Chapter Text
“Absolutely not,” Bruce says.
And that should be the end of the topic, given that Bruce has both a decent amount of common sense in addition to the executive ability to veto dumb ideas, an ability he has used liberally in the past. That is to say, he should definitely not be the lone voice of reason in the room right now. He eyes Diana meaningfully, yet she just shrugs and mouths, looks like fun.
It does not look like fun. It looks like a formal event.
“How about you all dress up in suits and ties for your little awards night,” Bruce suggests graciously, “Whereas I will be in Gotham, punching people. And stopping crime. Might bust a drug ring or two.”
Across the room, Oliver raises an eyebrow at him, and Hal mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, ‘get a life, man.’
“No, no, no,” Clark says, waving his hands. Straightening up, he motions back to the PowerPoint presentation displayed on the largest screen in the Watchtower meeting room. “Hear me out, seriously. You won’t regret this.”
On the screen, in large black comic sans, reads ‘JUSTICE LEAGE AWARD NIGHT,’ in capitals, complete with typo. Underneath it, in smaller comic sans reads, ‘Fun for the whole league! Teambuilding galore!’
He is already regretting this.
“No.” Bruce says, standing up, a suitably dramatic exit in the making.
Alas, he only gets halfway to the door before he is jerked to a stop, escape thwarted by Diana’s sudden, iron wrought grip on his cape. It takes a single flick of the finger to activate the quick-release mechanism leaving Bruce free, cape hanging limply in Diana’s hands behind him. He nearly makes it to the door, before a green-tinted wall construct blocks the door.
“Hal,” Bruce says lowly, dangerously. “Let me leave.”
The Lantern in question is entirely unaffected by Bruce’s glare, lounging back on his designated chair. “No can do, Spooky. Sit your ass back down, and prepare to get your mind blown.”
Bruce does not want his mind to be ‘blown.’ Preferably, the only thing that will be ‘blown’ tonight will be one of Black Mask’s warehouses. Just one, as a treat. The man has it coming, and Steph is out for blood right now. Blowing up something might help her feel a little better.
“And Bruce, like I said, hear me out. You owe me one, at least.”
Clark is right about that, at least. It’s that, or he tells Ollie about the events of the Christmas Party of ‘8, which is not a fate Bruce would wish upon anyone. Reluctantly, he sits back down in his designated chair, taking back the proffered cape from Diana and re-fastening it in place around his cowl.
“I fail to see what is so interesting about having another awards night,” Bruce says, getting shushed by at least three people, “I go to enough of those as a civilian.”
Clark’s smile is unusually sharp. “I know. So Hal, Barry and I worked together to… spice it up a little.” A shiver runs down Bruce’s spine. This is not going to bode well for anyone involved, he just knows. “Next Saturday night, six days from now, we plan to hold an awards night. And as Bruce pointed out, we go to more than enough of those as civilians, so why would we put ourselves through another one voluntarily?”
The PowerPoint changes. It now reads reads ‘Next Saturday, 6pm + afterparty’, accompanied by basic clip art of trophies and sparkles. It gets skipped past, and the next one reads: ‘AWARDS’.
“So, we present to you a small sample of some of the awards up for grabs.”
A click and the slide changes, once again garish black comic sans on a white background. It burns daggers into Bruce’s sleep-deprived retinas, and he fights the urge to raise a shielding hand from the glare.
Bruce is expecting ‘ Most people saved’, ‘ Most popular hero’, ‘Best costume design’, etcetera, etcetera, other standard-type awards, official sounding ones with corresponding gilded trophies, the kind handed over after large disasters requiring large amounts of aid. Boring. If they were going to make this happen, there would have to be a large afterparty to convince people to go in the first place, complete with enough expensive drink options to drown a small army of alcoholics. His wallet aches at the thought.
He reclines in his chair, fully expecting to be disappointed.
Which is why he is not expecting the words, ‘ Best Thirst-trapper’, to show up on the screen.
Bruce chokes on his spit.
Beside him Diana laughs, long and loud, while Barry and Hal do pitched catcalls, as if on cue. Arthur seems to be fighting down a smile, and there’s a faint blush, high on Clark’s cheeks. Good. The man should have some damn shame, given what he's pitching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bruce breathes incredulously, and he knows Clark hears it from the quiet snort the man smothers with a hand.
The screen changes again, barely giving him time to wrap his brain around the fact they’re going to have to vote on which one of his coworkers is the ‘ Best Thirst-Trapper’, something he does not want to think about in conjunction with his friends, at all. Ever.
The next PowerPoint slide reads: ‘Worst hidden secret identity’, which prompts another round of enthusiastic jeering, along with enthusiastic finger pointing and mocking. Diana, who does not have a secret identity to shelter behind, looks slightly annoyed at that fact for the first time since Bruce has known her.
Following ‘ Saddest backstory’, ‘Worlds okayest dad’, ‘ Pettiest archnemesis’ and ‘ Most likely to become a wanted fugitive’, Bruce thinks it cannot possibly get any worse.
It gets worse.
The screen now reads, ‘Most likely to die first’.
These words are treated with a typical round of enthusiastic cheering and whooping, and not with the gravitas they deserve. Because even if the rest of them seem to have forgotten, Bruce knows exactly how this is going to turn out.
