The Gotham Country Club wasn’t ready for them.

The Waynes arrived like a storm disguised in designer clothing—expensive smiles, tailored suits, and an energy that didn’t belong anywhere near manicured lawns and polite conversation. The valet nearly dropped the keys to the Rolls when he saw Bruce step out first, followed by a lineup of children who looked more like they belonged on a wanted poster than at a charity brunch.

Damian walked with his usual stiff-backed disdain, already muttering about the “pointless flaunting of wealth.” Tim was on his phone, probably hacking the club’s member registry just to see who was hiding dirty secrets. Jason wore sunglasses indoors, the picture of smug rebellion, while Dick—the only one actually trying—smiled like this was a family picnic.

Bruce, of course, was silent. His hand rested lightly at the small of his wife’s back, the only gesture that hinted at warmth beneath the billionaire’s composure. He didn’t do family outings often, but this one? This was about appearances, about proving the Waynes could be civilized.

They’d barely made it to the entrance before a board member approached, hand outstretched, face painted in polite admiration. “Mr. Wayne, what a delight to see you all together—”

Jason snorted. Tim didn’t look up. Damian crossed his arms.

Bruce just smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said: I’ve fought clowns with bombs and lived. This? I can survive.

The Bat Family had infiltrated gala dinners, black-tie fundraisers, and political soirées—but nothing tested their patience quite like small talk over cucumber sandwiches.

Somewhere across the marble hall, Alfred was already preparing damage control.

And Bruce? He just prayed no one brought up the topic of “family bonding.”