Chapter Text
Jason stirred in his bed, half-awake, half-dreaming. Colors danced before his eyes—reds, blues, golds, greens—and for a moment he thought it was a hallucination. But when he sat up, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, he realized he was wide awake: his entire room was filled with balloons. Hundreds of them, floating and clinging to the ceiling, spilling across the floor in a chaotic, beautiful display.
Jason’s jaw dropped. “What…?” he murmured, unsure if the scene before him was real.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. Bruce, casual in a gray sweater, leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Happy birthday, Lad,” he said simply, his voice calm but warm, eyes softened with an emotion Jason wasn’t used to seeing from him.
Jason rubbed his eyes. “You… you did all this?”
Bruce allowed a faint, uncharacteristic smile. “I had help. But yes. Eight only comes once.”
Jason’s chest swelled, warmth flooding through him. He hadn’t had a real birthday since—well, ever. Not like this. No surprises. No balloons. Just his mom forgetting, his dad yelling, or nothing at all.
Before Jason could respond, a loud shout echoed down the hall. “Jay! Wake up! You’re missing cake for breakfast!”
Dick barreled into the room, Cassandra scampering right behind him, grinning. Dick held a shiny blue-wrapped package, and Cass clutched something behind her back, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Jason scrambled out of bed, still blinking. “Cake… for breakfast?”
“Big brother said so,” Cassandra announced proudly. “Alfred approved.”
Dick leaned down, ruffling Jason’s messy hair. “Of course. That’s the law on birthdays.”
Bruce raised a brow. “I don’t recall signing that law into effect.”
“You don’t have to,” Dick shot back with the authority of a seasoned negotiator. “It’s international.”
Jason laughed—an awkward, bubbling laugh, but real. He scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the carpet. Cass quickly shoved her package into his hands.
“Open,” she urged, her little voice tugging upward like she’d been practicing.
Jason tore the wrapping, revealing a baseball mitt, soft but sturdy, the leather smelling of new craftsmanship. “Broke it in,” Cass explained. “Play catch later.”
“And now mine!” Dick announced, shoving his box forward. Jason ripped it open to find— a custom-made Swiss army knife, polished and gleaming. “And this… this is for you. Look at all the features!” He proceeded to demonstrate, flipping out the miniature tools one by one, clicking and twisting each mechanism with theatrical flair.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to regret approving this gift, aren’t I, Dick?”
Dick shrugged, still demonstrating a tiny corkscrew. “Eh, maybe. But it’s awesome.”
Jason carefully examined the knife. “Wow… it’s… it’s really cool.” His eyes sparkled. “Thanks, Dickiebird.”
Dick froze. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
Jason smirked. “What? That’s what you get for calling me Little Wing.”
Cass tilted her head, amused. Bruce coughed discreetly into his hand, hiding the twitch of a smile.
“Breakfast,” Bruce said firmly, steering the moment forward. “Alfred’s waiting.”
---
The dining room smelled of sugar and cinnamon. Alfred stood beside the long table, a perfect white cake gleaming in front of him, frosted and decorated with neat blue piping. Candles flickered in the morning light.
“Happy birthday, Master Jason,” Alfred intoned with a dignity only he could muster.
Jason looked at the cake as if it might vanish if he blinked. His chest hurt—in a good way. Nobody had ever said those words to him with that much care.
He blew out the candles in one long breath. Cass clapped. Dick whooped.
Alfred served slices—cake for breakfast really was a thing here. Jason ate his slower than the others, savoring every bite.
“Don’t get used to this,” Alfred warned lightly. “Tomorrow, proper food returns.”
Jason grinned, frosting on his lip. “Worth it.”
---
After breakfast, Bruce rose from his chair. “Jason,” he said, his tone carrying that mysterious weight again. “Come with me. There’s something else.”
Jason followed, nervous and curious, down the manor steps and into the morning air. They walked across the garden until the scent of hay and the sound of quiet nickers reached him.
The stables.
Jason hesitated at the door. “You… you got me a dog or something?”
“Not quite,” Bruce replied, pushing open the door.
Inside, sunlight streamed across three stalls. Two were already occupied—one by a tall, elegant Thoroughbred horse, ears pricked; the other by a sleek black Arabian who tossed his mane proudly. In the third stall stood a Hanoverian, its bay coat gleaming in the morning sun. Curious eyes watching Jason as if already measuring him.
