The Batcave, with its giant penny, mechanical dinosaur, and cosmic threats on monitors, was a sanctuary of stoicism. But the Wayne Manor living room, under the flickering glow of the fireplace and the steady hand of Alfred Pennyworth, was a torture chamber of a different variety.
"It is a tradition as old as time, Miss Kyle," Alfred said, his voice a perfect blend of butlerly grace and subtle mischief. He adjusted his spectacles and opened a heavy, leather-bound album on the mahogany coffee table. "Before a union is finalized, the suitor's shameful history must be audited."
Bruce Wayne sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, his posture stiff enough to break. He looked like a man awaiting a death sentence. "Alfred, I really don't think this is necessary. We have patrol in an hour."
"Patrol can wait, Bruce," Selina said, her eyes gleaming with predatory delight as she leaned closer to the album. "I’ve seen you bleed, I’ve seen you brood, but I’ve never seen you... adorable."
"Prepare yourself, Miss Kyle," Alfred murmured, turning to a page of grainy color prints. "Here we have Master Bruce at age five. This was taken approximately ten minutes after he was told that he could not, in fact, keep a baby raccoon as a house pet."
The picture showed a tiny, bowl-cut-wearing Bruce Wayne face-down on a Persian rug, limbs splayed in a theatrical display of grief. Alfred, significantly younger in the photo, was crouched beside him with an expression of profound patience, holding a silver tray with a single cookie as a peace offering.
A roar of laughter erupted from the sofa.
"Look at those tiny fists!" Steph Brown shrieked, clutching her stomach. "He’s literally trying to punch the floor into submission! Even then!"
Jason Todd wiped a literal tear from his eye. "I knew it. The 'Vengeance' thing started with a raccoon. That explains so much."
"The technique is sloppy," Damian remarked, though he was leaning in so far he nearly fell off his seat. "His center of gravity is far too high for a proper tantrum."
"He looks like a grumpy penguin," Cassandra Cain whispered, a rare, wide grin splitting her face.
Bruce closed his eyes, his jaw muscle twitching. He had looked Darkseid in the eyes without blinking. He had survived the Omega Sanction. But this? This was a slow, agonizing death.
Alfred’s hand hovered over the next few pages. For a split second, the air in the room shifted. Everyone saw the edges of photos containing a smiling woman with pearls and a man with a thin mustache and kind eyes. Without a word, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, Alfred bypassed that section. The tragedy was well-known; tonight was for the living.
"And now," Alfred announced, his voice regaining its performative lilt, "we move to the brief, yet harrowing, rebellious phase of the mid-teens."
The room went silent for exactly one second before descending into absolute pandemonium.
The photograph featured a fifteen-year-old Bruce. He was wearing an oversized leather jacket, a spiked collar that looked suspiciously like a prop from a theater department, and—most prominently—a jagged, jet-black Mohawk that defied the laws of both gravity and social standing.
"No," Tim Drake gasped, clutching his chest. "No, tell me that’s Photoshop. Alfred, tell me you’re a digital wizard."
"I assure you, Master Timothy, the hairspray used that morning was a fire hazard of the highest order," Alfred replied.
Dick Grayson was leaning against the mantle, laughing so hard he wasn't making any sound, just rhythmic wheezing. Duke Thomas was frantically trying to take a picture of the picture with his phone. Barbara Gordon was already texting the image to her father.
"Oh god, I remember that!"
A sharp, sophisticated voice cut through the noise. Kate Kane was leaning against the doorway, a glass of expensive scotch in her hand, looking like she’d been there the whole time.
Bruce snapped his head toward her. "Kate? Why are you even here?
"I was born with a sixth sense for romantic family embarrassment, Bruce. It’s a Kane trait," Kate said, walking over to inspect the photo. "That had to be one of the best Thanksgivings of my life. My dad kept glaring at that hair like it had personally stolen his car and insulted the flag."
"I told you then, and I'm telling you all now," Bruce growled, his face a shade of red that matched the embers in the fireplace. "It was for a case. I was infiltrating a group of teenage anarchists suspected of vandalizing the Narrows."
"Bruce, honey," Selina purred, tracing the outline of the Mohawk in the photo with a gloved finger. "There’s no record of 'teenage anarchists' in the GCPD files from that year."
"The records were... lost in the earthquake," Bruce snapped.
"You look like you’re about to drop the worst industrial-metal album of 1992," Jason wheezed. " 'I am the Night (And My Dad Won't Let Me Stay Out Past Ten).' "
"Alfred, shut the book," Bruce commanded, though there was no real iron in his voice.
"In a moment, Master Bruce. I believe there is still the photo of the 'accidental' perm you received in London," Alfred said calmly.
"Alfred, I'm warning you—"
"Another?" Dick shouted, diving back toward the album. "Keep going, Alfie! Don't stop until we hit the 'Bruce tries a goatee' era!"
Bruce slumped back in his chair, defeated. He caught Selina’s eye. She wasn’t laughing anymore; she was looking at the photo of the angry five-year-old on the rug, then back at the man sitting beside her. She reached over and squeezed his hand.
"You know," she whispered, loud enough only for him to hear. "I think I like the Mohawk. It’s very... feral."
"Don't start," Bruce muttered, but he didn't pull his hand away.
Across the room, Kate raised her glass in a silent toast to his misery.
"Why are you still here?" Bruce asked again.
"Because," Kate grinned, "the perm photos are next. And I wouldn't miss that for all the Batarangs in the world."
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