“Clark,” he says slowly, in a tone of voice that could be described as horrified if not for the severe emotional constipation, “You know us. What we’re like. We’re all dramatic enough to be here in the first place, shamelessly wearing costumes that look like they belong in a circus. Clark, people are going to die to get this award.”
“Party pooper,” Barry cups his hands around his mouth, calling from across the room.
“I am not a party pooper,” Bruce reminds him with a Batglare, “I am, as it appears, the only reasonable person on this satellite. What award are you expecting to get, hmm? Most spacecraft crashed?”
Barry points at him, “You promised to let that go!”
He did, at one time. It was immediately voided once the Flash climbed out of another wreckage he’d piloted into the surface of the nearest asteroid.
Bruce raises an eyebrow under the cowl, knowing that everyone in the room will pick up on it, having known each other for so long. “Yes,” he says, slowly, like talking to someone particularly stupid, “I did, until you crashed another one of my spacecraft.”
Somehow, mysteriously, the ability to move at the speed of light didn’t make you any better at being in a cockpit, not when it just meant he could press every single button in sight faster than the human eye can see. The only surprise is that, despite all high-speed button pressing, the Flash has still failed to locate the one for ‘autopilot’.
“Barry, pal,” Hal places a hand on his shoulder, “The only hole deeper than the impact site of your last crash is the hole you’re currently digging for yourself. You’re not helping.”
“Bruce, thank you for your contribution,” Clark interrupts calmly, “All in favour of adding a ‘most spacecraft crashed’ category?”
It’s a unanimous ‘yes.’ Except for Bruce, who is grappling with the fact that people are going to die. Even more. There will be so much property damage.
Given that every single person in this damn room has either died and been revived, faked their death or had their heart stopped for concerning lengths of time, it’s basically become part of the job description as Earth’s primary defence force, but really? Making it a competition? It’s going to make everything so much worse.
And Clark, having died thanks to Doomsday and revived a bit after, clearly knows this very well. “And dying a little isn’t an issue because-” ignoring Bruce’s very realistic concerns, Clark hits the clicker and the PowerPoint text changes once again, “-That’ll be entirely on theme for the next one.”
The screen reads ‘Most dead’.
Bruce facepalms.
“See, Bruce?” Clark’s grinning widely now, “Teambuilding at it’s finest, making fun of each other. Next award, the highly contested ‘Most Batman.’”
The highly contested most What.
They’ve got to be kidding.
“You can’t do that,” Bruce interrupts, “I’m the most Batman. Because I am Batman.”
Clark merely fits him with a look. “Are you really?” Bruce doesn’t like that tone of voice. With a flourish, Clark grins a showman’s grin. “Let the JL decide.”
They’re not kidding.
Dear lord, this is going to be chaos.
Hell, there are more than a couple of millionaires on the crew who will be eager to fund a campaign or two, and heroing provides fodder for a lot of embarrassing blackmail. Fights gone wrong, wardrobe malfunctions, toilet-tier plans and monologuing bad guys in stupid costumes, Bruce has seen it all. He’s recorded it all too. No one is safe, not even him.
Knowing the League, people are going to campaign for these awards, no holds barred. Bruce knows more than a couple of people who will gun for the ‘Most Batman’ award, and given how these days the League has settled into what feels like a massive friendship club with a dual purpose of occasionally saving the world in the last few years, there is going to be Drama.
By the end of the presentation, Clark’s grin is contagious, the others are avidly debating who they’ll be voting for in each category and Bruce’s gut feel has gone from ‘maybe we can survive this’ to ‘there is Definitely going to be multiple casualties.’
No one is going to escape unscathed.
“Bruce?” Multiple pairs of apprehensive eyes watch him for approval. “What do you think?”
Bruce thinks that they’re idiots, first of all.
He has a lot of other unsavoury thoughts, but he shall leave those unsaid for the sake of his own sanity.
This isn’t the first teambuilding event the League has held, and he certainly had a lot more to say back then. But saying no just resulted in the Christmas Party of ‘8, which gave Bruce both a metric fuckton of blackmail, and everyone who attended that night has since taken a vow of silence on pain of great humiliation.
Then there was the (failed) Leaguelympics, the fabled Mario Kart night, and the never-to-be-spoken-of-ever-again time they all ditched the spandex and costumes and spent a Saturday night getting wasted in a paddock in the middle of nowhere.
The moral of the story is that they never learn, and hanging out together in a situation that doesn’t involve saving the world or gratuitous amounts of violence always ends up in chaos.
In the end, he can’t say no. If he denies a formal event, then they’ll just do an informal one, which will be arguably worse for everyone involved. As long as it doesn’t interrupt his life too much, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue.
“Fine.”
The room erupts in cheers, and Bruce pretends like the corner of his lips aren’t rising. They might be idiots, but they’re his idiots.
It’ll be fine. Could be fun, even.
‘It shouldn’t be too much of an issue.’ Bruce is a fucking liar. Mostly to himself, first and foremost.
‘It’ll be fine.’ No it will not be fine, Bruce works with a circus of the most chaotic and dramatic people on Earth, most of whom never learnt the meaning of the word ‘Moderation’. Why did he even expect a sensible and measured response from any of them?
With every poster he passes in the Watchtower halls, every new ping on his communicator, Bruce dies a little more inside, the betrayal in his gut offset by the fact that he really should have expected this.