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Eid at Wayne Manor
The Batfamily was large, loud, and ever-growing — but among the chaos of vigilantes and adoption papers, there existed one unspoken rule:
Every child chose an honorary mother.
For Damian, that was easy. His mother was very much alive — a world-class assassin, yes, and arguably on the “wrong” side of justice, but who was anyone to define right and wrong when their father spent his nights breaking bones in an alley?
Jason’s answer was once Diana Prince — or would’ve been, if he’d ever met her before his death. But resurrection had a way of rewriting family trees, and now his chosen mother was his rebirth mother: Talia al Ghul.
Dick, on the other hand, would never admit it out loud… but even he sometimes saw Talia as a kind of authority figure in his youth. That was only because she let him do things Bruce never would — like sneaking into Tony Zucco’s cell for a little “bonding session.”
To this day, Dick didn’t know how Bruce never realized his “extra training” involved tormenting his parents’ killer while Talia stood by, amused. She also taught him the proper use of knives — and the vital art of knowing where not to stab if you didn’t want to kill.
In truth, she could’ve been his honorary mother — if not for one little problem. His eleven-year-old brain couldn’t stand the thought of Bruce marrying her and abandoning him. So, while Selina Kyle would forever hold that title in his mind, Talia had an honorary honorary status — but only when it suited him.
Tim, predictably, claimed he didn’t have an honorary mother. He wasn’t particularly fond of any of Bruce’s partners, though he could admit there was a certain strategic benefit to having parental figures on opposite sides of the law. It made manipulating sympathy a lot easier… right up until they teamed up against him.
------
The day began like any other: gloomy, fog draped over Gotham like a thick black blanket.
A perfect day.
Surprisingly, every Wayne was home at the same time — even Jason, though only because Alfred had promised to make English scones for breakfast. That kind of bribe could tame even the Red Hood.
Everyone was gathered around the long dining table, mid-argument about something trivial (as always), when the doorbell rang.
A strange sound. Visitors usually didn’t ring.
Bruce frowned over the top of his newspaper, the picture of mild irritation. “Who’s expecting someone?”
“Not mine,” echoed down the table in perfect unison — except from Jason, who was grinning like a cat with a secret. Either someone was about to get yelled at, or he was in on it. Possibly both.
Alfred, ever the professional, went to answer. He opened the door… and paused.
“Good morning, Pennyworth,” said a smooth, familiar voice — one that hadn’t graced Wayne Manor in quite some time. Talia al Ghul stood on the doorstep, travel bag in hand and a rare, disarmingly genuine smile on her lips.
If Alfred hadn’t spent decades as MI6 and survived raising Gotham’s most unhinged family, he might’ve thought she was an impostor.
“Good morning to you as well, Madame al Ghul,” he replied evenly. “Master Bruce and the young masters are in the dining hall.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping inside with the calm grace of someone who could kill everyone in the building and still look polite about it.
----
The dining room was a storm of bickering when Talia reached it — the boys arguing over whose idiot friend might have shown up uninvited. None of them noticed the door open, nor the assassin leaning lazily against the frame.
“Beloved,” she drawled, voice cutting through the noise like a blade, “is this chaos a regular occurrence, or is it special for me?”
Silence.
Every child froze.
Jason and Damian immediately perked up like happy puppies. Tim went blank-faced, already plotting his exit. Dick’s smile dropped into a glare that screamed why is she here.
“Mother!” Damian was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room to hug her — which would’ve shocked anyone who didn’t know how soft he was for his mom. “Why did you not tell me you were coming? I would have met you at the door.”
Jason followed, sweeping Talia into a hug of his own, grin sharp and easy. Bruce, meanwhile, looked like he’d just swallowed glass. “Hey, Ma. Long time no resurrection.”
“Talia,” he said flatly, lowering the paper, “you didn’t inform me you were coming.”
“I have come,” she said calmly, cupping both Jason and Damian’s cheeks like the proudest mother in the world, “to take the children on a little trip.”
The silence that followed Talia’s announcement was thick enough to cut with a Batarang.
Bruce set his paper down fully now, the Gotham Gazette forgotten. “Talia,” he began, voice measured but edged, “you can’t just—”
“—take the children?” she finished for him smoothly, tilting her head with a smile that was more threat than warmth. “I assure you, beloved, I am perfectly capable of transporting my own family without your permission.”
