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Marisol had worked the check-in desk at the Ritz-Carlton, St. Thomas, for more than a year now. She’d worked her way up from working as a waitress outside at the casual Coconut Grove restaurant by the hotel’s pool to answering phones at reception, before finally being promoted to greeting visitors as they arrived.
Depending on the day, it could be a fun job (watching pale tourists shedding the stress of travel in the face of her sunny smile and Pablo’s tray of spiked drinks) or could feel only one step above having a stingray barb removed from her foot (when other pale tourists couldn’t shake their stress and decided to take it out on the first person who caught their eye.)
It was amazing how many people managed to be assholes while checking into one of the Caribbean’s most exclusive resorts.
Still, nothing in her year of service prepared her for the arrival of the Wayne family.
As always, she checked the day’s arrivals when she got to the desk for her shift. The Wayne family. Nine people. One disability, one person under the legal drinking age of eighteen. The reservation had come with more requests than usual—ocean-view rooms only, a specific arrangement of the rooms in a row all together, almost all with double beds rather than a single king.
It took a wealthy family indeed to book so many rooms together, all to be charged on one card. Marisol expected an elderly couple with old money, along with a gaggle of doctor and lawyer children.
Instead, she got one older man, one unexpectedly handsome middle-aged man, and a slew of equally handsome children all under thirty. They spilled into lobby from a trio of big black SUVs, all looking unfazed by whatever travel they’d taken to get to the island. They were loud, energetic…and had she mentioned attractive?
While the eldest man—a grandfather?—ushered the children toward the row of drinks Pablo had set up, the second-eldest—the father? Of all of them?—came to talk to Marisol.
Marisol recovered her wits and smiled at the man. “Mr. Wayne?” she verified, as though there were any question.
He nodded and took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of striking blue eyes. Marisol was closer in age to the eldest son, but that didn’t mean she was blind. Mr. Bruce Wayne was a very handsome man. “That’s me,” he confirmed, voice unexpectedly deep.
“Your rooms are all prepared, and the bellhops can take everything over,” she said. “Would you like to follow them now to get settled in? If not, you can explore the grounds, and come back and let me know whenever you’d like that tour.”
There was an argument brewing over the drinks. As requested on the reservation, three had been made without alcohol. Marisol kept one ear on the bickering to make sure they didn’t need her assistance, but the woman in the wheelchair seemed to have everything under control. Ignoring Pablo’s helpful presence, she directed the dispersal of the drinks. The largest man, who wore red Ray-Bans and had a bright streak of white in his dark hair, plucked a glass from the youngest boy and passed it along the line.
“We’ll explore,” Wayne told her, ignoring the arguing. Definitely the father. “They were cooped up on the jet too long. They’ll need to stretch their legs to get some of the energy out.” He gave her a quick, conspiratorial grin, and Marisol’s heart fluttered.
“Understandable,” she said, hoping that her tan was hiding her blush. “You’re all checked in then, Mr. Wayne. My name is Marisol. Don’t hesitate to ask any questions!”
He nodded and then strode back over to his family. He spared a short word to the youngest boy, who was still apparently throwing a minor fit about being denied the rum-spiked version of the juice, and then said something to the group at large. As though part of a stage routine, the dense group split apart, heading in different directions in groups of two or three. Some made a bee-line for the shore below, while some meandered over to the series of cafes and bars lined up along the second floor, while others went to the main pool.
Once they were gone, Pablo trotted over with the leftover glasses. “You didn’t tell me the Waynes were coming,” he hissed.
“You know them?”
“They’re in the American gossip magazines sometimes,” Pablo said. He had an addiction for entertainment from the mainland. “Bruce Wayne is CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world. He’s adopted more kids than Angelina Jolie.”
“Clearly,” Marisol said. The two younger girls, one blonde and one of distinct Asian descent, had worn bathing suits under their travel clothes, and had already stripped down to jump into the pool. The rest were scattered over the grounds, distinct in their youthful exuberance among the mostly older clientele out this early.
“He gives good tips,” he added, flashing the bill Mr. Wayne had handed him after the drink service. “The entire resort is going to love him by the end of the week.” He glanced back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of two of the younger boys bickering over the menu at the poolside café. “Unless his kids are complete brats. The youngest one seems like a bit of a snob.”
Marisol shrugged. “Maybe that’s why he’s so generous with the tips,” she pointed out.
Pablo shrugged and pocketed the bill. “Better to be an asshole who pays well than an asshole who’s stingy,” he said.
“Language,” she commented idly, though no other guests or supervisors were around. “You should start on the next batch of drinks. The McKenzies should be here soon.”