Jason’s breath caught. “No way.”
“This one’s yours,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason stepped closer, his hands trembling. The colt lowered its head, snuffling at his palm. Jason laughed, the sound breaking free without permission.
“What’s his name?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Bruce said.
Jason stroked the soft muzzle, eyes wide. “I’ve never… I mean… he’s mine? For real?”
“For real,” Bruce confirmed. “Dick and Cass each have their own. It’s only fair you do too.”
Jason turned. “Wait—you guys have horses? Since when?”
Dick and Cass had been trailing after them, trying—and failing—to hide their grins.
“Since forever,” Dick said smugly. “Mine’s the white one—Thunderbolt. Cass’s is the black one—Shadow.”
Cass gave her horse a fond pat, eyes shining.
Jason blinked at them. “So you’re telling me… I live in a house with a secret cave, a butler who bakes, a dad who’s Batman, and now I have a horse?”
“Welcome to the family,” Dick said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Jason shook his head in disbelief. “This world… it just outstands me.”
Dick shrugged. “When I left the circus, I missed all the animals. Monkeys, cicadas, everything. When I explored the estate and found an empty stable… well, you were lucky I asked Dad for a horse. And Cass got hers after seeing my horse refused to let her ride. So, it’s not about wealth—it’s about wishes.”
Jason smiled faintly, stroking the colt’s soft mane. “Ancalagon.”
---
Bruce gently guided Jason, steadying his small frame as he climbed onto the colt. “Keep your back straight, heels down, hold the reins lightly,” Bruce instructed.
Jason gripped the reins, heart hammering. “I… I’ve never ridden a horse before.”
Dick gave tips from behind: “Keep your balance, don’t panic, and always speak calmly to the horse.”
Cass, as always, observed, her hands moving instinctively as she whispered gentle words to Silverwind. The horse immediately relaxed beneath her touch.
Jason laughed nervously. “I think I’m going to fall!”
“You won’t,” Bruce said calmly. “You have to trust him—and yourself.”
By the end of the morning, Jason had gained enough confidence to trot slowly around the paddock, laughter and neighs filling the stable yard. Cass clapped every time he made progress, Dick offering pointers.
---
The morning sunlight crept lazily across the Wayne Manor estate, spilling through the tall windows and catching the polished floors with a soft, golden sheen. Inside, the manor was anything but calm. In the master bedroom, Bruce paced like a caged panther, tie in hand, cufflinks on the nightstand, and his mind already calculating a dozen strategies for how to get three children ready for their first day at Gotham Academy.
“Jason, stop pulling at your tie!” Bruce barked, his voice tight with controlled frustration. “If you wriggle it again, it will twist. You won’t get it undone in time!”
“I don’t care! It’s scruffy! I don’t like it!” Jason replied, tugging even harder, his tiny fists stubbornly gripping the silk knot.
Bruce exhaled sharply, grabbing Jason’s hands and holding them steady. “It is not scruffy. It is perfectly fine. You will wear it, and you will wear it properly. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” Jason’s eyes went wide. “Oh god, we’re gonna be late! I don’t want to be late on the first day!”
From the other side of the room, Dick was rolling his eyes, buttoning his blazer with practiced ease. “Come on, Jay, it’s just school. Do it quickly. We’re gonna miss the school bus.”
Alfred stepped into the room with three backpacks in his arms and looked at him sharply. “Master Richard, you lot are not riding a school bus to Gotham Academy. The car will be ready, as always.”
Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, right… forgot about that detail.”
Meanwhile, Cass was a storm unto herself. She had flung open the wardrobe door and yanked out her black t-shirt, the one with the bat scrawled across it, that Bruce had hidden in his room. She planted herself firmly on the floor. “Not wearing white shirt!” she declared, crossing her arms, her tiny body radiating defiance.
“Sqeetheart,” Bruce said quietly, his voice fraying at the edges. “The school uniform requires a white shirt under the pinafore. You will wear it.”
“No!” she shrieked, spinning on her heels and darting across the room, her small loafers squeaking against the hardwood. “No! No!”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his composure fraying. “Alfred,” he muttered, eyes scanning the chaos, “what am I missing? How—how is this even possible?”
Alfred, standing neatly by the door with his usual calm demeanor, simply raised a brow. “Master Bruce, you are witnessing firsthand what I would call ‘the morning of absolute chaos,’” he said dryly. “Though I must say, Miss Cassandra is remarkably persistent.”