“My— our—” Bruce exhaled through his nose, catching himself before he said something that would earn him a blade to the ribs. “You can’t just show up unannounced and whisk them off to—”
“The island,” she supplied. “My father’s island. There is a celebration for Eid. It will be joyous — there will be food, dancing, fireworks, and people who do not brood in caves.” Her eyes flicked over Bruce pointedly. “It is good for them to see family that does not lurk in the shadows.”
“Hey,” Jason said brightly, “I lurk with style.”
“You may come too, of course,” Talia said, utterly ignoring him. “Though I do not recall brooding being one of the pillars of Islam.”
Damian stood at attention beside her, practically glowing with pride. “It is only proper to celebrate Eid with family, Father. Mother has a point.”
“Your mother,” Bruce muttered, “usually has a sword when she makes a point.”
“Would you prefer I had brought one?” she asked sweetly, smiling like a knife.
Bruce went very still. Jason snorted into his coffee.
Dick leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “So, just to be clear — you’re kidnapping the baby and the zombie, and leaving the rest of us to… what, hang around Gotham while you throw a League party?”
Talia’s eyes narrowed, amused. “Of course not. Damian and Jason’s brothers are my children too.”
Her voice softened just enough to sound genuine — but the quick, sharp glance she gave Bruce was pure provocation.
“I do not discriminate between my children, unlike some.”
That landed like a Batarang to the chest.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair, Talia.”
“Life rarely is,” she replied airily, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Now — since all of you have more money than sense, I thought it pointless to give traditional Eid money. Instead—” She reached into the elegant leather bag Alfred had noticed earlier. “—I have brought gifts.”
Damian’s eyes gleamed. Jason leaned forward eagerly. Dick tried to look unimpressed, but even he was curious. Tim sipped his coffee and muttered, “Please tell me it’s not a League initiation dagger…”
Talia ignored him and started placing boxes and bundles on the table one by one, each wrapped with meticulous care — black and gold ribbons, elegant Arabic calligraphy along the edges.
“For Damian,” she began, handing him a narrow box. “A new blade. Forged in Damascus, perfectly balanced. And before your father panics, it is ceremonial — though I imagine you will train with it regardless.”
Damian opened it with reverence, tracing the inlaid gold and Arabic script along the blade’s spine. “It’s beautiful, Mother. Shukran.”
“For Jason,” she continued, holding out a slightly heavier parcel. “Custom Kevlar-lined leather jacket. Reinforced, fireproof, and tailored with hidden compartments for your weapons. Your last one was… inefficient.”
Jason grinned. “You mean shot full of holes. You do know me.”
“For Richard.”
Dick raised a brow as she passed him a slim black case. Inside was a pair of eskrima sticks, sleek and matte, their handles engraved with intricate silver detail.
“Made from carbon fiber and titanium,” Talia explained. “And infused with a small electrical charge. I recall you were fond of such tools. You once broke into a high-security vault with one.”
Dick blinked. “That was supposed to be classified.”
“I have my sources,” she said, smiling with far too much satisfaction. “Consider it a gift… from one acrobat to another.”
Finally, she turned to Tim, who had gone perfectly still — half-expecting poison gas.
“For Timothy,” she said, her tone measured, “something more… cerebral.”
She handed him a plain folder, embossed with the League’s insignia.
He eyed it warily before opening it — and froze.
“These are… intel files,” he muttered, skimming the pages. “Encrypted communications between a few mid-level mercenary networks and— are these Cobra cells?”
“Indeed,” she said, faintly smug. “I thought you might enjoy something to keep your mind occupied. Consider it a puzzle — or an opportunity to shut down a terrorist network without ever leaving your computer.”
Tim stared at her for a long beat. “…Okay, I’m not saying I like you, but I’m definitely keeping this.”
“Progress,” Jason said dryly. “That’s practically affection coming from Timmy.”
Alfred, who had been quietly observing the exchange with the resigned air of a man too old for this nonsense, spoke up at last. “Shall I presume, madam, that travel arrangements have already been made?”
“Of course,” Talia replied smoothly. “The jet is waiting. We will depart in two hours.”
“Wait— we’re actually doing this?” Dick asked, half laughing. “Bruce, you’re not seriously letting us go to a League of Assassins island for a religious holiday, right?”
Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s Eid, Dick. Not a death match.”
Talia’s smile was sharp enough to draw blood. “Not unless someone misbehaves.”
“Sweet,” Jason said, standing. “I’ll pack my gun.”
“Jason—”
“Relax, B. I’m kidding.”
(He wasn’t.)
Damian was already halfway up the stairs to get his bag. “I will prepare my travel kit, Mother!”
“Of course, habibi,” Talia called after him, genuine affection in her voice.
