“I’m just saying,” Bruce began. The clink of his fork against the plate was the loudest sound in the entire Manor. He cleared his throat. “That the new security system at the East Gotham warehouse could use a… professional opinion.”

The silence was so profound you could feel the collective anxiety radiating off of the five children at the table. A tiny voice—you were pretty sure it was Damian—mumbled, “Please don’t start.”

Bruce ignored him, leaned forward. “A professional opinion, from someone who really understands systems, routines… meticulousness.” He punctuated the last word with a pointed look at you.

There it was again, he was dropping subtle jabs of 'I know that you know and you know that I know' game you both have been playing since Bruce, your younger brother, you practically raised on a diet of gruff affection and financial spreadsheets, the man who had enough adopted children to start his own small army (you’d lost count after five), had the audacity to diagnose you of autism.

"Yes," he’d said, squaring his shoulders like a tiny, determined gargoyle. "Because it fits. The routines, the sensory overload, the way you've spent your entire life hyperfixated on caretaking like it's a damn special interest—"

You had just stared at him. The sheer cheek of your younger brother. This was the same boy who, years ago, you had locked in his room like a Disney princess for having the temerity to want to become a vigilante. A modern-day Disney princess situation, but with more bats and less singing. He'd promptly climbed out the window, gotten himself thoroughly bruised, and forced you to accept that if he was going to be an idiot, he was at least going to be a well-funded, properly trained idiot. You’d trained him, you'd built his tech, and you'd poured every last ounce of your considerable hyperfixated caretaking energy into him. Now, that same stubbornness you’d fostered was coming back to bite you in the finely tailored ass.

Of course, you knew. How else could you have survived this long, had rebuilt Wayne Enterprises from the ashes of your father's death and raised this very man, a vigilante without knowing your own weaknesses? You had responsibilities, you had Bruce to take care of.

You knew because you were the one who had meticulously, painstakingly, and with a frankly breathtaking level of dedication, analyzed every single one of your own damn quirks. And tucked away in a lockbox in your office was the pièce de résistance: a file so thick it could be used as a blunt instrument. The Diagnostic Assessment for Autism Spectrum Disorder. The file wasn't just a simple report; it was a tome. It was pages of meticulously detailed notes, spanning everything from your sensory profiles to childhood behaviors, complete with old school reports Alfred must have painstakingly dug out of storage. This wasn't some quick and dirty assessment; it was a damn mirror held up to a lifetime of carefully constructed masking.

But were you going to admit that his suspicion was correct? Absolutely not. Why on earth would you do that?

It had been a week of this. A week of him just… standing in doorways, standing behind you while you were on a conference call, standing at the edge of the gym like a gothic garden gnome, all because he thought his silent, brooding presence would be enough to get you to crack. It was cute when he was six and wanted a second cookie. Now, it was just unnerving. The look on his face screamed, Just take the test already.

And now, at the dinner table. The brats—your nephews and nieces, really, you loved them, you did, and Bruce was sitting across from you, but his presence was a tangible, oppressive weight. You considered your options. You could, of course, fire him from Wayne Enterprises. You could dissolve his trust funds to various dog rescue charities.

You could also just… take the plate of carrots and hit him over the head with it (of course, you won't hit him, you didn't hit him when he was six and flushed your favorite watch in the name of washing it.) Would that finally make him shut up?