Jason’s hands were now tugging his tie into a messy, hopeless knot around his neck. “Oh god… oh god… we’re so late… we’re going to be late…” he muttered, bouncing on his heels.
Dick leaned down to whisper conspiratorially, “Tell me you didn’t put him in charge of his own tie.”
Bruce ignored him, crouching in front of Jason and grasping the knot like a surgeon. “If you do not stop moving, Jay, I will—” He stopped short as Cass barreled past, knocking Jason into the dresser.
“Cassandra Martha Wayne!” Bruce’s voice cracked. “Stop!”
“No!” she yelled, spinning away with a grin that somehow radiated victory.
Minutes later, after chasing Cass down the hall twice, coaxing Jason into a halfway decent tie, and nearly collapsing from the sheer stress of it all, Bruce resorted to desperation. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice trembling just slightly, “if you wear the white shirt under your pinafore, you may accompany me on patrol tonight. One night. One hour. That’s all I promise. But only if you comply.”
Cass froze mid-spin, her eyes glinting. “Really?”
“Really,” Bruce said, straightening, trying to sound firm but secretly relieved.
“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms but slipping the white shirt on beneath her pinafore.
Jason blinked, trying to wrap his head around the scene. “Oh god… we’re actually going to make it… maybe… maybe…”
Dick muttered under his breath, “I don’t think any of us deserve to survive this morning intact.”
---
The manor was still filled with the clamor of uniforms, backpacks, and tiny arguments. Alfred stood at the doorway, hands folded behind him, observing. “Master Bruce, I dare say, if the children are not prepared in five minutes, the Gotham Academy will have their gates closed.”
Bruce groaned, finally adjusting Jason’s tie one last time. “All right, Jay… that’s as close as it gets. You’re going.”
Jason puffed out his chest, taking in his blazer and tie. “I… I guess this is good enough?”
Dick patted his shoulder. “Better than nothing. Now hurry up.”
And so, with backpacks in tow, the three children were finally ready. Bruce guided them into the elevator, pressing the button to descend to the garage. Jason’s eyes grew wide as he saw the vehicle waiting for them. His jaw dropped.
“You… we’re… we’re actually going to school in a Rolls-Royce Phantom?” he whispered, voice trembling with awe.
Bruce gave him a faint nod, eyes forward. “Yes. It is fully equipped for transportation and security. You are welcome.”
Dick leaned back, grinning. “And yes, Jay, it’s pretty much the coolest school ride in the city.”
The car rolled out of the manor gates, smooth as silk, tires barely whispering against the driveway. Jason stared out the window, the city rushing past, and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. The day ahead stretched like a vast field of unknowns, and he was part of it now—not just a kid from the streets, not just someone trying to survive—but a Wayne, moving through the world alongside his siblings.
---
The morning sun gleamed over Gotham Academy as the Phantom rolled up the winding drive. Jason peeked out the window, his eyes wide at the sprawling campus—manicured lawns, ornate archways, and students milling about in crisp uniforms. Cassandra clutched his hand tightly, her small figure pressed against his side. Dick leaned back, grinning, already familiar with the school, waving at a few passing classmates.
“Welcome to Gotham Academy, Little Wing. This is where all the real chaos happens,” Dick said, nudging Jason with his elbow.
Jason’s eyes widened. “Real… chaos?”
“You’ll see.”
Bruce’s gloved hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, voice calm but firm. “Remember, manners first. Confidence second. And pay attention to your surroundings.”
Jason nodded, gripping his backpack strap. Cass, barely taller than him, tilted her head, eyes scanning the courtyard. “Big school,” she whispered, a mixture of awe and caution.
Dick hopped out first, opening the door for the younger two. “Come on, you two. Let’s find Barbara.”
They threaded through students chatting and laughing, eventually reaching a cluster by a marble fountain. A girl with red hair and bright green eyes looked up as Dick approached.
“Babs!” Dick called. “Guess what I have with me?”
Barbara’s grin was quick and mischievous. “Some discipline, I hope. Or not— these must be the new additions?”
“Yeah. This is my little brother Jason and my little sister Cassandra,” Dick introduced.
Jason nodded, cheeks warming. “Hi,” he murmured. Cass gave a small wave, looking at Barbara with curiosity.
