Chapter Text
Because Barry’s life is a joke, the next time he has the opportunity to “check for the size thing”, as Nightwing so eloquently put it, it’s before a League meeting.
Y’know, a thing where he has to work.
Batman has, for as long as Barry can remember, hovered outside of view in a way that felt natural and proper, with his reputation, and started the meeting with a whistle that was loud as a train whistle and low as a ditch.
There was gravity in everything he said, and sometimes he seemed like the biggest guy in the room. But Barry had seen him next to Supes and Wondy, knew for a fact he was 6'10 and she was 7 foot even, towering in her heels over even J'onn's 7'1.
Some met-alien heights, man. Fuck am I 5'8" for?
But as soon as Batman had begun to speak, he seemed to loom over them all.
Actually. Actually.
Actually, it makes no sense.
Barry watches, from then on. For two weeks, from grabbing a bottle of syrup halfway across the room from him while staying in his seat to hip checking the fridge shut while flipping tortillas over the stove, Batman consistently does things that are spatially impossible, especially as it relates to his kids.
Cuffing Nightwing on the back of the head for laughing at his brothers while spitting up a fight between two of the them over the merits of teacup pigs, rolling on the ground, rubbing leave-in through Spoiler’s hair while carrying the Robins in his cape, and none of them react, or at least not to that, specifically.
Like it’s normal or something.
The first time he can’t keep quiet about it is during a League movie night. When he and Hal got it instated, they cited shit like “raised morale” and “team-building”, but really, they just wanted to have sanctioned chill hours.
Hey, it’s a stressful job.
He’s nearest to the one they call Red, Bart’s friend, and he thinks it’s Red Robin, which raises an uncertain number of questions, but it is at least more than the Bats think it is.
All the Bats are standing, like the odd sentries of justice they are, and they're about 15 minutes deep, when Barry hears something that almost sounds like snoring, and he remembers.
Oh, the Robins.
The scary little kids that clearly weren't twins, and moved in no particular tandem, but were never one far from the other, always in each other's orbit.
He looked over, just to confirm, but something caught his eye first.
All of the Bats' white cowl and domino lenses had a strong contrast against the rest of their respective choices in mask color, so they had a sort of glow in the dark effect. But that was probably just the chemist in Barry, looking for a scientific explanation. Knowing the Bats, it was more likely that their eyes simply glowed.
Whatever the case, looking over your shoulder to see around fifteen fucking pairs of — subjectively or objectively — glowing white eyes staring past you, all in the same direction, is a terrifying experience.
And beyond that, beyond them… Barry had been thinking the wall looked darker than usual. He'd also been wondering, absently, where Batman was. He hadn't, however, been thinking that the two might be related.
All of the baby Bats, Barry had thought, were just leaning against the wall for a better vantage point, paranoid like their pops, uncomfortable with their backs to any part of the room. But no, it can never be that easy.
The first time Barry experiences an undeniable case of "the size thing", he's watching Batman carry both the Robins – the girl snoring and the boy silent – in one arm.
Then he's making startled eye contact with Nightwing, who's just grinning and leaning back against his father, comfortable, calm, and still 10 feet away from his little siblings.
"Jesus," he mutters, and turns back around. "Bats."