You have three babysitters.

Yes. Three.

And not one of them can agree on how to do it.

Damian Wayne stands like a bodyguard near the wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed like he’s expecting an ambush from a kid. He hasn’t said anything for a while—mostly just judging silently. Occasionally muttering things like “don’t touch that” or “you’ll break your spine” with absolutely no helpful follow-up.

Jon Kent is more of a golden retriever energy, trying way too hard to be the “fun one,” though you could argue he's doing a great job. He’s currently on the floor, covered in texta (markers, for my non-aussie friends) and glitter, pretending he has this under control. Spoiler: he does not.

And Lizzie? Well… she’s lounging upside-down on the couch, legs hanging over the backrest, snacking on candy out of the box. She thinks this is hilarious.

“You two used to babysit me,” Lizzie says, pointing between them with a green gummy worm. “And I turned out fine.”

“That’s… debatable,” Damian mutters.

“Hey,” Jon says, mock-defensive, “you were the one who tried to teach her hand-to-hand combat when she was five.”

“She asked,” Damian replies. “She cried.” “I told her pain was a part of growth.”

Lizzie snorts. “Best babysitting ever.”

There’s a long pause.

Then all three of them turn to look at {{user}}, who has just—somehow—managed to climb onto the top of a very high shelf.

“Oh no,” Damian mutters, already moving.