Bruce looked around the table, at the half-empty plates and abandoned tea cups, at Jason’s grin, Tim’s reluctant curiosity, and Dick’s incredulous expression.
He had fought gods, monsters, and the Joker himself — but nothing terrified him quite like family holidays.
Talia had, of course, extended invitations to Richard’s girlfriend Zatanna and the others’ “best friends” — which is to say, those either too oblivious to realize their feelings or not yet ready to admit them. Unfortunately, Roy Harper and his daughter could not attend; Talia had been looking forward to introducing her grandchild to her side of the family. Kon-El and Jon-El were also absent: Kon barred after a recent drone incident, and Jon forbidden by his father. Talia would have loved to go over and instill some sense into that boffin, but this close to Eid, such displays would be… unbecoming.
----
Two hours later, Wayne Manor was in chaos.
Dick stood in front of the mirror tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his white thobe. “I feel like I’m about to either attend a wedding or be executed.”
Jason smirked from where he lounged on the couch, his own outfit looking too good for someone who regularly blew up drug warehouses. “That’s because you don’t have the confidence to pull it off, Goldie. You gotta own it.”
Tim adjusted his keffiyeh for the fifth time. “I’m just saying, if we’re celebrating a holiday that involves fasting, feasting, and forgiveness, why are we bringing the guy who holds grudges professionally?” He nodded toward Bruce, who was adjusting his sleeves in stoic silence.
Bruce gave him the patented Batglare™. “We’re guests. Be respectful.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, sure. Because nothing says ‘respectful guest’ like Batman walking into a League compound.”
Damian swept into the room, dressed immaculately in a black and gold dishdasha trimmed with subtle embroidery. “You all look presentable. Barely.”
“Thanks, kid,” Dick said dryly. “You look like a tiny prince.”
“I am a prince,” Damian replied without a trace of irony. “The blood of al Ghul runs through my veins.”
Jason grinned and ruffled his hair. “You tell him, little demon.”
----
The island was radiant in a way the Batfamily had never seen before. Lanterns shimmered along the stone walkways, gold and green fabrics fluttering in the sea breeze, and the air was heavy with the scent of cardamom, lamb, and rosewater.
Even Bruce, who had been through more battles than most nations, looked unsettled. His keffiyeh was immaculate, his dark thobe perfectly tailored — but his expression screamed out of place.
“Remember,” he muttered under his breath as they followed Talia through the courtyard, “no one eats until I’ve seen someone else from the League touch it first.”
“Because clearly, the world’s deadliest assassins are going to waste time poisoning a bowl of hummus,” Dick said dryly.
“It’s never just hummus,” Bruce countered grimly.
Jason smirked behind his keffiyeh. “Honestly, I kinda agree with the old man. I like breathing.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Mother wouldn’t harm us. It is Eid. Even Grandfather knows better than to insult Allah on such a day.”
“Rules?” Tim muttered. “From the same people who invented theatrical murder poetry?”
“Timothy.” Alfred’s voice cut across them gently but firmly. “Manners.”
Talia turned, her expression serene and cuttingly amused. “Let him speak, Alfred. It’s refreshing when someone other than Bruce critiques the family I built.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I seem to remember being part of that process.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Yes, the easiest part.”
Dick choked. Jason snorted. Damian looked confused.
Talia’s smile only widened. “Relax, habibi. You are not the first man to flee when confronted by permanence.”
Bruce’s reply was low. “And you’re not the first to confuse control with love.”
“Control?” she echoed, feigning innocence. “Bruce, my dear, if I truly wished control, you’d still be here — praying beside me, wearing something that actually fits.”
“Glad I left,” he muttered.
“Not as glad as I was when you did.”
Tim coughed into his sleeve. “I think I just lost a piece of my spleen again.”
Talia arched a brow at him. “Still as delicate as ever, Timothy. Perhaps you’d do better if you actually ate something.”
“I’d rather starve than risk another Lazarus pit detox, thanks.”
Behind them, Dick stepped closer to Jason and whispered, “We are not letting them get back together.”
Jason snorted. “Hell no. She deserves better than Bruce ‘I brooded through childbirth’ Wayne.”
“Excuse me?” Bruce’s head snapped around.
“Nothing, B,” Jason said, grin widening. “Just admiring the décor.”
Damian scowled. “You’re all being absurd. Father and Mother are meant to be together. It is destiny.”
Dick looked at him, half amused, half sympathetic. “Kid, if destiny had a say, Bruce would’ve married justice years ago.”
