Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor holds its breath at night. It’s an old house, steeped in shadows and silence, but it has never been empty. Not truly. Not since the first boy stepped through its towering front doors and filled the place with questions, laughter, footsteps that ran instead of walked.

I Alfred Pennyworth am the butler to the Wayne family. I help where help is needed and care for all the different fonts of Waynes. I know the manor and all the residents. Sometimes more than they know themselves.  I know where the floorboards creak. I know when a Robin has snuck out and when a Bat has returned. I know the sound of Bruce's footsteps when he is tired or when he is angry, and I know the silence that comes when grief tightens around his throat.

But I also know joy. It is quiet here, a subtle guest, but it lives.

Richard – The First Light

When Master Bruce took in Richard Grayson, it was as if someone opened a window in a long-closed room. Light streamed in—messy, uninvited, glorious. I remember the exact moment. He had just arrived. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes too large for his face. But he smiled. Despite everything, he smiled. Still with a hint of grief, but he smiled none the less.

"This place is huge," he said, his voice a little awed, a little wary.

Bruce stood beside him, arms crossed. He didn’t respond right away. I remember his eyes calculating, soft in ways he didn’t want to show.

"It’s yours," he finally said. "If you want it."

Richard looked up at him, blinked. Then he turned to me. "Do I get a room with a window?"

"Two," I replied. "And a view."

That first week, the manor came alive. I’d walk into the parlor and find Dick swinging from the bannister like it was the Flying Graysons all over again. Bruce would watch from a distance, arms folded, pretending to be annoyed. But he never once stopped him.

Dick talked. Constantly.

And Bruce listened. He allways did even when he didn’t show it.

Richard was a chatterbox from the start. Never stopped moving. The Manor was too large for him, and he made it smaller, warmer. He would follow Master Bruce from room to room, jabbering about school, the Titans, his friends. And Bruce would grunt, nod, but never once told him to stop. Not once.

He never admitted it, but I knew. I could see the way he eased just a little when Richard entered the room, relaxing in his presence. The way he would linger in the library if he knew Dick would come in to do his homework there.

One night, I passed the study and overheard them. Dick was talking about Wally West—his best friend, soon to be more. "I think Wally likes me," Dick said "But he’s being weird about it. Like he makes these jokes, you know? But then he gets all flushed. It’s cute. Kinda annoying. Mostly cute."

Bruce listened, silent as ever, but when Dick paused for breath, he only said, “He makes you laugh. That’s good.”

It was all the permission Dick needed.

Dick blinked. Then grinned. "You do listen."

"Sometimes," Bruce muttered, but his lips twitched. That small, elusive thing, almost a smile.

Over the years, I watched their bond twist and grow. Dick became Nightwing, but he never stopped coming home. He brought Wally with him more often, and I began to keep extra muffins in the pantry for the speedster who always ended up eating everything in the fridge.

I saw Bruces protective looks whenever Wally would reach to touch Dick. He did not like how in love they where with each other. Because he knew that Wally had all the power to break his sons heart. And that if they ever broke up it would leave Dick completely broken and Bruce would not know what to do. And i know that, this singular fact scared him to his core. He would never admit it. But it did.

Wally once knocked over a vase. Dick caught it midair. "You’re paying for that, dude."

"With what money? Speedster benefits suck."

"Use Barry’s credit card."

Bruce stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Don’t encourage him."

Dick smiled. "You let me crash the Batmobile at sixteen."

“Once, and i did not let you crash it. It happened and I payed for it.”

"Twice," I corrected. Bruce didn’t argue.

Jason – The Burnt Edges

Jason Todd was different. Fire where Dick was wind. Raw, angry, brilliant. He had a chip on his shoulder and a softness in his heart he tried to kill every day.

Bruce found him stealing the wheels off the Batmobile.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he said, cocky grin already forming. “Cool car, though. You got more like that?”

Bruce raised a brow. “You hungry?”

Jason blinked. He didn’t say yes, but he followed Bruce home.

He was impossible, and perfect. He swore like a sailor, picked fights, questioned everything. But he laughed, too. Loudly. He made Bruce laugh, once. The two of them would argue constantly. Bruce would say, “You can’t always punch your way through things.”

Jason would throw up his hands. “It’s Gotham! Punching’s efficient!”

But he was loyal. Fiercely. He adored Bruce, even when he hated him. And Bruce well he didn’t say it aloud, but he would have burned the world for that boy. He wanted him to be so much more. He had all the potential in the world to be an amazing Robin.