Barbara knelt slightly to their level. “Nice to meet you both. Don’t worry, I’ll help you survive your first day.”
Jason whispered to Cass, “She seems… friendly.”
“I like her.” Cass replied.
---
The bell rang, and the trio split for their classrooms. Dick headed to fourth grade with confidence, already chatting with friends about projects and assignments. Jason paused at the second-grade doorway, hesitating. A cluster of children looked up as he entered, some whispering.
His teacher, a kindly woman with a warm smile, introduced herself. “Class, we have a new student today. Jason Peter Wayne. Please make him feel welcome.”
Jason gave a small nod, taking a seat near the window. He pulled out his notebook, staring out at the courtyard as the lessons began. Numbers and letters felt familiar, yet structured in a way he hadn’t seen before. Slowly, he began writing, a sense of curiosity overtaking nervousness.
Cass, meanwhile, entered first grade. Her small hands gripped her pencil tightly as her teacher guided the class through basic reading exercises. She concentrated hard, sounding out letters and words slowly, often glancing at Jason through the window as he worked. The teacher’s gentle corrections were met with swift understanding, Cass’s natural acuity shining through her cautious demeanor.
By mid-morning, both Jason and Cass were fully absorbed in their tasks. Jason enjoyed the simple arithmetic and reading exercises, a sense of accomplishment brightening his usually somber eyes. Cass, too, discovered a joy in forming words, her small victories punctuated by tiny smiles. Dick, in the meantime, rolled through fourth-grade history and geography, occasionally sneaking out his classroom, to check on his siblings’ progress.
---
Bruce’s hands tightened around the steering wheel slightly, hiding the worry that churned inside. Alfred had told him it was normal for children to navigate challenges, but Bruce could not help the gnawing unease.
When the Phantom rolled back into the manor later that evening, the silence was immediate. No laughter, no shouts, no questions peppering the room. The playhouse was empty. The halls echoed with an unnatural calm. Bruce stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the empty rooms.
Alfred appeared beside him, calm as ever. “Master Bruce, the manor is… unusually quiet. Are you… concerned?”
Bruce exhaled, shoulders stiff. “It’s… strange. The rooms are empty. There’s no one bothering me, no chatter. Nothing.”
Alfred tilted his head, voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “Master Bruce, I believe you are suffering from a mild case of ‘empty nest syndrome.’ You are unused to the absence of your children after months of their constant presence.”
Bruce ran a hand over his face. “I worry about them… are Jason and Cassandra doing alright? Are they nervous? Will they be able to manage?”
Alfred placed a steadying hand on his arm. “They have good heads on their shoulders, sir. They will fare admirably. Trust their judgment, as I trust yours.”
Bruce nodded slowly, trying to internalize the reassurance, though a tension lingered in his chest.
Meanwhile in Gotham Academy....
The lunch bell rang, and the three reconvened with Barbara at a round table in the bustling cafeteria. Jason and Cass followed Dick, eyes wide at the towering stacks of food trays, the chatter, and the clatter of cutlery.
“Hey, check it out,” Dick whispered, sitting down and waving to Barbara. “We’ve got a spot with the best view. You’ll love it.”
As they settled, a group of older students at the next table began murmuring.
“Look at them,” one sneered. “The Wayne family has fallen far. A circus boy, a street urchin, and… what is she? Some foreign kid?”
Another snickered. “Yeah, what happened to Gotham’s noble lineage? Now it’s just… them.”
Barbara’s green eyes narrowed. “How dare you?” she said sharply.
“Oh, come on, Gordon,” another boy retorted. “Don’t act like you’ve earned your spot here. Your dad’s the commissioner, so the school felt sorry for you.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. Without thinking, he leapt from his chair and tackled the first boy, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
Dick immediately acted, dumping his tray of spaghetti and meatballs over the second boy’s head. “Mess with my siblings again, and you’ll regret it.”
The third boy lunged at Dick, trying to grab him by the hair. Before he could react, Cass swung her small fist, connecting squarely with his nose. A sharp yelp cut through the cafeteria.
Dick stood tall, voice icy. “If anyone—anyone—makes another nasty comment, and my father will see to it personally that your families are ruined.”
A hush fell. Even the lunchtime chatter seemed to freeze. One of the cafeteria supervisors approached, frowning.
