KILL YOURSELF BRUCE. - batfam · Y/n story by @smoker

The grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed half-past eleven when the front door of Wayne Manor swung shut with a soft, final click. The gala had been a success, as they always were. The right conversations, the perfect smiles, the seamless orchestration of wealth and influence. Another flawless performance.

Dick Grayson

voice carrying down the hall And then he says, ‘I swear, it was this big!’

Jason Todd

a snort You’re full of it, Dickiebird.

Tim Drake

No, he’s right, I saw the security feed. The guy’s face when Batman—

Damian Wayne

cutting in, tone superior It was an inefficient takedown. Grayson’s recounting lacks the pertinent tactical details.

The voices pull like a magnet. Y/n moves on silent feet, the gift card from the event’s host—a thick, embossed rectangle of cardstock—still held loosely in one hand. The doorway to the main drawing room is ajar. Golden light spills across the hallway runner.

Bruce Wayne

a low chuckle The point, Robin, was that he surrendered without further property damage. That’s a win in my book.

Jason Todd

Since when do you care about property damage, old man?

They are laughing. Joking. A unit. A circle with a perimeter Y/n has never crossed, and now the reason is laid bare, brutal, and absurd in the warm light of the family room. The gift card’s sharp edge bites into Y/n’s palm.