Chapter 11: The Bat Family

Wayne Manor – Morning

The morning sun slanted through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, gilding the hallways in pale light. Alfred Pennyworth, immaculately dressed as always despite the early hour, moved with his usual quiet efficiency toward the kitchen—until he stopped dead in his tracks.

A pair of luminous green eyes blinked at him from atop the sideboard. A tabby cat stretched languidly, tail flicking like it owned the place. Alfred blinked, unsure if lack of tea had made him hallucinate. But no—there were pawprints on the rug. And as he turned, another cat trotted briskly down the corridor, disappearing around a corner with the smugness of one who belonged.

“ ... Good Lord,” Alfred muttered.

Within minutes, he had discovered three more: one perched regally on the stair banister, another sniffing an umbrella stand, and a third darting between his ankles like a furry bullet, nearly toppling him. His eyebrow arched higher with every step toward the east wing. At last, he gathered himself, cleared his throat, and knocked firmly on his master’s bedroom door.

The door cracked open an inch. Bruce Wayne—hair tousled, eyes brighter than Alfred had seen in years, and, quite evidently, not wearing a stitch of clothing—peered out. There was something different about him. A subtle shift in his bearing, his posture almost ... lighter. Almost cheerful.

“Yes, Alfred?”

Alfred adjusted his cuffs, choosing to ignore the peculiar radiance of the man before him. “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but we appear to have ... an infestation.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “An infestation?”

“Felines, sir,” Alfred clarified, his tone dry as the desert. “Several of them. Wandering freely about the mansion. Quite without an invitation, I might add. One just brazenly sprinted past me as if to mock my bewilderment. I haven’t the foggiest notion of how they managed to get inside.”

To Alfred’s surprise, Bruce’s lips twitched—then curved into a small, undeniable grin. And that’s when Alfred heard it: the unmistakable sound of a woman’s soft laughter drifting from the bedroom beyond.

The door inched wider, just enough for Alfred to glimpse inside. There, nestled against the pillows, lay Selina Kyle. Bare shoulders peeked from beneath a blanket clutched to her chest, her short dark hair spilling around her face like ink.

Her smile was wickedly amused as she called out, “Sorry for the inconvenience, Alfred. My pets do have a way of making themselves at home. I’ll round them up if they become too much trouble.”

For the briefest of moments, Alfred found himself staring—though he quickly masked it with impeccable decorum, straightening his spine as if he’d been caught out of position on parade.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Kyle,” he said smoothly. “It would be my distinct honor to see to the commendations of your ... animals.”

Selina giggled, the sound like a silver bell. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Bruce placed a warm, steady hand on Alfred’s shoulder. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You’re the best, Alfred. The absolute best.”

From the bed, Selina crooked a finger at Bruce, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Get back in here, handsome. I’m not through with you yet.”

Duty, it seemed, called in a different form. Bruce gave Alfred a grateful look before closing the door with a ravenous grin.

Left in the hallway, Alfred stood for a moment in silence, emotions warring inside him. Relief, joy—because Bruce was, for the first time in years, visibly happy. But also resignation, for the chaos now prowling his manor on four legs.

A sudden clatter from the kitchen broke his reflection. He turned sharply, following the noise, only to find three of the cats on the counter, batting at fruit and sniffing through the breadbox as though they owned it. One had already tipped over the sugar jar.

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. War, assassins, madmen in clown makeup — all survivable. Cats, however, might be his undoing.

“The things one must endure for family,” he muttered. Rolling up his sleeves, he advanced with all the dignity he could muster and beckoned with an outstretched hand.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...”

Batcave – Training Arena

The soft hum of the Batcomputer echoed in the background, mixing with the sharp thwack of feet against the training mat.

Barbara hit the floor hard—again. She let out a short breath, glaring up at the ceiling before rolling to her feet.

Sweat clung to her brow, her red hair pulled back in a high ponytail that was beginning to unravel. Her white tank top clung to her frame, her toned stomach partially revealed and her legs burning beneath her tight blue gym pants.

The heat of exertion painted her cheeks as she crouched and then exploded with a spinning air kick, but her opponent sidestepped her with effortless grace. After finishing her kick, she lunged for him with both hands. He grabbed her by her wrist and twisted. Her world spun as she went down yet again, flipping unto her rump. She grunted with both frustration and admiration as she stared up at him.

Dick offered her a hand, wearing a sleeveless white shirt soaked with effort, muscles taut and gleaming under the overhead lights. Army pants. Barefoot. Casual, but combat-ready.

“You’re telegraphing your kicks again,” he said, smirking.

Barbara shot him a look but accepted the hand, coming to her feet as she brushed her hair back. “Yeah? Well maybe you’re just faster than what I’m used to. And shorter. I’m more accustomed to fighting hulking thugs, not pretty boys.”

He grinned. “Pretty and dangerous. It’s the full package.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a small chuckle. They circled again, feet light on the mat, each watching the other for the smallest opening. A flurry of strikes followed—quick jabs, sharp kicks, the crack of fists against forearms. She was faster now, sharper, her form tightening with every exchange, each movement honed by stubborn determination. For a moment, she even drove him back a step, her grin flashing with pride.

But his experience showed. He flowed around her like water, slipping past a punch, redirecting a kick with the edge of his arm, his balance unshaken. Then, with a sudden sweep of his leg, he caught her off-guard, pulling the ground out from under her in one smooth, effortless motion. She hit the mat with a grunt, more surprised than hurt, staring up at him as he loomed above, calm as ever.

She slammed her hand on the mat with a groan. “Damn it!”

“You’re improving,” he offered between breaths. “A lot faster than I expected. So don’t beat yourself up. I’ve been doing this sort of thing with Bruce for a while now, and not to toot my own horn, but I’m kinda badass.”

Barbara sat up slowly, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her eyes flicked up to him, catching the way he was trying not to stare. She smirked, an idea coming to mind. She rose slowly. Sensually. Back straight. Chest out as she let her hands slide down her form to her legs. Dick stared slack jawed for moment, eyes darting at her cleavage.

Barbara lunged, grabbing Dick by his arm and flipping him cleanly over her back. Caught off guard by her sudden momentum—and, if he were honest, momentarily distracted by the brush of her voluptuous figure—Dick hit the mat with a grunt, the breath rushing from his lungs. Before he could recover, her knee pressed firmly against his chest, pinning him down. She leaned in just slightly, eyes gleaming with triumph, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as strands of red hair fell across her face.

“You looked a little distracted?” she teased.

He laughed and shook his head. “Using your feminine wiles on me is cheating.”

“Then you’d better get used to losing,” she said, rising off him with a wink. “Because a girl’s gotta use every advantage she can get.”