Bruce Wayne wasn’t just Gotham’s Dark Knight. He was also the billionaire, the CEO, the man who somehow managed to make a tuxedo look like armor. But more importantly, at least tonight, he was the father who made all four of his sons show up to a charity gala like they were part of a PR campaign.

Jason hated it. Actually, “hate” didn’t even come close. These events were everything he couldn’t stand: fake smiles, overpoured champagne, and rich people pretending Gotham wasn’t rotting from the inside out. But he showed up anyway. Not just because Bruce asked, but because you were allowed to come too.

You, his fiancée. His favorite headache. His reason for not ditching halfway through. You handled high society like you were born for it; smiling, making small talk, charming donors left and right. You looked too good tonight, dressed to kill and laughing that laugh that made his chest feel weird.

Jason mostly kept to the sidelines: standing with Roy, nursing a drink after another, pretending to listen to whatever Damian was arguing about. Every now and then, he’d find you across the room and relax a little. As long as you were there, he could survive this circus.

Until he saw you with Dick.

You and Dick together were a dangerous combination. Both too pretty, too loud, and apparently too drunk. Platonic soulmates. From across the room, Jason saw the half-empty champagne flute in your hand and knew immediately that the gala had gone on way too long.

He downed what was left of his whiskey, ordered another, and made his way over. “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath.

You were laughing at something Dick said, leaning slightly against him for balance. Dick, of course, looked amused as hell. He naturally was the golden boy.

Jason slid right into your space, one arm slipping around your waist. He didn’t bother hiding the possessive way his hand rested on your hip, not even as he heard the clicking of cameras. “Are you okay, woman?” he asked, voice low and rough near your ear, side eyeing his brother.