“Youngsters! I’m going to have to call the headmaster. And your parents—”
Jason’s eyes locked onto the remaining bullies, gaze sharp, cold, and controlled. “You do not want to escalate this further. Trust me. Parents will not hear of this.”
The supervisor paused, unsure, and the group of bullies swallowed their pride, muttering to one another. Finally, they slunk away, grumbling.
The supervisor looked at Jason, shaking his head. “I… very well. No parents. But this better not happen again.”
Jason returned to the table, sliding into his seat, breathing hard but relieved. “Nobody’s calling our parents. That’s enough for them to understand.”
Barbara exhaled, impressed. “You all… handled that.”
Dick smirked, picking at his tray. “Just another day at Gotham Academy.” Cass muttered quietly, “Deserved more punches.”
Jason just nodded, cheeks flushed, adrenaline still coursing through him.
Later that afternoon, Bruce’s Phantom rolled through the gates of Gotham Academy. Jason, Cass, and Dick filed in, greeting him warmly.
“How was your day?” Bruce asked, keeping his tone neutral, hiding his concern.
“Good,” Jason said, forcing a small smile. “Really good.”
“Yeah,” Cass added. “Lots of learning.”
Dick leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty normal day. Nothing too wild.”
Bruce glanced at them, his eyes sharp. “Anything… unusual happen?”
The trio exchanged glances, quickly diverting their attention to snacks and their reflections in the car windows.
“No, Dad. Everything was fine,” Jason said.
“Absolutely fine,” Cass echoed.
---
The Batcave was quiet, save for the faint hum of monitors and the occasional clink of tools. Bruce stood over the compact workbench, adjusting a few fittings on Dick’s spare Robin suit, small but sleek enough to fit Cassandra.
“You’re sure about this?” Alfred asked, standing beside him.
Bruce’s jaw was tight, voice calm. “She promised she’d wear the shirt. I promised one hour of patrol. This is it. I’ll make sure she’s safe. Jason and Dick, behave while we’re gone.”
Cass peered up at Bruce, her excitement barely contained. “I get to go out? Really?”
“Yes, Sweetheart. One hour. That’s it,” Bruce said, his eyes scanning the equipment, making sure everything fit snugly. “Let me get ready.”
Finally, Bruce stepped into view, Cassandra tugging on his cape, vibrating with energy. “Dad! I’m ready!”
The night air was crisp as Bruce led Cassandra through the Batcave corridors, helping her adjust the Robin suit. The small girl practically vibrated with energy, her eyes sparkling with adrenaline.
Jason muttered under his breath, watching them leave. “Why do Cass and I have to bend backwards to be allowed to patrol? I could handle that. This is so unfair.”
Dick stepped closer, voice firm. “Jay, it’s not about whether you can. Both of you are not twelve yet. You lack experience, and you haven’t trained properly. That’s my rule, and it’s for your safety.”
Jason’s eyes flared. “It’s a stupid rule. You’re not even twelve! Why do we have to follow the stupid rule? You’re just afraid we will be better than you!”
Dick’s hands shot up. “Afraid? No. This isn’t about ego. Cass is an amazing fighter but patrol isn’t just about fighting. It’s about observation, planning, knowing when to retreat, and working with a partner. And you… even though you’ve got street smarts, you don’t know structured combat. You don’t know how to formulate backup plans, or escape routes.
Jason snorted. “I know how to fight. I’ve been surviving out there since I was a kid!”
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready for Gotham streets,” Dick countered, arms crossed. “And even if you are capable, my rules are clear: until you are twelve, you stay put. End of discussion.”
Jason’s face twisted. “You’re such a hypocrite, Dick! You act like you care about rules but you bend them all the time.”
“Because I know when to bend and when not to!” Dick shouted, tension rising.
You’re unbelievable!” Jason shot back, both of them now shouting, voices bouncing off the stone walls of the Batcave.
Alfred’s calm voice interjected, attempting diplomacy. “Gentlemen, please—your vocalizations are becoming excessive. I shall not intervene physically, but I do implore civility.”
Neither of them relented. The shouting match escalated further until Cassandra and Bruce returned an hour later, the night patrol having been a whirlwind of adrenaline for Cass. She was practically bouncing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Jason’s eyes flicked to her, envy mingling with frustration. “Look at her, all happy. And I’m stuck here.”
