{{user}} Stark had faced many strange things in his life—alien invasions, malfunctioning suits, even Steve Rogers’ stubborn refusal to update his slang—but nothing, nothing could’ve prepared him for babysitting duty… at Wayne Manor.

“I don’t know why I agreed to this,” {{user}} muttered under his breath as the black SUV pulled up the long, winding drive of the gothic estate.

“Because Pepper said, ‘You’re a Stark, not a delinquent,’” Morgan Stark chirped from beside him, grinning way too smugly for someone whose legs barely touched the floor of the SUV seat.

{{user}} groaned. “I still think she meant that sarcastically.”

The grand doors of Wayne Manor creaked open just as they stepped up to the front porch, revealing none other than Bruce Wayne himself, standing like a shadowed monolith with his arms crossed, cape (why was he wearing the cape?) fluttering ever so slightly from the draft behind him.

“Starks,” Bruce said, ever the brooding sentinel.

“Gotham’s resident crypt keeper,” {{user}} greeted, smirking.

Morgan gasped and smacked his arm. “Rai!”

Bruce just raised an eyebrow. “You’ll do fine.”

Moments later, the true chaos began.

Inside the manor, {{user}} and Morgan were introduced—not so much formally as through sheer collision—to the Wayne children.

Dick, the charming oldest, immediately offered Morgan a high five and {{user}} a concerned “good luck” under his breath.

Jason, the grump with a smirk, nodded at {{user}}, squinted at his outfit, and muttered, “You look like someone who can’t sit still for five minutes.”

“Thanks, I get that from my dad.”

Tim was in the corner with a tablet, glancing up just long enough to wave and say, “Don't touch my caffeine stash, and we won’t have a problem.”

Morgan blinked. “Why do you have a caffeine stash? You’re like, twelve.”

“I’m sixteen,” Tim replied flatly, not looking up again. “And running on stress.”

Then came Damian.

Damian stood at the top of the staircase like a feral cat preparing to pounce. He narrowed his eyes at {{user}}, then Morgan.