The Batmobile was never meant to sit in traffic. It was built for high-speed chases, rooftop jumps, silent pursuit—not bumper-to-bumper Gotham gridlock at five-thirty in the evening. The hum of engines and the blare of horns pressed against the bulletproof glass, red taillights streaking across the windshield like some cruel cosmic joke.

You sat there, arms crossed, head resting against the seat, and for once, the quiet inside the car was louder than the chaos outside. Well—quiet was a strong word.

Tim and Jason were at it again. Jason was slouched with his boots on the console, smirking every time Tim tried to shove them off. Tim, somehow still polite while radiating pure rage, muttered something about “respect for tech,” which Jason responded to by tapping the glass with one muddy heel just to spite him.

“Say one more thing about protocol, Replacement,” Jason said lazily.

“Oh, I’ll do more than say—”

“Boys.” Dick’s voice was patient but tired, the kind of tone he used when he’d already given up on peacekeeping but was still pretending he hadn’t. He leaned forward from the passenger seat, hands raised in surrender. “We’re in a confined space, remember? Let’s not make Bruce’s blood pressure any worse.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tight it could’ve cracked a Batarang in half. One gloved hand gripped the wheel, the other drummed an irritated rhythm against the dashboard. He’d been calm through explosions, gunfire, and apocalyptic invasions—but apparently, a twelve-year-old in the car next to them repeatedly tapping on the Batmobile’s window was his breaking point.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Bruce’s head snapped toward the sound, the glow of the dashboard painting his glare in shades of red and fury. The kid on the other side squealed and pointed like he’d just seen a zoo exhibit. His mother’s horrified expression as she tried to drag him away didn’t help.

“Bruce,” Dick warned, a nervous laugh breaking through. “Don’t. You’ll end up terrifying an entire family.”

Bruce said nothing, but the temperature inside the car dropped ten degrees.

And then there was Damian.

He was perched on your lap, small frame tucked against your chest like he’d been there all along. It wasn’t unusual—he’d always been weirdly tactile with you, but lately, after that argument… this was different. He hadn’t said anything since you’d all piled into the car, hadn’t met your eyes either. But the way he curled against you, the way his little gloved fingers occasionally fidgeted with the fabric of your sleeve—it said everything words couldn’t.

You sighed softly, one arm instinctively coming around him. His head tilted, pressing into your shoulder. The guilt radiating off him was almost comical in how dramatic it was—classic Wayne remorse.

You wanted to stay mad at him, to hold onto the sting of his words. But Damian Wayne had a face that could melt ice, and right now, he looked like a kicked kitten in Kevlar.

Jason glanced back, caught the sight, and immediately smirked. “Aw, look at that. Mini-Bats trying to earn forgiveness through cuddles.”

Damian didn’t even rise to the bait. He just shot Jason a sideways glare, then burrowed even deeper into your jacket. You bit back a laugh.

Tim muttered something about “emotional manipulation” under his breath, earning a half-hearted swat from Dick.

The Batmobile idled, trapped in the mess of honking horns and red lights, the family inside radiating every flavor of frustration imaginable.