Cass, still catching her breath, noticed the tension between her brothers. Her smile faltered, and she quietly asked, “Why you two… not talking?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow at Alfred, who simply inclined his head toward the two boys.
“They had an disagreement,” Alfred whispered. “But, sir, I assure you, it’s best to allow them to resolve this on their own.”
Cass frowned, her happiness dampened by the unspoken feud.
---
The next morning, the ride to Gotham Academy was silent. Jason stared out the window, Dick kept his eyes straight ahead, and Cass sat quietly, sensing the tension. Bruce’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel just slightly tighter.
At the manor that evening, the children dispersed to their usual playhouse activities but more individually. Dick was engrossed in a video game, fingers moving nimbly across the controller. Jason sat at a table, meticulously constructing a Lego set. Cass, frustrated, stomped over.
“Come on! Work on the treehouse with me!” she demanded.
“No,” Dick replied without looking up. “I’m busy.”
Jason muttered, still focused on his pieces. “Yeah, same.”
Cass’s small foot stomped again. “Bad brothers!” she shouted and stormed out, slamming the door.
Dick immediately set down his controller, running after her. “Hey! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you mad!”
Jason’s head snapped up, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, now you care about making her mad? Funny, that wasn’t the case when you were being a hypocrite yesterday.”
Another verbal argument ignited, voices rising, each sibling shouting points and counterpoints.
Suddenly, Dick’s voice cracked, raw and intense “Go! Go fight in the streets and fall to death like my parents did!”
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Silence followed. Dick’s chest heaved, and tears streamed down his face.
Jason froze, eyes wide. Cass, small but fierce, immediately ran to Dick and wrapped her arms around him. Jason, guilt and shame weighing heavily, approached slowly, wrapping his own arm around his brother.
The three of them clung together, a tight, messy embrace, breaths mingling, tears falling, hearts racing.
Finally, Dick pulled back slightly, wiping his tears. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But the rules… they stand.”
Jason nodded. “Okay. I am sorry too. But I’ll train. By the time I’m twelve… me and Cass—we’ll be ready to patrol.”
Cass smiled, sniffling, her small hand patting Dick’s back.
Messy faces, snot-streaked cheeks, but laughter soon bubbled up, breaking the tension entirely.
Moments later, Bruce and Alfred entered the playhouse, carrying a tray of snacks. They paused, surveying the scene: the three siblings, now calm and laughing, working together on the treehouse with focus and joy.
Bruce exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
Alfred’s calm voice reached him, eyes twinkling slightly. “See, Master Bruce? I told you… the children will sort this among themselves.”
Bruce allowed a small, relieved smile, nodding in agreement. The chaos of the day, the arguments, the tension—all dissolved into the warmth of their shared laughter and teamwork.
---
The quiet of the manor was broken by the sharp trill of Bruce’s business line. He picked up the handset, instantly alert.
“Bruce Wayne,” he answered, voice calm but firm.
“Sir Wayne, this is Headmaster Hawthorne of Gotham Academy,” came the measured voice of the man on the other end. “I wanted to inform you about a situation that occurred during lunch yesterday.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“There was a verbal confrontation in the cafeteria involving your children,” Hawthorne continued. “Other students were making snide remarks regarding their backgrounds… comments about Mister Grayson-Wayne ’s circus upbringing, Mister Wayne’s prior circumstances, and Miss Wayne’s… ethnicity.”
Bruce’s grip on the receiver tightened. “I see. And how did my children respond?”
“They retaliated physically,” Hawthorne said carefully. “Mister Wayne tackled one of the students. Mister Grayson-Wayne … well, he disposed of a portion of his lunch over another, and Miss Wayne, strikingly, intervened with a direct blow.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, voice controlled but laced with authority. “I understand. That behavior will not recur. I apologize for the disruption. Rest assured, the children will be made aware of appropriate conduct moving forward.”
There was a pause. “Additionally,” Hawthorne said, “some parents have lodged complaints. The administration was considering suspension or contacting guardians, but…”
“I will ensure that no formal action is necessary,” Bruce interrupted smoothly. “Consider any consequences resolved. And… I will make arrangements for contributions to Gotham Academy. Philanthropy, if you will, to prevent further issues. I trust this will settle matters sufficiently.”
“Understood, sir,” Hawthorne replied, a subtle note of relief in his voice. “I appreciate your prompt attention.”