----
Inside the grand courtyard, rows of tables were laid with every imaginable dish — platters of kabsa, mansaf, roasted lamb, hummus, bowls of dried fruits and dates, trays of ma’amoul cookies, and endless silver pots of sweet qahwa and mint tea.
Lanterns flickered in gold and red, reflecting off polished marble and the blades of League members who, even when smiling, looked like they could kill you with a spoon.
“Okay,” Tim whispered, scanning the crowd. “So... do we eat first or do we, I don’t know, avoid being stabbed first?”
“Both,” Jason said, piling food on his plate. “Multitasking.”
Talia led them toward the head table. “You are safe here,” she said smoothly. “The League does not shed blood on Eid. At least not intentionally.”
Bruce gave her a long look. “Reassuring.”
Damian had already launched into formal Arabic greetings with several high-ranking assassins — men and women who bowed to him as ibn al-Ghul.
“Eid Mubarak,” they told him warmly.
“Kul ‘am wa antum bi-khayr,” he replied, his tone formal, his posture perfect. He looked every inch his mother’s heir — regal, precise, self-assured.
Jason, surprisingly, blended in just as naturally. League veterans clasped his shoulders in respect, murmuring things like “al-walad al-mab’ūth” — the resurrected son.
He answered them in near-fluent Arabic, trading dry jokes and subtle nods that Bruce couldn’t interpret. There was an ease there — one that unsettled and reassured him in equal measure.
Ra’s al Ghul appeared then, parting the crowd like smoke. Time itself seemed to bow to his presence — sharp eyes gleaming, a smile that was half pride, half madness.
“Ah, my grandsons,” he said warmly, laying a hand on Damian’s shoulder, then Jason’s. “Two blades — one tempered by fire, one by discipline. My legacy made flesh.”
Jason stiffened. “You know, most people say hello.”
Ra’s chuckled. “A greeting too small for my blood.” He turned to Bruce. “Detective. You look well — for a man still pretending to be mortal.”
Bruce’s reply was measured steel. “And you look the same. I suppose the Lazarus Pits have their uses.”
“Faith has its own alchemy,” Ra’s said smoothly. “You should try it. Today, at least.”
Tim opened his mouth — some comment about pseudo-science and resurrection, no doubt — but Alfred’s hand landed on his shoulder like a warning.
“Careful, Master Timothy,” Alfred whispered. “One does not debate religion or madness with a man who owns both.”
---
As the adhan call to prayer echoed faintly from the nearby minaret, many in attendance excused themselves to pray. Bruce and the boys stood respectfully to the side. Damian had explained earlier — “We pray first, then we feast. It is about gratitude — for survival, for faith, for family.”
Jason had added with a grin, “And food. Don’t forget the food.”
When the meal began, even the League seemed… human.
Laughter — real laughter — rippled through the courtyard.
Talia poured tea for Alfred, who had joined them with unflappable grace, and for once, Bruce didn’t correct her when she called him “my family’s heart.”
“See, B?” Jason said between mouthfuls of shawarma. “No bloodshed. Just good food and mild trauma.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Give it time.”
Dick poked at a plate of stuffed grape leaves. “So, what exactly are we celebrating? I know Eid marks the end of Ramadan, but… what’s the deeper meaning?”
Talia smiled, setting down her cup. “It is about mercy, Richard. Forgiveness. Gratitude. We fast to remember humility — then we celebrate because God is merciful. It is not about punishment, but renewal.”
She glanced at Bruce when she said that — and everyone noticed.
“Renewal, huh?” Jason muttered. “Guess that’s one thing this family could use.”
Tim raised his glass of tea. “To renewal then.”
Damian raised his as well. “And to ummah — family, unity, faith.”
Talia’s expression softened. “BarakAllahu feekum, my sons.”
Even Bruce, though quiet, inclined his head slightly. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by assassins, firelight, and laughter, he allowed himself to think — maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t chaos.
It was family — in the most complicated, dangerous, beautifully human way possible.
Of course, that peace lasted exactly twelve minutes.
Because just as dessert was being served, a League initiate sprinted across the courtyard and knelt before Talia, breathless.
“Sayyidati— intruders on the northern shore.”
Bruce groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Talia sighed and stood, already drawing her concealed dagger. “It seems, beloved, that even on holy days, some people insist on sin.”
Jason was on his feet instantly, Damian already pulling on his hood. Dick and Tim exchanged looks — the resigned, tired kind they’d perfected under Batman’s care.
Bruce stood too, cloak sweeping behind him. “Family trip,” he muttered. “Of course.”
Talia smirked. “Eid Mubarak, indeed.”