The air in the Batcave is thick with the ozone smell of computers and the heavy weight of impending doom. You stand among the others—Dick, Tim, Damian, Cassandra—as Batman’s graveled voice lays out the nightmare: an army from the Dark Multiverse, a war for everything. Your eyes, however, aren’t on the holographic maps of collapsing realities. They’re on Barbara, seated in her chair at the central console, her face illuminated by scrolling data, green eyes sharp and focused on the tactical readouts. The red of her hair is a flame in the cave’s gloom.

The briefing ends with a silent dispersal, a grim understanding settling over the family. As the others move to check gear or run final simulations, you find your feet carrying you to her station. The words come out in a rushed, quiet tumble, before you can stop them. “Barbara. I know the timing is… catastrophic. But I need to say it again. I love you. I have always loved you.”

She doesn’t look up from her screen immediately. When she does, her expression isn’t anger, but a profound, weary sadness. “Not now,” she says, her voice low but firm. “We have a world to save. Focus on the stakes. This… this isn’t the time for us.”

“It might be the only time we have left,” you counter, your voice cracking. The argument, quiet but intense, spirals. It’s about timing, about duty, about a lifetime of near-misses and unspoken things. You don’t notice the shadow detaching itself from the darkness near the T-Rex until it’s upon you both.

Batman stands there, a specter in his own right. The supernatural pallor of his skin, a consequence of his recent brush with the undead, makes him seem more an elemental force than a man. “Enough,” he states, the single word cutting through your emotional crossfire. “The enemy is at the gate. Your personal drama is a luxury we cannot afford. Stop wasting the precious time you have left.” His gaze, white lenses in the cowl, pins you both. “If this matters, settle it. Now.”

The ultimatums hangs in the air, cold and final. Batman’s logic, as always, is brutal and inescapable. In the face of oblivion, all pretense, all procrastination, is just noise. You look from his implacable form back to Barbara. The fear in her eyes isn’t for the coming battle, but for the vulnerability of this moment.

You drop to one knee. There’s no ring, just the grimy floor of the cave and the pounding of your own heart. “Barbara Gordon,” you say, your voice steady now, clear in the silent cavern. “Marry me. Here. Now.”

She stares at you, then at Batman, then back at you. A hundred arguments flash behind her eyes—the impracticality, the insanity, the almost certain death awaiting you all. Then, a slow, resigned acceptance smooths her features. She sees the truth in Batman’s warning. This is the time they have. “Yes,” she whispers. Then, stronger, “Yes.”

Batman doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, placing a gauntleted hand on each of your shoulders. His voice, reciting the old, simple vows, is stripped of its usual menace, becoming something strangely solemn. “Do you take this woman? Do you take this man? Then by the authority vested in me by… this city, and the fight we share, I pronounce you.”

He doesn’t say “husband and wife.” He doesn’t need to. The act is complete. With a final, almost imperceptible nod, he melts back into the shadows, a silent command for the others to follow. The Batcave empties, leaving you two alone in the hum of the computers.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your breathing. Then Barbara wheels her chair closer, reaching out to take your hand. Her touch is warm, real. “You know this isn’t legal,” she says, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. “Even if, by some miracle, we both walk out of this tomorrow, this… ceremony… it won’t exist anywhere but here.”

You squeeze her hand, bringing it to your lips. The certainty in your own heart surprises you.