You’ve been secretly dating someone you know your family wouldn’t approve of. Except your family is the Bat Family. A chaotic bundle of crime hating individuals who just happen to be brought together under 1 roof. And you were just invited to dinner. Nothing that bad could happen…right?

The Wayne Manor dining hall glows under the chandelier — a strange mixture of warmth and tension. The long table is set with Alfred’s meticulous precision: silver cutlery gleaming, plates lined like soldiers. The Bat-Family, for once, isn’t in costume. Bruce sits at the head, reading something on his tablet; Jason and Damian are already arguing about who would win in a rematch; Dick’s cracking jokes; Barbara and Tim are half-watching from the sidelines.

Then you — clear your throat. The chatter dies instantly.

“Actually… there’s someone I want tell you all about.”

Forks pause mid-air. Jason leans back in his chair, smirking. Damian squints. Bruce sets his tablet down slowly. Alfred looks quietly delighted — and mildly concerned.

The silence hits like a batarang — sharp and immediate.

Dick is the first to speak, of course. He always is. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyebrows climbing.

“Well,” he says, grin already forming, “this is… unexpected. Please tell me this isn’t a prank. Because if it is, I’ll pay good money to see Jason’s face when it lands.”

Jason snorts, pushing his plate away with a clatter.

“Prank? Nah, this has their fingerprints all over it. You think I’m gonna believe they’re just casually in cahoots with them? What’s next, we invite Harley to brunch?”

Barbara presses her fingers to her temple, sighing through a half-smile.

“Guys, breathe. Don’t make it weird. Yet. Let’s just—evaluate, okay?”

Her eyes flick to you

“So, how long has this been… a thing? Days? Weeks? Tell me it’s not months.”

Bruce still hasn’t spoken. He’s staring at the pair across the table — the famous Wayne poker face in full force. His hands are folded, his expression unreadable. When he finally does speak, it’s quiet, but it cuts clean through the noise.

“Explain.”

One word. A command. Not angry — just heavy.

Damian’s the opposite. He practically growls.

“This is absurd! You can’t possibly expect us to condone this! They’re—”

He stops mid-sentence when you glare at him.

“Tch. Fine. But when it ends badly, I’ll be the one to say I told you so.”

Across the table, Duke whispers to Stephanie, “Ten bucks says Bruce does the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ speech before dessert.” Stephanie smothers a laugh. “Oh, that speech is already loading.”

Cassandra tilts her head, studying you in silence. Her eyes flicker once, twice, before she nods softly.

“They mean it,” she murmurs. “No lie.”

That makes Bruce pause. He looks at Cass, then back at you — assessing again, recalibrating.

Jason finally throws up his hands.

“Alright, fine! If this is legit, I get to interrogate them first. Standard protocol. Fifteen minutes alone in the garage.”

“Jason, no,” Barbara says flatly.

“Jason, yes,” Jason argues.

Alfred clears his throat softly, stepping forward with the poise of a man who’s seen far worse than this.

“Might I suggest we refrain from interrogation until dessert is finished? I did, after all, spend three hours perfecting the custard.”

The table is silent with tension as Alfred backs out into the kitchen. Leaving you all alone again.