identityconstellations:

identityconstellations:

identityconstellations:

not going to lie I think about suburban AU batfam daily. because the batkids smushed Pamela Isley’s (“Poison Ivy, the witch” as they call her) azaleas and Ace tore up her petunias and Bruce has to go over to apologize with Alfred’s baked goods but it’s too late, Pam’s already reported them to the HOA because Clark and Diana’s cars aren’t parked in the driveway and they’ve been helping the family settle in for 3 days now and the kids’ bikes are scattered all over the yard and Bruce just. sighs. heavily. because welcome to the neighborhood

#is Mr. Freeze the ice cream van driver? #that is wholly uninterested in selling ice cream to children #you hear the sweet chimes but nO ICE CREAM (via @punmaster5000)

HE IS NOW

Bruce comes home early one afternoon when the kids are clamoring at the kitchen table for their snack
And he’s in a good mood, explaining how well things went and going round the table, dropping a kiss on each head.
Until he kisses one blonde (blonde?) head and short circuits because the little face peering up at him is unfamiliar.

“You’re not mine,” he says after a moment of befuddlement.

“No,” agrees the little girl, grape juice stains on her lips, “I am not.” She offers no other information than this and gnaws on an oatmeal cookie. She stares at him in a friendly way.

Bruce stares at her, not as friendly. “Well, who do you belong to?”

“This is Steph,” Tim pipes up. The girl in question gives a little wave. “She lives across town. She showed me a secret tunnel and how to catch grasshoppers and put them on Poison Ivy’s plants without getting caught. Also she’s the love of my life.”

Bruce blinks. “Nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“Brown,” she replies, voice garbled with oatmeal cookie. “Miss Stephanie Brown, at your service.” She gives a little salute.

“Oh,” says Bruce. He looks around at the rest of his children. They smile at him politely. “My name is Bruce Wayne,” he says the next moment, unsure as to whether to shake her hand or not.

“Nice to meet you,” she replies, a tad too primly for someone with stained purple lips. “And who do you belong to?”

“What?”

“He belongs to Alfred,” Tim explains. He drops his elbows on the table, considerate for a moment. He clears his throat, “And us too, I guess.”

“Stephanie gave me a friendship bracelet,” Cassandra says suddenly, yanking at his pants and pulling him closer. “See?”

He duly examines her wrist. “Very nice.”

“She’s my best friend,” she confides, breathless in excitement. “So we’ve decided that she belongs to us now.”

The children chorus their agreement, even Dick nodding along.

Bruce pauses. “That’s not how it works,” he begins.

“Don’t be so selfish,” snaps Jason. “You picked up us. It’s only fair that we get to pick up a child ourselves.”

“We’ll feed her and everything!”

Bruce gazes at them in mild horror. “She’s not a pet, Tim,” he says, but before he can say anything else Cassandra yanks at his pant leg again.

“She will live in my room,” she says solemnly, “until she and Tim are ready to get married.”

“Then she will live in mine,” Tim announces loftily.

Bruce opens his mouth, but Stephanie beats him to it.

“We’re getting married when we’re older,” she assures him, swinging her legs underneath the table. Her feet bump against the chair, landing artful scuff marks. Bump, bump, bump.

“I’m…glad to hear that,” he says. And then, deciding to play along with the game, he asks, “And when will you be getting married?”

“Sixteen!” she says cheerfully.

Bruce doesn’t twitch, not exactly. But he does release a long breath. “Sixteen,” he echoes hollowly.

“The age of wisdom,” says Tim.

“Yes,” agrees Bruce. He closes his eyes. “The age of wisdom.”