Bruce hung up, setting the receiver down with a measured hand. He exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment before Alfred appeared silently in the doorway, tray in hand.
“Well,” Alfred said, placing the tray down on the counter, “it seems the children handled themselves admirably.”
Bruce shook his head, pacing slightly. “Admirably, yes. But they shouldn’t have had to fight for themselves at all. That shouldn’t have been necessary.” His voice grew quieter, almost reflective. “It’s my fault. I never… introduced them to high society properly. It’s left openings for… prejudice, for misunderstandings.”
Alfred nodded slowly. “I understand, sir. There was, of course, very little time to consider these things. When Master Richard came to you…” Alfred’s eyes softened with memory. “He had lost his parents and you had not yet formalized the adoption. Then Miss Cassandra arrived… nonverbal, requiring every ounce of your attention. And Master Jason… a sudden, unexpected situation entirely. The circumstances, sir, were… pressing.”
Bruce ran a hand across his forehead. “Exactly. It all happened so fast. I wanted to care for them, train them, provide stability, and… in that whirlwind, I neglected an important matter—presenting them. Announcing them. Introducing them to Gotham, to the society that will watch over them.”
Alfred’s voice was gentle but firm. “We can always remedy that, sir. The past cannot be changed, but the future can be carefully planned.”
Bruce’s eyes lit with resolve. “Yes… a gala. A charity gala, in October. Not just for philanthropy, not just for Gotham’s elites, but… to present my children properly. To show them, to show everyone… that they are here to stay. That they are Wayne through and through.”
Alfred allowed a small smile to form. “A fitting solution, sir. I shall begin preparations immediately. Invitations, arrangements, all the necessary protocol. The children’s introduction will be… impeccable.”
Bruce finally exhaled, nodding firmly. “Good. Make it so, Alfred. This time, there will be no omissions. My children will be presented in the proper light. Gotham will know their place, and I will ensure they are safe, respected… and recognized for who they are.”
Alfred inclined his head. “As always, sir, your foresight is admirable. And the children will benefit greatly from your meticulous planning. This shall be a proper introduction, indeed.”
Bruce turned his gaze toward the window, looking out over the sprawling grounds. The manor seemed quiet, almost too quiet, but a firm determination set in his eyes. He would not allow another misstep. His children, his family, would have their place in the world, properly secured and protected.
The next months would be meticulous in planning, each detail accounted for—from the guest list of Gotham’s elite, to the arrangements, to the proper etiquette his children would need. Bruce had seen enough to know that preparation was everything. This gala would not just be a social event—it would be a declaration.
And for the first time that evening, Bruce allowed himself a brief sense of satisfaction. Gotham might try to test his family, but they would be ready. They would be Wayne.
---
The following Saturday morning, the sun filtered softly through the tall windows of Wayne Manor. The manor was quiet, the usual chaos of the children’s laughter and footsteps temporarily suspended as Alfred had prepared a more formal agenda.
“Master Richard, Miss Cassandra, Master Jason,” Alfred announced in his usual measured tone, “if you will kindly gather in the drawing room, we are to begin lessons in proper etiquette. These are matters which will serve you well at the upcoming gala and in any interactions with Gotham’s society.”
Dick exchanged a glance with Jason. “Et-i-what now?” he whispered, muttering under his breath. “Is this going to be like homework but with… posh?”
Jason groaned, dragging his feet. “I hate homework… and I hate posh.”
Cass, for her part, simply tilted her head, curious, and followed Alfred obediently.
Alfred led them into the drawing room, where the long dining table had been cleared, and chairs arranged meticulously. Candlesticks gleamed, and fine china was neatly stacked.
“Etiquette is not mere finery, children,” Alfred began, his voice gentle but firm. “It is a framework, a set of tools that will allow you to navigate social situations with confidence and dignity. Today, we will begin with posture and conversation.”
He gestured to the first chair, inviting Dick to sit. “Master Richard, posture. Sit as though you carry yourself not only for yourself but for those who observe you. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, chin level.”
Dick plopped into the chair, immediately slouching. “Relaxed? What does that even mean? Isn’t this, like… too straight?”
Alfred’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. “I believe that will require more demonstration.” He guided Dick’s shoulders, corrected his elbow position, and even gently tilted his chin until the posture aligned. “There. Observe the difference between confidence and carelessness. Master Jason, your turn.”
