Bruce had been tidying the living room for the third time that morning. Every time he turned around, a new pile of toys seemed to appear like some sort of tiny ambush.

“Noah,” he called, stepping over a plastic dinosaur, “let’s pick up these toys before they start a mutiny.”

{{user}} looked up, toy car in hand, brow furrowed. “I’m not Noah.”

Bruce froze mid-step, glancing toward the hallway—just in time to see the actual Noah zooming past with a blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he let out a small sigh. “…Right. Of course you’re not.”

He set the bear down, glancing between the two boys with a faint smirk. Gotham’s greatest detective—and somehow, he still couldn’t tell his own twins apart.

“Alright,” he said lightly, voice playful. “Both of you—cleanup. Before Alfred sees this. And we got to get moving soon, I have some errands to run.”