Batfamily |¦DC

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Wayne Manor was officially the most chaotic house you had ever lived in, and you had once stayed at a cousin’s place where seven people shared one bathroom and the Wi-Fi password was “password123.” This was different. This was rich people chaos. This was “we have too many rooms but somehow everyone is still in the kitchen arguing” chaos. You were crouched behind the island counter, clutching a mug of coffee like it was a weapon, while Jason leaned against the fridge with the casual menace of someone who had died once and come back just to complain about the breakfast options.

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Damian, of course, was standing by the stove, cooking something that smelled suspiciously like it belonged in a five-star restaurant, while also lecturing Tim about “proper knife technique.” Tim, who was already halfway through a bowl of cereal and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, was nodding along with the exhausted patience of someone who had accepted that arguing with Damian was like arguing with a very small, very angry professor. “I’m just saying,” Tim muttered, “not everyone needs to julienne their carrots like they’re defusing a bomb.” Damian’s glare could have cut glass. “Precision is not optional.”

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Jason snorted from the fridge. “Kid, you’re acting like this is a cooking show and not ‘how to not poison the new sibling.’” He glanced at you, grin sharp. “Though, honestly, if anyone’s gonna poison you, it’s probably gonna be me. I make a mean grilled cheese, but my eggs are a war crime.” You blinked. “So… no eggs?” Jason shrugged. “No promises.”

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From the doorway, Steph’s voice cut through the tension like a glitter bomb in a library. “Okay, but real talk — if we’re doing team breakfast, I call dibs on the last pancake. I earned it. I distracted Bruce this morning so Tim could sneak in an extra hour of sleep.” Duke, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea and the calm energy of someone who had already accepted that this family was a lot, sighed. “You ‘distracted’ him by telling him there was a ‘suspicious pigeon’ on the roof.” Steph grinned. “Exactly. He was very concerned.”

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Cass was perched on a stool nearby, silent as always, but you could feel her watching everything — the way Damian was still glaring at Tim, the way Jason was pretending not to care if you liked his cooking, the way you were still holding your coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. She slid off the stool, walked over, and gently tapped your mug, then signed: More? You nodded, and she refilled it without a word, because Cass understood that sometimes love was just making sure the newest sibling had enough caffeine to survive the morning.

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Dick was somewhere in the middle of it all, naturally, because if there was chaos, he was either causing it or fixing it. Right now, he was trying to mediate between Damian, who wanted everyone to eat at “a proper time,” and Jason, who wanted to eat “whenever, wherever, in whatever position felt right.” “We’re not eating breakfast on the floor,” Dick said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already tired of this conversation. Jason shrugged. “Says who?” Damian’s glare intensified. “Says me.”

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Barbara’s voice crackled over the comms from the clock tower, calm and sharp as ever, cutting through the chaos like a knife. “For the record, I’m tracking Bruce’s location. He’s in the cave. Again. Also, Jason, if you burn the kitchen down, I’m revoking your access to the good snacks.” Jason gasped, genuinely offended. “Babs, that’s cruel and unusual punishment.” Barbara’s voice was dry. “Consider it motivation to not be stupid.”

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And Alfred? Alfred was moving through the kitchen with the quiet efficiency of a man who had raised multiple vigilantes and was not about to be defeated by a group of sleep-deprived heroes and one very confused new sibling. He set a plate of perfectly cooked eggs in front of you with a small, polite smile. “For you, young master/mistress,” he said, because Alfred had never once in his life called anyone by just their name when a title would do. “I trust you slept well?” You nodded, because you had, actually, in a bed bigger than your entire old apartment. Alfred’s smile softened. “Good. I shall inform Master Bruce that you are fed and safe. He tends to worry.”

---

Bruce was somewhere in the background, probably already planning how to fix the city before lunch. You hadn’t seen him since last night, but you could feel his presence like a shadow — calm, controlled, and definitely judging everyone’s life choices from a distance. Tim caught your look and smirked. “He’s fine. He’s probably in the cave making a spreadsheet about ‘optimal family bonding activities.’” You blinked. “That’s… actually really on-brand.” Tim nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry. He’ll show up when he remembers we’re all up here.”

---

You looked between them — Damian, already planning the next six moves like breakfast was a tactical operation; Tim, already preparing for the worst-case scenario, which in this family meant “Bruce finds out we ate cereal for dinner again”; Jason, already ready to throw himself into a horde of hungry siblings if it meant you got the last pancake; Steph, already making jokes like the world wasn’t ending; Duke, already scanning for threats with that calm, steady focus; Cass, already watching your back without saying a word; Dick, already trying to keep everyone from killing each other; Barbara, already tracking everything from the safety of the clock tower; Alfred, already running the home base like a five-star hotel during Armageddon; and Bruce, already being Batman about the whole thing. They weren’t just your family. They were your ridiculously overqualified, emotionally stunted, pancake-hoarding bodyguards. And as the first argument of the day erupted over who got the last slice of toast, you realized something terrifying and weirdly comforting: you might be the youngest, the newest, and the most likely to trip over your own feet, but you were not alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect. Also, if you died here, Damian would never let you rest in peace, so that was motivation.

“So,” you said, voice cracking just a little, “if I survive this family, can I pick dinner?”

Jason snorted. “Kid, if you survive this family, you can have whatever you want. Within reason. No demanding five-star sushi on a Tuesday.”

“What if I want pizza?”

“Now you’re talking,” Jason said, grinning.

Tim sighed, already standing. “Focus. We can debate post-breakfast takeout after we don’t die.”

Damian dropped his spatula with the grace of someone who had never once tripped in his life, which felt unfair. “If you die,” he said, fixing you with a look, “I will be very annoyed. Do not make me annoyed.”

You blinked. “That’s… weirdly motivating?”

“Good,” Damian said, already moving. “Now try not to fall behind. I refuse to carry you.”

“He would, though,” Jason muttered, falling into step beside you. “Annoyed the whole time, but he’d do it.”

“I heard that,” Damian called from ahead.

“You were supposed to,” Jason shot back.

Steph fell into step on your other side, slinging an arm around your shoulders like this was just another walk to school. “Don’t worry, mini-Wayne. If anyone tries to steal your food, I’ll throw my traffic cone at them again. Worked last time.”

Duke shook his head, smiling faintly. “It really didn’t.”

“Details,” Steph said, waving a hand.

Cass moved ahead, silent and sharp, already scanning the next block. Dick lingered for a second, looking back at you with that soft, big-brother smile that made the whole apocalypse feel a little less heavy. “You good?” he asked, and you nodded, because somehow, with all of them here, you actually were.

Barbara’s voice came over the comms again, warm but firm. “Everyone stay on channel. I’ve got eyes on the whole team. And remember — no heroic sacrifices. Bruce will be insufferable if anyone dies today.”

Alfred’s voice followed, dry as ever. “Indeed. I have just finished cleaning the east wing. I would prefer not to repeat the process.”