He gave her a casual salute, leaving her to look out over the resort in silence. She made a mental note to Google the Waynes once she was on her break, and then went back to work.
#
“You missed a spot,” Babs commented, and leaned over to brush her sunscreen-white hand over the bare patch on Alfred’s arm.
“Thank you, Miss Barbara,” Alfred said, before leaning back on his beach chair.
The chairs here weren’t the cheap ones Babs and her dad used to carry with them and unfold during their lake trips. These were lounge chairs, made of wood and covered with a plush cushion. She took the chair beside him, sharing his large umbrella. Both of them were pale enough that the sunscreen wasn’t enough—shade was essential. Her wheelchair was tucked to the side, out of her line of sight. Today, all she wanted to see were the waves lapping against the shore.
She leaned back, and then frowned at the blue flag resting on the chair’s arm. “What’s this for?”
Alfred gave her a small smile and lifted his flag so that it stuck out from the chair. “This is why Master Bruce selected the Ritz instead of renting a private house on another island,” he said.
A man in the hotel’s uniform (a polo shirt and khaki shorts, in deference to the island’s heat even in early spring) appeared by their chairs with a notebook in hand. “What can I get for you?” he asked.
“A screwdriver, please,” Alfred said.
Babs felt her eyes light up. “Can I get a piña colada?” she asked. Glancing at someone else eating a few chairs over, she added, “And a cheeseburger? Extra pickles.”
“Of course,” the waiter said. He tucked Alfred’s flag back into place and went to fill their orders.
Alfred winked at Babs. “Master Bruce was determined that I have a week where I don’t have to lift a finger. No cooking, no cleaning, no exceptions. He did the research to find an all-inclusive resort where I could find a stove even if I wanted to. I didn’t argue very hard. I think we all deserve this break.”
“Cheers to that,” Babs said, putting her hands behind her head.
#
Jason floated on top of the water, feeling the ocean gently buffet him.
In his youth, he’d taken the train to its final stop, which exited a half-hour’s walk from the only beach near Gotham. It was more of a theme park than a beach, and was so littered with cigarette butts that the ground had been more ash than sand. Even on the most sweltering summer days, the water had stayed so cold that Jason’s skinny body had been covered with goosebumps the second he’d stepped in.
Here, everyone spoke in quiet, relaxed voices, sipping cocktails or napping in the spring heat. The water was warm but refreshing, so clear that he could look down at the occasional fish darting below him. He was only a few yards from shore, but staring up at the sky, he could pretend he was in the middle of nowhere.
Suddenly, someone swam past him, kicking a flipper against the surface and splashing Jason’s face. Reacting on instinct, Jason spun and slammed his arm into the water, creating an ever bigger wave than swamped the figure swimming past.
Damian spluttered, standing up the shallow water. He pulled a snorkeling tube out of his mouth, coughing, and glared at Jason through wide goggles. “You got water in my tube, Todd,” Damian snarled.
Jason stared for another moment, and then burst into such hysterical laughter that he nearly sunk beneath the water. When he recovered, he demanded, “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Damian gave him the condescending sneer he’d perfected at a young age. “Surely even you did not grow up so uncultured or destitute that you’ve never seen snorkeling gear before.”
Jason ignored the insults. “You look like an idiot. The goggles are covering your nose. Do the designers think you’d be stupid enough to try to breathe through it while you’re underwater? Do you even need goggles? Didn’t you get trained to see through salt water? Or did you wear them while training with the League?”
Bristling with agitation, Damian said, “These are traditional, Todd. Of course I can open my eyes in salt water, but I want to be able to see the reef clearly. I’m not going to be so stubborn that I miss out on viewing the ocean life properly.”
“Seeing that face might give the little fishies little fishy heart attacks,” Jason pointed out.
Before Damian could respond—or punch him—Cass emerged from the water. Like Damian, she was wearing snorkel gear, and she didn’t bother taking out the tube even when she was standing on the sand next to them. She nudged Damian’s shoulder and pointed further into the bay.
“I was going, but Todd tried to drown me!” Damian said.
Cass rolled her eyes and nudged him again. She rarely had time to their bickering.
“Looking cute, Cass,” Jason told her.
“What?!” Damian exclaimed. “You’re kidding me. She’s wearing the exact same thing I am!”
“Yeah, but she makes it look good,” Jason said with a shrug.
Cass beamed at him around the snorkel tube still clamped between her teeth.
#
“Are you sure neither you had windsurfed before?” the hotel’s instructor asked when Dick and Stephanie returned the boards to the water sports shack at the edge of the beach.
