could even react. “Or not, I guess.”
Bruce stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
“Well,” he said, with the air of a man closing a file, “there we are.”
Dick laughed. “See? Textbook.”
Damian scoffed. “Your standards are abysmal.”
“Effective, though,” Dick said, clapping his hands once. “Public drama. Clean exit. No follow-up.”
Bruce nodded, visibly relieved. “Contained.”
Alfred inclined his head. “Insofar as public containment is ever possible, sir.”
Tim lingered a step behind them, already half-elsewhere. He checked his phone, thumb hovering, expression neutral in that way that meant something had clicked into place.
“I’m going to head out,” he said politely, checking his phone as if something had just occurred to him. “There’s something I want to follow up on.”
Bruce waved a hand without really looking. “Right. Sure. Text if you—”
Tim was already gone, swallowed smoothly into the stream of pedestrians, the performance filed away and replaced by something quieter and more focused.
Damian folded his arms, expression pinched with irritation.
“This entire evening was unnecessary,” Damian said.
Alfred hummed thoughtfully. “Nevertheless, Master Damian, you did endure it admirably.”
“I did not.”
“You remained in public without drawing a blade,” Alfred replied. “That is progress.”
“I am leaving.”
Alfred had appeared at his side without fanfare. “Very good, Master Damian.”
“I want to go home,” Damian added, sharper now. “Immediately.”
“As you wish.”
They turned in the opposite direction, Damian’s stride clipped and purposeful, Alfred’s presence steady at his shoulder as they moved away from the restaurant’s spill of light and sound.
That left Bruce and Dick beneath the sign.
Bruce exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have let him—”
Dick waved it off. “He leaned into it. Hard. Honestly? It worked.”
Bruce hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It did.”
They didn’t follow Jason. They didn’t call Tim back. They didn’t stop Damian.
There was no reason to. The scene was over. The audience had dispersed. Everyone had exited in character.
The restaurant door swung open behind them, releasing another burst of noise and laughter. A server brushed past. A couple stepped outside, mid-conversation, already bored with whatever drama had preceded them.
Bruce exhaled, long and slow. “No photos on the way out.”
Dick glanced back at the restaurant. “Give it five minutes.”
Bruce allowed himself a smile.
Dick clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go for a drink.”
Bruce took one last look down the street Jason had disappeared into. He didn’t see him.
That was fine. Jason knew the script. He always did.
As far as Bruce was concerned, the night had gone about as well as he could hope for. Bruce decided, not for the first time that evening, that momentum was safer than silence.
So they turned away.
And that was the quiet mistake.
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The Morning After
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Breakfast had stalled.
Not ended— just… suspended. Plates sat half-cleared, crumbs pushed into careless constellations. Coffee had gone tepid in their mugs, thin skins forming on the surface. Newspapers lay scattered across the table, folded and refolded, edges curling as if they might still rearrange themselves into something less damning.
Bruce stood at the counter, one hand braced against the marble, staring into nothing. The light from the window caught the side of his face and made him look older than he had any right to.
Behind him, denial had officially failed.
And worse yet, Dick had discovered the internet.
“Okay,” came his voice from the table, far too pleased with himself. He leaned back in his chair, one ankle hooked around a leg, phone held loosely as he scrolled with his thumb. “So the Chronicle ran it first. Which is annoying, but expected.”
Bruce didn’t turn. “Ran what.”
“The arrest,” Dick said, squinting closer. “Short piece. Bad headline. They used ‘Wayward Wayne’ completely unironically.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pressing in like he could hold the headache there.
A chair scraped. The youngest Wayne slid closer to his oldest brother’s side of the table, interest finally overcoming indifference. “Hand it over.”
Dick blinked. “You don’t even read the Chronicle.”
“I do when it involves us,” Damian said coolly. “And humiliation.”
The phone changed hands without argument.
Damian scanned the article with ruthless efficiency, eyes moving faster than the scroll. “They misspelt his middle name,” he reported. “Amateurs.”
