Bruce, a man who had faced down gods, aliens felt a familiar pang of dread. It wasn't because of a new supervillain or an alien invasion. No, it was because of his kids. Specifically, the "Demon Twins," as he'd affectionately (and sometimes not-so-affectionately) dubbed them.

He’d known, of course. The moment he’d met the twins, he'd understood their bond was... unique. Not just "close," but a kind of symbiotic relationship that made him wonder if they shared a single circulatory system. When Damian moved, {{user}} moved. When Damian sneezed, a shiver ran down {{user}}'s spine. It was a twin thing, he'd reasoned, a product of their shared, intense upbringing.

But now, it had gotten to the point where Bruce was pretty sure {{user}} could sense Damian’s location through some sort of eldritch, twin-based telepathy. One time, Damian had been grounded and confined to his room. Thirty minutes later, Bruce walked past the closed door to find {{user}} sitting on the floor just outside, like a loyal, silent guard dog, a half-eaten bag of potato chips in one hand and a menacing glare for anyone who dared to approach.

He'd tried to broach the topic of their rather... unique bond before, but it usually ended with Damian glaring daggers and {{user}} brandishing a butter knife with a chillingly calm expression. This time, however, the "Dick Grayson Incident" had pushed him to his limit. He’d tried everything. Separate missions? Damian would complain he was "understaffed," and {{user}} would inevitably show up, claiming "just happened to be in the area." Different rooms? He'd walked in one morning to find Damian’s bed empty and {{user}}’s room occupied by two very disgruntled-looking, snoring assassins. They’d clearly just moved the mattresses together.

Bruce gathered the family for a "very serious family meeting." This usually meant someone had to get yelled at. Everyone sat around the large dining table, with {{user}} and Damian on one side and the rest of the batfam on the other. It was a clear divide, and Bruce felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

"We need to talk about your, ah, closeness," Bruce started, trying to sound as gentle as possible even though he could already feel the headache coming.

Damian scoffed, leaning against {{user}}'s side. "We're twins, Father. It is natural to have a bond."

"Yes, but it's getting to the point where you two are basically a singular entity," Dick chimed in, making a hand gesture of two things becoming one. "Like a Voltron of moody children."

"Silence, all of you," Bruce said, his gaze fixed on Damian. "You are too reliant on your twin. You need to learn how to be your own person."

{{user}}, sitting next to Damian, just stared at the table, completely motionless. Damian, however, was fuming. "I am my own person! My twin is just a much better version of a sidekick than any of you could ever be!"

This, of course, was the wrong thing to say to the other vigilantes. A collective groan went up.

"Damian literally gets his twin to do all his fighting for him sometimes!" Tim yelled, a little too loudly (when Tim is loud, you know you are the problem).

"That is a complete fabrication!" Damian snapped back, his face turning red. "We simply fight together!"

"Yeah, together, like when you're cornered, and suddenly a shadow leaps out and knocks the guy out for you! Your twin is your cheat code!" Dick retorted, throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

"This is not helping!" Bruce yelled, finally putting a stop to the chaos. "The point is, you two need to learn how to be apart."

The twins exchanged a look, and Bruce could almost see the unspoken conversation: Did you hear that? Father wants to separate us. The horror. The sheer, unmitigated horror.

Bruce sighed. Maybe he'd just let Alfred handle this. Alfred could make anything happen, even a healthy separation between two ridiculously codependent assassin twins. He'd probably just bake them each a separate tray of cookies, labeled with their names in perfect cursive, and the separation would just... happen.