Disclaimer: DC owns all characters and locations in this fic. No financial remuneration of any kind is being received for this work of fanfiction.

Written because February 16th is the date allocated to a little-known holiday

I am a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy. (J.D. Salinger)

Reverse Paranoia

They were all up to something. He knew it. He'd come in from patrol at four o'clock that morning, grabbed three hours sleep, and then gone back down to the cave to run some new algorithms.

Three steps out of the elevator, he stopped. Tim and Damien were washing the Batmobile. To put it more accurately, Tim was washing. Damien was lying across the front seats, and, judging by the whine of the Dustbuster, vacuuming the car's interior.

"Morning, Bruce!" Tim called over the noise of the vacuum. He flicked a few droplets of water into the car, eliciting a muffled curse.

"That was uncalled for, Drake!" Damien exclaimed, starting up. He was rubbing the back of his neck. Tim motioned in Bruce's direction. "Oh." The young man's scowl receded. "Good morning, Father."

Bruce nodded irritably. It wasn't his birthday. Father's day was four months off, and they'd just had Christmas in December. Somehow, he doubted that this was a belated Valentine's Day gift. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"We just thought we'd pop in to lend a hand." Dick rolled away from the main console and swiveled to face Bruce. "Cluemaster always was a poor man's Nigma, but with this latest caper, he's showing signs of improvement."

Bruce grunted noncommittally. He hadn't had time to investigate that one, yet; a blood feud between four rival gangs had been occupying his attention for the past week.

"All the same," Dick continued, "I think I've cracked his latest clue. Looks like he's planning to hit the greenhouse in Robinson Park, tomorrow night."

"Um... thanks," Bruce said, forcing a smile. What was their angle? Ski trip? A spring break vacation in Disneyworld? Maybe a Caribbean cruise? "I need to check some data," he muttered. They would tell him when they were ready. He wasn't going to play their little game-whatever it was.

"Those algorithms?" Barbara's voice came over the speakers. "Check your email, Boss-man. All taken care of."

They'd roped Barbara into this, too? Dick had done far less buttering up when he'd asked Bruce to buy half of Manhattan for him to convert into safe-houses.

He started running through the possibilities. Queen and Jordan wanted him to go along on a road trip? No. First of all, they would have approached him initially. Secondly, they'd never approach him for something like that in a million years. His family had read in the tabloids that Hollywood starlet he'd been dating had dumped him for a tennis pro? No. They knew he hadn't been serious about her. What could it be? What sort of catastrophe was poised to strike, now? JLA karaoke. His mouth went dry. Noooooo! Anything but that!

A motorcycle roared into the cave. Its rider brought it to a stop, leaped off, and removed her helmet, releasing a fall of long blonde hair. "I think I got them all," she said breathlessly, thrusting a leather satchel at him.

"Stephanie?" He couldn't believe this. "What is...?"

"I couldn't think of anything else," she laughed. "But then, I realized: you really go through a lot of these. So, I figured if I trailed after you and collected some, then maybe this will save you from having to replace them as fast." The satchel was filled with batarangs.

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "You... couldn't think of anything else," he repeated. "Dick!" he barked, "Barbara. Tim. Stephanie. Damian. One of you is going to tell me, right now, what the hell is going on. Why are you all acting so... so...?" ...Nice, he concluded the sentence mentally.

The elevator doors parted and Alfred appeared, carrying a silver tray with several covered dishes and a hothouse flower in a narrow crystal vase. "Your breakfast, sir," Alfred announced crisply, as he set the tray down on a nearby stand.

Bruce nodded impatiently, but continued to glower at the four young people before him, then shared some of his ire with the web-cam, so Barbara could see it.

"Well?"

His family exchanged glances of suppressed mirth. "You tell him," Stephanie motioned to Tim.

"No, you!"

"It was Grayson's idea!" Damien interjected.

"Which you all jumped on," Dick shot back.

"ENOUGH!" Bruce bellowed. He looked at Alfred. "Do you know the reason for all of this..."

"Generosity, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked calmly. "Indeed, sir." He looked past Bruce at the others. "Well-played," he smiled. "Well-played indeed."

"What?" Bruce snapped.

"At ease, Master Bruce," Alfred continued. "Your family is merely observing a minor February holiday. In fact," his smile broadened, "I believe that I am able to make my own contribution to the festivities by enlightening you, sir."

"Holiday?" Bruce repeated, confused. "What holiday?"

Alfred's smile took on a note of sheer evil.

"Happy Do A Grouch A Favor Day, Master Bruce!"