Face flushed from the wind and sea spray, Dick grinned at him. “I’m sure!” he said. “I wish we had; that was so much fun.”
“We’d probably get some weird disease if we tried to do anything in the Gotham harbor,” Stephanie pointed out. She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit with a high neck, in her usual bright purple. In their backyard, Stephanie exclusively wore bikinis, but she’d confided in Dick that she had been worried about being photographed in her two-piece. She had scars that even a childhood in Gotham couldn’t explain away. Dick, with similar concerns, was wearing a long-sleeved sun shirt along with his trunks.
“I just…” The instructor looked back out over the water, where Stephanie and Dick had been cruising around the bay for the last two hours. “It normally takes people longer to get the hang of it.”
“Guess we’re just naturals!” Stephanie said. “Do you have anything else we can try?”
“Already?” he asked. One look at their grinning faces answered the question. “Have either of you tried paddle-boarding? It’s a little more challenging than the canoes, and you can head further out into the bay.”
“Cool!” Dick said.
The instructor rubbed the back of his head. “We usually require a lesson before anyone takes something out, but I’m pretty sure the two of you will be able to handle these just fine. Belly, knees, then stand up. Stay centered. It’s basically windsurfing with oars instead of the sail. But not as difficult.”
“Sounds easy,” Stephanie remarked to Dick, sounding a little disappointed.
Dick looked back at the windsurfing boards, tucked beside the snorkel gear and kayaks. “I think we’ve already tried the hardest thing,” he pointed out.
“You know,” the instructor said, leaning a little closer, “if you rent one of the Jeeps, you can drive out to the other side of the island and try the cliff-diving. If you’re looking for an adrenaline rush. I can tell you the best places to jump off—and where to avoid the rocks.”
Dick and Stephanie exchanged a look and then grinned. “Draw us a map,” Stephanie said.
#
“Right. Switch Martian Manhunter and the Flash for that watch, then,” Bruce said. He was perched on the edge of one of the beach chairs, his Watchtower communicator held against his ear. The communicator was masked to look like the newest phones from Silicon Valley, though the tech inside was all Wayne. He was subvocalizing, in case anyone was eavesdropping, but it would translate clear to the team on the other end.
The League was having their weekly meeting at the Tower. Hawkgirl and Green Lantern were off-world, but had called in to update them on the situation. Everything was currently under control, but Bruce wanted to keep an eye on the situation. Though it hadn’t happened yet, Bruce was waiting for Hawkgirl and Green Lantern’s liaison to interfere with their work, and wanted as much monitoring of their solo missions as possible to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks.
“Wonder Woman, have you—”
Bruce reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He was caught off-guard, surrounded by his family and other beachgoers, and wasn’t able to stop the hand that snuck from behind to grab his communicator. Bruce lunged forward, but Jason had already turned and thrown it toward the ocean.
When he was younger, Jason had loved to watch baseball. With the arm he had now, he could have been a Major League pitcher.
The communicator sailed through the air and landed in the surf with a quiet plop.
Jason turned back to him and folded his arms. “Stop working, old man. You’re on vacation, and your kids need supervision, or whatever.”
Bruce gave him a quelling stare, and pulled the back-up communicator from his pocket. He dialed back into the conference number.
“Apologies for the disconnection,” Bruce said, expertly dodging Jason’s attempts to take this one from his as well. “Something has come up. I’ll be offline for the next few days. Wonder Woman and Superman can handle things.”
“Of course we can,” Diana said, part reassurance, part defiance.
“If anything world-ending happens, they both know where to find me,” Bruce added.
“Go have fun with your family, Batman,” Clark said cheerfully. “We’ve got things up here.”
Bruce ended the call and gave Jason a flat look.
Jason just smirked, unrepentant. “Good. Now stop being so boring and enjoy the fucking beach.” There was no real causticness to his voice, not like there had once been.
“It’s getting late,” Bruce said. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” Jason said.
Bruce hesitated, but when Jason didn’t take the lead, he added, “They have good burgers at Coconut Grove.”
Jason shrugged. “All right,” he said.
It was the first meal they’d had in years without the other kids around or an emergency interrupting them.
#
“Have you even played tennis before?” Tim asked Bruce. They were scheduled to play doubles with another father-and-son from Georgia, who were stretching a few yards away while they waited for their court to clear.
Bruce nodded. “It’s like golf; necessary for business.” Then, he shrugged. “It’s been a decade or so.”