“Damian.” Bruce turned slowly.
“Yes?”
“Why are you helping.”
The screen reflected faintly in Damian’s eyes as he continued reading. “I am assessing reputational damage.”
Dick snorted. “Wow. Welcome to the team.”
“This is all terrible press, Father. Wayne patriarch seen “deep in conversation” with barstaff at 2 a.m.— Bruce Wayne tips entire restaurant after tumultuous “family night out”--- Wayne heir arrested; father spotted singing karaoke—”
“Do you need to read them all out?” Bruce sighed, shoulders sagging as he turned back to the counter. Yes, that had been the goal of the evening: to give the press something — anything — other than Batman. He could have done without it spiralling quite so enthusiastically.
“There are comments,” Damian said.
“No,” Bruce said immediately.
“There are many comments,” Damian corrected.
Dick leaned over his shoulder. “Oh, someone thinks Jason’s being framed.”
Bruce closed his eyes. “Please tell me they don’t think he’s Batman.”
“Not yet,” Tim interjected mildly from halfway down the table, stirring his coffee with unnecessary precision.
Bruce’s eyes snapped open. “Yet?”
A shrug, light and unapologetic. “Mostly speculation about whether it’s a publicity stunt,” Tim said. “Or a cry for help.”
“Oof.” Dick winced, “Both worse, somehow.”
A finger tapped the screen once, decisively. “This one claims Father staged the entire evening.”
A strangled sound escaped Bruce’s throat. “I did not stage—”
“To be fair,” Dick said, “you did invite us out to reinforce the rich-idiot optics.”
A fatherly look was shot across the kitchen. “I did not say that out loud.”
Tim tilted his head, lips curling. “You didn’t have to.”
Damian didn’t share the sentiment. He was already scrolling again, brow furrowed with focus rather than concern. “There is a thread,” he announced.
Bruce straightened. “What kind of thread.”
“A timeline.”
Dick leaned over his shoulder instinctively. “Oh no.”
Damian read aloud, clipped and precise. “Restaurant. Sidewalk. Arrest.” He flicked again. “With timestamps.”
A low whistle. “Wow,” Dick said. “They’re very organised.”
Bruce made a low sound in the back of his throat. “Why would anyone do that.”
“People enjoy order,” Damian said. “Especially when it involves us.”
Tim set his spoon down carefully. “You should also check local affiliates.”
“Why.” Bruce turned at the sound, sharp enough to make the counter creak under his grip.
A shrug followed, unbothered. “They’re faster,” Tim said liek it was obvious. “And less careful.”
Dick froze mid-scroll. “Faster how.”
Tim met Dick’s eyes across the table. “Video.”
The word seemed to suck the air out of the room.
A refresh gesture broke the stillness. Once. Then again. Damian’s mouth thinned. “There is a link.”
“Oh no,” Dick said softly, phone already in hand. “Oh no.”
Bruce didn’t turn. “If that’s another article, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s not an article,” came the reply, something like awe creeping in around the edges. “It’s—wow. Okay. It’s a video.”
Tim didn’t look up. He reached for another spoonful of his cereal with the same careful precision he’d applied to everything that morning.
“What platform,” Damian asked, already bracing.
A blink. “Sorry?”
“The platform,” Damian repeated. “This matters.”
A glance at the screen. “TikTok.”
The look Damian made was pure disgust. “Of course it is.”
Tim finally looked up.
“Oh,” he said. “That one.”
Bruce closed his eyes. “Dick.”
“You should see the comments,” Dick said helplessly. “They’re… very engaged.”
A fresh mug appeared by Tim’s elbow, steam curling gently upward. “Shall I confiscate the device, sir?” Alfred asked, tone polite enough to almost be hopeful.
A quick shake of the head. “Too late. It’s already at—” Dick squinted, refreshing “—two hundred thousand views.”