Jason sat reluctantly. “Do I have to? My back hurts already…”
Alfred ignored the complaint. “Your stance will convey the person you are to the world. Even a brief interaction leaves a lasting impression. A drooped posture can be interpreted as lack of interest, weakness, or worse. Now, straighten yourself.”
Cass, however, impressed Alfred immediately. She seated herself with an intuitive grace, observing every instruction and copying it meticulously. “Like this?” she asked in her small, precise sentences.
“Exactly, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said, allowing a small nod of approval. “You have an innate sense of presentation. Master Jason and Master Richard, you would do well to watch her example.”
The morning progressed with lessons on conversation etiquette. Alfred began with the most basic rules: how to greet a person properly, how to introduce oneself, and how to use polite phrases.
“Master Jason, when greeting someone, do not merely nod. You must make eye contact, offer a firm handshake if appropriate, and speak your name clearly. Repeat after me: ‘Jason Wayne.’”
Jason rolled his eyes but complied. “Jason Wayne,” he muttered. Alfred’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“More clarity,” Alfred insisted. “Articulate each word with confidence.”
“Jason…Wayne,” Jason repeated, enunciating slowly. Alfred allowed a small, satisfied nod.
Dick smirked. “Easy. He sounds like he’s auditioning for Gotham’s High Society Theater.”
“Master Richard!” Alfred warned, “This is not a jest. Even humor can be weaponized if delivered with poise, but right now, focus.”
Cass, meanwhile, repeated her name perfectly, her soft voice clear and confident. Alfred allowed himself a small smile. “Well done, Miss Cassandra. Your progress is… most encouraging.”
After mastering introductions, Alfred moved the children to the dining table to teach proper table etiquette. The children grimaced as he brought out a formal place setting: forks, knives, spoons, and cups arrayed in exacting order.
“You will learn the proper use of utensils,” Alfred explained. “Each has its purpose. A spoon is not to be used for solid food. A fork is not to spear your food like a weapon.”
Dick immediately picked up a fork like a sword. “Like this?”
“Master Richard!” Alfred exclaimed. “Not like a sword!”
Jason, predictably, tried to mimic Dick, resulting in a tangled mess of utensils. “It’s impossible!” he protested.
Cass, ever observant, quickly managed to grasp the proper technique, patiently demonstrating to her brothers. Alfred allowed a small nod. “See, Master Jason, Master Richard? Attention and patience yield results.”
By afternoon, Bruce entered the drawing room. He had prepared a visual presentation on Gotham’s elite families—a digital slideshow detailing lineage, influence, and social standing. The children crowded around, eyes wide as images of opulent estates and portraits flashed before them.
“You will meet these people at the gala,” Bruce explained. “Each family has its traditions, their own expectations. Some are generous, some… less so. You must navigate these interactions carefully. Confidence, politeness, and awareness are your tools.”
Jason leaned forward. “Do we have to… remember all these names?”
Bruce smiled slightly. “Not all at once. But knowing whom you are interacting with, understanding their tendencies… it will keep you safe and respected.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Safe and respected… sounds like fighting in a social battlefield.”
“Precisely,” Bruce replied. “But one must fight differently in social situations than in the streets. Words, gestures, even glances… these can disarm, influence, or persuade.”
Alfred interjected gently. “Think of it as a continuation of your training. The body, the mind, the voice—each element plays a part in the encounter.”
The children spent the next several hours alternating between lessons from Alfred and Bruce’s presentations. They practiced formal greetings, polite responses, subtle humor, and careful posture. At first, there were frequent mishaps—forks dropped, names mispronounced, composure lost—but by the day’s end, each child had improved markedly.
Cass beamed, clearly proud of mastering a difficult posture drill. Jason, reluctantly impressed with his own progress, whispered to Dick, “Hey… maybe we’re not terrible at this.”
Dick grinned. “See? Told you I had some natural talent.”
Alfred allowed himself a satisfied nod. “Indeed. Progress is evident. Tomorrow, we shall refine these skills further, introduce nuances of conversation, and prepare for interactions with greater challenges.”
Bruce, observing the children, felt a rare surge of satisfaction. Gotham was harsh, the world would be harsher—but here, in the safety of the manor, his children were learning not only the skills to survive but to thrive. And when the gala arrived, they would not merely be presented—they would stand as a unified, confident,