“I used to take lessons,” Tim said. “My dad had the same reasoning. Businessmen play tennis. He didn’t play, though. Bad shoulder.” Tim, to everyone’s surprise, had left his laptop behind on the mainland, and spent the week bouncing from activity to activity with the resort’s grounds. The resort had amenities of every kind—its own spa (where Tim had gotten a facial and pedicure), gear of every kind of water sport, small sailing vessels that could be rented out, several pools, and, now, a tennis court.
He had been surprised when Bruce had asked after his plans for the day and offered to join him in a match. He couldn’t tell if Bruce was actually interested in trying tennis again, or if he was just rotating through the children. Tim wondered if Bruce would have joined him at the spa if that had been on today’s agenda.
Tim had been disappointed when he’s realized that he couldn’t get a massage like the other relaxed patrons without giving a staff member a too-close look at his scars. Maybe he could ask Bruce to hire a personal masseuse for the team, one that was discreet enough not to ask any questions, but could help him loosen the knots of tension that lived below his shoulder blades.
The previous players cleared out, and Bruce and Tim joined their opponents on the court. It was still early in the day, before noon, but the sun was warm overhead. One of the hotel staff presented them with an array of bright green balls.
A coin toss decided that the son on the other team would serving first. He eyed Tim and Bruce closely, and then volleyed a shot so hard at the ground by Tim’s feet that Tim instinctively stepped away from it. The ball bounced too low for Tim to have hit anyway, and then rolled outside the white line.
“One-love,” the boy’s father called, not bothering to hide his smug smile.
The next shot started an actual back-and-forth. Bruce managed to hit the ball right between their opponents, and it bounced just inside the line. “One-one,” Bruce said. No one on the court besides Tim would have heard the satisfaction in his voice.
While the other boy served, the game was close. When it was finally Tim’s turn to serve, the game changed. He’d been watching them play, getting an understanding of how they moved, how they interacted with the ball and with each other. For the entire set Tim served, the other team only managed to get one point.
The final score was 6-4 6-1, with the Waynes walking out victorious.
Their younger opponent came over afterward to shake hands and tell them it had been a good game. His father, a tall man with dark, receding hair, was suddenly too focused on his racket to come by. “You and your dad make a hell of a team. Are you on the national circuit?” the boy asked Tim. His accent was thick and Southern.
“No,” Tim said. “I only play casually.”
“Horseshit,” the boy said, clearly torn between being impressed and annoyed. “You play like a pro.”
“Just athletic, I guess,” Tim said.
Bruce put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “It was a good game,” he said. “You have quite the serving arm.”
The boy shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. “Let me know if you want a rematch while you’re here! Now that I know what I’m getting into.”
He and Tim exchanged numbers, and then he jogged over to talk to his dad. Bruce, his hand still on Tim’s shoulder, said quietly, “He’s right. You were fantastic.”
Tim fought a blush. “Like I said, it’s been a while since I played.”
“You’ve got the strength, but it’s the strategy that got us through. You tagged the father’s weak backswing before I did. Good job.”
It was a testament to how rarely Bruce expressed any verbal approval that Tim felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest from pride. He tried to hold onto that cynical thought, the question of why Bruce was so bad at reassuring him when it mattered, but the sweat on his brow and triumph in his chest overrode it. “Thanks,” he said. “We still make a good team.”
#
By the time the Waynes checked out on their last morning, they were all tanned and relaxed. Stephanie’s face and Bab’s thigh (which had slipped from her umbrella’s shade while she had been sleeping) were the only victims of sunburn.
“It’ll turn into freckles,” Stephanie was complaining to Tim, who laughed. “Shut up. You know I hate my freckles.”
“You shut up,” Tim retorted. “You know they’re cute.”
“They’re childish,” she shot back. “I’m trying to start next semester seeming more mature.”
Walking behind them, Jason snorted loudly. “Yeah, right,” he said.
Cass was pushing Bab’s wheelchair. Someone had convinced Cass to get some thematic braiding. The resort was far too high-end to have the usual braiding stations that could be found in other Caribbean destinations, so it must have been one of the other Waynes who had added the two small braids to frame her face.
Damian was chatting animatedly to Dick, still enthused about the sea turtle he’d spotted during his last early-morning snorkel.
Bruce and Alfred brought up the rear, watching the children swarm into the black SUVs waiting for them. “I think that was a success,” Bruce commented.
“Master Dick and Miss Stephanie lured away half the hotel staff to go cliff diving in some remote bay. Master Tim is talking about having Wayne Enterprises expand into the therapeutic oils industry. And I believe Master Damian made friends with a shark,” Alfred said. He gave Bruce a quick smile. “No injuries, no swarms of ninjas. A success indeed.”
“Same time next year?”
Alfred looked over the family, the smile still hovering on his lips. ”Better to make it six months, sir.”