And then came the Joker.

There’s no elegant way to recount it. One day, he was ours. The next, he was ashes.

Bruce changed.

He kept his back straighter. Sharper. He slept even less. The silence in the house became suffocating.And on Jason’s birthday, Bruce sets an extra plate. Every year. Never says a word. But I see him linger over that plate longer than the rest. He missed him every single day.

I overheard a conversation between Dick and Bruce after Jasons death. Dick had been seeing Jason in hallucinations and was begin this new medication to stop the visions. Dick looked a mess and Bruce the same.

None of them was able to talk about it and I know that it destroyed something in them. One not protecting his son and the other his little brother. They had always been able to save everyone but not one of the person they cared about the most. It broke part of their mindset.

Years later, I found Jason on the roof. Now as Red Hood. He was sitting with Tim Drake. They were passing a joint between them, staring at the skyline. I didn’t announce myself. I didn’t need to.

“I know you’re there, Alfie,” Jason said without turning. “Don’t worry. It’s just weed.”

Tim coughed. “Helps me sleep.” He was already high as a kite.

Jason smirked. “Helps him shut up. I’m a humanitarian.”

The two of them had hated each other for a period of time, but had ended up on good terms. Jason still could not bare to be in the same room as Bruce. They had never had a conversation about what happened. I know Jason deeply wanted to forgive Bruce, but he still had so much resentment for him. He could not forgive him for not killing the joker.

Bruce could not forgive him for killing the people he had killed. So they have not yet to speak to each other. But once in a while Jason comes over to smoke with Tim. I let it slide. They needed that moment. Not judgment. Just space.

Tim – The Quiet Deduction

Tim came to us not through tragedy, but by choice. That’s what set him apart from the beginning. He saw the cracks before we did. Watched the Batman unravel and knew—knew—that Bruce needed someone before Bruce did himself.

He arrived not with demands, but with certainty. That sharp, focused mind of his already years ahead of his age. He didn’t want to be Robin to be someone. He wanted to be Robin because he believed someone had to be.

Bruce didn’t know what to do with him. Tim wasn’t like Dick, or Jason. He didn’t fight to be seen. He quietly waited to be understood. But he was patient in the way all great minds are. Methodical. Brilliant. He left post-it notes on the Batcomputer the first week, full of corrections. Bruce never commented, but he stopped making those same mistakes.

Tim was the first to bring back the detective in Bruce, rather than the soldier.

He kept to himself at first. Found corners of the Manor to disappear into. He once fell asleep in the library, three books open across his chest. I covered him with a blanket and found a cup of cold coffee on the table beside him, half-drunk and forgotten. It was then I understood: Tim didn’t know how to rest.

But he wanted to belong. He wouldn’t say it, but I saw it in how he hovered near the others, watching their chaos like someone staring into a warm house from the cold.

Eventually, he found his place. He and Dick bonded over late-night strategy games and bad coffee. Tim and Jason—well, that’s a storm that came and went and settled into something like understanding.

And with Bruce? They became something unique. Not father and son. Not mentor and student. But partners. Equals in the only way Bruce truly understands, trust without words.

Damian – The Sharpest Edge

Damian arrived like a knife to the heart. Not because he was cruel—though he often was—but because he cut. Through walls. Through lies. Through comfort.

He was ten and had killed more people than I dared to ask about. Ten and carried the League of Assassins in his shoulders, Ra’s al Ghul in his bones, and Talia’s fire in his blood.

But he was Bruce’s son. Truly. Not just in name or training, but in the quiet tragedy of his gaze. In the way he stood too still. In the fact that he never asked for love, but waited to see if he would be chosen.

He and Tim fought like war was instinct. Sharp words, sharper fists. But beneath the animosity was recognition. Two boys trying to save Bruce in their own way. Damian thought he had to prove he was worthy of the name. Tim thought he had to protect it.

I remember the first time I saw Damian pet a stray cat. It hissed, scratched his hand, and ran off. He didn’t flinch. Just looked at the blood and said, “Tch. It was hungry. I frightened it.”

Later that night, he left a plate of turkey by the door. The cat returned.

Bruce struggled with him at first. But not because he didn’t care. Because he cared too much. Because this was a son born of war and expectation, and Bruce didn’t know how to be a father to someone who didn’t know how to need one.

