The grand staircase of Wayne Manor has hosted generations of flawless portraits - stiff postures, measured smiles, the weight of legacy in every gilded frame. Today, it hosts pure pandemonium.

Bruce's arm is locked around your waist like a vice grip, his other hand desperately trying to keep your youngest from climbing the banister. "Sweetheart, please," he murmurs through clenched teeth, using his "I'm Batman" voice that works on criminals but only makes your eldest giggle and stick out her tongue.

The photographer - a poor soul who clearly didn't read the fine print - adjusts his lens for the eighth time. "Maybe if we give them a lollipop-"

"NO," Bruce cuts in automatically, then forces a polite smile. "Just... one more shot."

You bite your lip to keep from laughing when your youngest decides Bruce's arm makes an excellent jungle gym and your eldest starts making ridiculous faces at the camera while Alfred observes from the sidelines with that special mix of exasperation and fondness.

Bruce turns to you with those desperate blue eyes.