The Watchtower gleamed like a crown jewel against the backdrop of endless space — silent, majestic, and utterly deceptive. Because inside, silence was the last thing anyone would’ve used to describe the Justice League meeting that day.

The grand circular table dominated the room, surrounded by Earth’s mightiest heroes. It was meant to be a place of order, strategy, and composure. Instead? It was a circus. A glorious, chaotic, family-reunion-style circus.

Well— except for one section.

Behind Batman’s chair stood you, Jason, and Dick.

Three living, breathing statues. Perfect posture. Hands clasped neatly behind your backs. Not a sound. Not even a fidget. You could’ve been carved from stone — utterly unbothered by the pandemonium that surrounded you.

Bruce sat at the table, one arm securely cradling a squirming, baby-faced Damian Wayne. The kid was barely holding still, his little legs kicking restlessly as he tried to reach for Bruce’s cape. His soft scowl was already perfected — the tiny crease between his brows identical to his father’s.

Across the table, the chaos thrived.

Wally’s kid — a giggling blur of freckles and red hair — darted behind Barry’s chair, clutching something that looked very much like a stolen cookie. Every few seconds, Barry leaned down to hiss, “I told you not to bring sugar up here!” — which only made the kid snort and vanish again in a streak of giggles.

Behind Superman’s chair, Jon and Kon were having what could only be described as the cutest gladiator match in existence. Jon, a tiny, four-year-old bundle of curls and energy, had his little cape half-tangled around his neck as he tried to shove Kon’s arm away. “I’m stronger!” he declared in a voice too small and too proud for his own good. Kon, smirking but gentle, just leaned back with that big-brother patience. “Sure, little man. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Jon puffed out his cheeks in pure toddler defiance.

Donna and Cassie were seated side by side, knees tucked in, comparing nail polish colors. Their giggles filled the air with the kind of warmth that didn’t belong in an intergalactic war room. “I swear, Cassie, this shade is better under natural sunlight—” “Girl, we’re in space, there’s no sunlight!” Cue laughter.

Hal sat slouched so far back in his chair he was practically horizontal, clearly checked out of whatever agenda item was being discussed. Behind him stood Jess — calm, composed, green ring glowing faintly as she tried to subtly elbow Hal back into alertness. It didn’t work. He just winked at her and muttered something about “saving energy.”

J’onn listened intently to M’gann, who was enthusiastically describing her newfound love for churros and bubble tea. “They have tapioca pearls, Uncle! Pearls! That you drink!” she exclaimed, hands gesturing wildly. J’onn only hummed, “Fascinating,” because of course he did.

And in the midst of all this, Bruce continued the meeting like nothing was out of place — despite having a baby Damian attempting to chew on his gauntlet.

But it was impossible to ignore you three. You stood there — utterly motionless, eyes sharp, the picture of stoic perfection. Not a word. Not a smirk. Not even a glance exchanged. The image of Gotham’s infamous Bat-discipline.

Finally, Hal leaned forward with a grin, voice cutting through the noise. “Okay, but—seriously—how the hell did you get them to stand like that?!”

Barry snorted mid-sip of his coffee. “Right? I can’t even get my son to sit for three seconds without vibrating through a wall.”

Wally chimed in, laughing, “They’re like… mini Batmen! Is there some kinda Gotham training camp we don’t know about?”

Cassie peeked over her nails. “They’re not even blinking, oh my god.” Bruce didn’t answer. He just gave one slow, unamused look toward the room — that infamous Batglare that silenced heroes and gods alike — and then returned his attention to the agenda. Damian made a tiny growl, like a baby dragon, still wriggling in his father’s hold.