Bruce turned slowly, like a man bracing for impact. “Play it.”
Hesitation flickered. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Dick swallowed, then tapped the screen.
The kitchen filled with street noise — traffic, voices, someone laughing off-camera. Shaky footage. Nighttime glare. The angle was bad, vertical and shaky, the unmistakable mark of someone filming with enthusiasm and no sense of framing.
Jason appeared first.
He was upright, jacket half-off, arguing cheerfully with a police officer who looked tired in the specific way that suggested he’d already had a long night before this.
“I’m telling you,” Jason was saying, animated but steady, “I’m not resisting. I just think this is a dramatic misuse of resources.”
“Sir, please step toward the vehicle—”
“I am stepping! This is a step. That was another step. See? Cooperative.”
The camera wobbled, lurched sideways—
And caught Tim.
Tim was leaning against the window of the McDonald’s, one foot crossed over the other, holding a McFlurry like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He looked directly at the person filming, spoon halfway to his mouth.
A voice off-camera asked, breathless, “That’s your brother, right?”
Tim paused. Considered.
“Unfortunately,” he said, and took another bite.
Dick made a strangled noise.
The video continued.
The unseen interviewer tried again. “Do you want to comment on what’s going on?”
Tim glanced sideways, watching Jason gesture expansively at the officer now trying very hard not to react.
“He’s being arrested,” Tim said. “I think.”
“For what?”
Tim frowned slightly, like this was a bad question. “I don’t know. Probably for punching that guy.”
Jason’s voice cut in from the background. “He started it!”
“I believe him,” Tim added mildly.
Bruce stared at the phone as if it might lunge at him.
“Are you worried?” the voice pressed.
Tim looked down at his McFlurry. Stirred it once. “A little,” he said. “It’s melting.”
Damian leaned forward, fascinated despite himself.
The officer finally managed to guide Jason toward the cruiser. Jason went willingly, still talking.
“For the record,” he called, “this is deeply embarrassing for all of us.”
Tim nodded solemnly. “Yeah.”
The video cut there, freezing on a frame where Jason was mid-sentence, and Tim was mid-bite.
Silence swallowed the kitchen.
Dick lowered the phone slowly. “So. That explains the photo.”
Bruce sank into a chair.
“That,” he said faintly, “is my son. Being interviewed. With ice cream.”
“It was a McFlurry,” Tim corrected.
“Yes,” Bruce said. “I understand that now.”
Alfred cleared his throat gently. “If it is any consolation, sir, Master Timothy’s composure appears to have resonated positively with the public.”
Dick nodded, still staring at the screen like it might blink first. “They’re calling him unbothered king.”
“That is unacceptable,” Damian said flatly.
Fingers pressed in at Bruce’s temples, thumbs digging just hard enough to hurt. “Why didn’t you leave?”
Tim blinked with genuine confusion. “Jason paid.”
No one had a response to that.
Bruce exhaled, long and slow. “Is that… all of it?”
Dick refreshed the page.
“Well,” he said, “there’s also a thread speculating whether this is viral marketing for a new Wayne Foundation campaign.”
Bruce laughed once. It came out wrong.
“Get the car,” he said.
Movement followed immediately, chairs shifting back, routine snapping into place. Alfred was already halfway down the hall. A jacket was snagged from the back of a chair. Damian reached the door first, hand on the handle, posture rigid with purpose.
Tim lingered just long enough to slip his phone into his pocket, expression serene enough to be suspicious.
As they filed out, Bruce paused by the table.
The screen was still glowing where Dick had left it, frozen on a frame he hadn’t chosen but couldn’t ignore — Jason mid-argument, unbowed and animated; Tim half out of frame, spoon raised, calm to the point of absurdity.
Embarrassing. Contained. Public.
The worst possible combination.
The lights were left on. Coffee cooled untouched. Newspapers lay where they’d fallen.
And somewhere downtown, Jason was still very much Jason—
and very much in a jail cell.