Chapter Text
The Watchtower’s main conference chamber was as pristine and sterile as always—gleaming silver walls, reinforced glass showing the Earth below, and a long circular table lined with the world’s greatest heroes.
Superman was speaking, voice steady as he outlined the latest reports from Metropolis.
Diana leaned her chin into her palm, eyes focused on the man in black who sat three chairs down from her. The shadow of his cowl made it impossible to tell if his eyes were open, but she could feel the weight of his stare. He was listening, judging, analyzing. He always was.
“You know,” Green Lantern muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers against the table, “sometimes I wonder if Spooky is even human. Guy hasn’t blinked in twenty minutes.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to,” Barry whispered back, mouth twitching like he was holding in a grin. “Like… bat DNA, or whatever.”
Arthur chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “Would explain a lot.”
Diana shot them all a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. “You three are insufferable.”
Across the table, Batman didn’t so much as flinch. His cape pooled around him like a living shadow, every line of his body honed stillness.
“Handled,” Batman said abruptly, cutting into the conversation with stern finality. His voice was low but definitive. “Shipment intercepted. Weapons destroyed. Distribution network compromised.”
The table went quiet. Batman rarely volunteered information, and when he did, it usually meant he’d done something about the problem before the rest of them even realized there was one.
“Of course you handled it,” Lantern muttered, crossing his arms.
Clark gave him a sharp look. “Hal.”
But Diana smiled faintly. “You don’t really like relying on others,” she said, testing the waters.
“I don’t like inefficiency,” Batman corrected flatly. He still hadn’t moved an inch. “If you’re finished with the small-scale operations, we should address Luthor’s holdings overseas.”
And just like that, the conversation shifted.
It was always like this: Batman arriving late, saying little, reminding everyone he worked alone. There were days Clark wondered why he even joined the League. Was it obligation? Strategy? Or some warped sense of control?
Clark didn’t know. None of them did.
Later, after they decided to take a little break, the conversation lingered.
“I swear, he’s not normal,” Barry said as they filtered out into the corridor. “Like, I run at the speed of light, I get that, but he’s… he’s creepy. Who stares that long without blinking?”
“Maybe he actually is part bat,” Hal said, not entirely joking. “Pale skin, always in the dark, eats criminals for breakfast—”
“Careful,” Arthur grunted. “That one bites.”
“Don’t they all?” Barry shot back with a grin.
Diana, walking silently at Clark’s side, finally spoke. “It is easy to mock what we do not understand. He could carriy more weight than any of us realize.”
“You say that like you know,” Hal said, skeptical.
“I know honor,” Diana replied simply. “And responsibility. He has both, though he wears them like shackles.”
Clark stayed quiet, but he couldn’t help agreeing. Still, there was something missing—something that kept Batman always half a step removed, as though there was a wall none of them were allowed to breach.
And Clark had to admit: for all his powers, for all his insight, he couldn’t imagine what Batman’s life outside of Gotham even looked like.
If there even was one.
The Watchtower meeting had dragged into its third hour. Clark was wrapping up a summary of global relief efforts when a sharp, high-pitched tone cut through the chamber.
Every head turned.
The large screen at the far end of the room flickered, the League’s standard comm protocols overridden.
Bruce’s head snapped toward it instantly. His hand twitched once, too quick for anyone else to notice, but Clark caught it. Batman never liked interruptions.
The feed stayed black. Not a normal blackout—there were faint smears of color at the edges, shapes moving, but blurred and indistinct. Static crackled over the speakers.
“What the hell?” Hal muttered, rising slightly from his chair. “That’s not League frequency—”
Then a sound broke through.
A sharp, startled cry.
High-pitched. Small.
Young.
The League froze.
And then, in a voice raw with panic, they heard:
“B, you need to come home.”
Clark blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. B?
But Batman was already on his feet.
“Robin,what happened ” he asked sharply, and for the first time since Clark had known him, his voice wasn’t controlled. It was panicked.
Onscreen, the child’s voice trembled. “I dunno—he hid me, I dunno where he went. You need to come home!”
Bruce leaned forward, gloved hands braced on the table. His cape dragged across the floor. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Robin. Why did he hide you?”
“Uncle Harvey is here.”
The room fell deathly silent.
Batman went utterly still. His panic slammed down into something else—controlled, dangerous calm.
“You stay hidden right where you are,” he said, voice low, careful. “You don’t move unless he finds you, and if he does, then you run like hell. I’m coming home.”
A desperate whisper: “Hurry.”
The line cut to static. The call ended.
And before anyone could speak, Batman was already striding toward the door.
“Batman—” Diana started, rising from her seat.
But he didn’t look back.
He was gone, cape flaring like a shadow as he vanished down the corridor toward the transport bay.
The League sat in stunned silence.
Robin.
There was a Robin.
Batman had a child