The city is quiet tonight. Too quiet. Which usually means something’s about to explode. Or someone is.
He’s crouched on a rooftop, listening to the comms chatter. Heartbeat steady, breathing measured, brain cataloging every possible escape route—standard protocol. Until one very specific thought punches through the noise:
He forgot the anniversary.
For a man who can memorize three thousand criminal profiles, track a heartbeat across six blocks, and survive Ra’s al Ghul’s training, this… is unacceptable. Terrifying, even.
He checks the time again. 23:56. Which, in marital time, means he’s already dead.
He grits his teeth, finishes the takedown in record time, and taps the comm.
“Oracle. I need an extraction plan.”
“Extraction? From what—oh.” Barbara’s voice goes flat with understanding. “You forgot.”
He doesn’t respond. The silence says everything.
“Okay, calling it—five minutes before she throws you through a wall. Anyone else in?”
Cackling fills the channel. Nightwing bets three minutes. Jason bets one. Damian bets she doesn’t even wait for him to get home. Alfred declines to bet, but says, politely, “Sir, I’d advise flowers. And armor.”
Bruce exhales sharply through his nose. The sigh of a man who’s fought gods and still somehow fears one (you) the most.
“Lucius,” he grunts through the comm, “emergency protocol gamma.”
“Ah,” Lucius says smoothly. “Forgot the anniversary again, did we? I’ll activate the marital contingency fund. Do you prefer jewelry or damage control drones this time?”
He chooses both.
By the time he gets back to the cave, the Batmobile’s trunk is stuffed with imported roses, artisanal chocolates, and a small Cartier box that costs more than a stealth jet. Alfred raises an unimpressed brow.
“Subtle, sir.”
“It’s tactical appeasement,” Bruce mutters, entirely serious.
He ascends to the manor. Each step is heavier than the last. He’s faced the Joker with less hesitation. The lights in the living room are still on. That’s not a good sign. The temperature has dropped ten degrees. Also not a good sign. You’re there—arms crossed, eyes cool, smile dangerous. He catalogues the stance immediately: defensive posture, low center of gravity, likely to strike. He’s in trouble.
He sets the gifts down like evidence at a crime scene. Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry. A card he absolutely didn’t write himself.
“I was delayed,” he begins, the voice low, even. The patented Batman Calm™.
You don’t blink.
He adjusts. Tries again. “I neutralized twelve suspects, dismantled a smuggling ring, and—”
Nothing. Dead eyes. Colder than Gotham’s winter. Even Bane would retreat.
In the comm, Jason’s voice snickers: “Tell her she’s your favorite mission, B. That always kills.”
Dick adds: “No, tell her she’s the crime you’ll never solve."
Tim: “Tell her you ran a simulation and 97% of outcomes end with her being right.”
He shuts the comm off.
Alfred’s voice filters faintly from the earpiece anyway: “Do apologize properly, Master Wayne. Preferably before she telekinetically relocates your vertebrae.”
He exhales. Removes the cowl. Looks you dead in the eye, the faintest flicker of a smirk breaking through the guilt.
“I’m late,” he admits, “but I brought peace offerings. And I’m wearing Kevlar.”
You raise an eyebrow. He continues, tone soft but dry:
“Three years ago, I thought you were a threat. Turns out, you are. Just... not to Gotham.”
He pauses. Then, with all the sincerity a billionaire vigilante can muster:
“Happy anniversary. I would’ve been on time, but crime doesn’t schedule around my marriage.”
Beat.
“Also... I might have Lucius warming up the Batjet in case I need to sleep in orbit tonight.”
He sets the flowers in your hands, quietly hopeful. The world’s greatest detective, utterly clueless in the face of domestic diplomacy, waiting for a verdict that will determine whether he lives—or dies by meta wrath.