But Damian softened. Slowly. Stubbornly. He’s still more blade than shield, but I see it—in how he looks after the animals, in how he practices with Cassandra without mocking her silence, in how he leaves sticky notes for me in the kitchen that say things like: Milk expired. Replaced it. You're welcome.

He never calls me Alfred. Just "Pennyworth." But when he was sick once, fevered and half-delirious, he called me Grandfather.

I never told him. But I remember.

Cassandra – The Silent Storm

Cass didn’t arrive. She appeared. One morning, there she was, sitting silently in the manor’s hall, eyes shadowed, posture tense—like a ghost deciding whether or not it could stay.

She didn’t speak. For days. But she didn’t have to. Everything she wanted to say was written in her movement. The most graceful pain I’ve ever witnessed. She moved like water through cracks, like a whisper turned into thunder when needed.

Bruce didn’t know how to reach her. He tried. But she wasn’t looking for words. She was looking for proof. That we were safe. That we wouldn't hurt her.

I remember the first time she held my hand. Just placed her fingers over mine as I bandaged a cut on her arm. It was small, light. But it was the loudest thing she’d said up to that point.

She and Damian have an unspoken bond. They train in silence. Communicate in looks. Understand each other the way only those raised by monsters can.

Cass never asks for much. She doesn’t need gadgets, attention, or praise. But once, she came into the kitchen while I was making tea and said, "Can I help?"

That was her way of saying she loved us.

And we heard her. Loud and clear

Stephanie – The sunlight after a storm

Stephanie Brown was never supposed to last. At least, that’s what people said. She was loud, reckless, and far too eager. She laughed at danger and flipped the bird at protocol. And she stayed.

She showed up in a homemade suit and a heart full of stubbornness. And even when Bruce told her no, she said, “Okay.” Then did it anyway.

She broke rules. She made mistakes. But she cared. God, did she care. About Gotham. About justice. About being enough.

I saw her cry once, in the garage. Alone. After a failed patrol. She thought no one noticed. But Tim did. He sat beside her and didn’t say a word. Just passed her a chocolate bar and nudged her knee with his. She smiled. Bittersweet. But real.

Bruce was harder on her than he should have been. But she never let it break her. She kept smiling. Kept trying. And that, more than anything, made her worthy.

She’s the sunlight after a storm. The laugh that cuts through silence. She once tried to paint the cave walls with glow-in-the-dark stars. Said it was "too damn gloomy down here."

Bruce said nothing. But the stars remain. 

Duke – The Quiet Dawn

Duke Thomas didn’t come looking for the Bat. The Bat came to him. After the Joker. After the darkness. After loss.

He was tired when he arrived. Too tired for someone so young. But not broken. Never broken. He had that rare kind of strength—the kind that bends without snapping. The kind that lifts others up.

He didn’t want to be Robin. He didn’t want to be someone else’s shadow. And Bruce, to his credit, understood that. Gave him space to be his own light.

Duke is thoughtful. Observant. He watches more than he speaks, but when he does speak, people listen. Even Damian. Especially Bruce.

He walks through the Manor like he’s always belonged. Like he’s not borrowing space, but making it. He helps me with dinner sometimes. Reads in the sunroom. Talks to the others not with reverence, but with honesty. And they love him for it.

He’s the bridge between the chaos and the calm. The one who still believes in hope, even after everything.

And in a house filled with shadows and silence, sometimes it’s Duke’s voice I hear first in the morning—greeting me with, “Hey, Alfred. You sleep okay?”

I never answer truthfully. But I always smile.

Wayne Manor holds its breath at night. But not in fear. In waiting. For footsteps. For laughter. For whispered conversations in the dark and arguments that turn into apologies. For found family. For healing. For something like peace.

I am Alfred Pennyworth. I keep the lights on.

And I remember.
All of it.
Every child. Every version of home they tried to become.
And how, despite everything, they made this place theirs.

And I, quietly, made it mine as well.

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday, cold and still outside, with the Gotham skyline painted in shades of steel blue. Within Wayne Manor, however, warmth stirred.

I was in the kitchen, preparing tea, when I heard the gentle rustle of paper and the tapping of a pen. I followed the sounds to the breakfast nook—where young Master Damian sat alone, his head bent over a Latin textbook. He wore his reading glasses, which always made him appear older than he was, though he still swung his feet slightly beneath the table.

He didn’t need help, that much was obvious. The boy was a prodigy. But he had placed himself conspicuously in a public corner of the house—something no League-trained assassin would do unless he wished to be found.

And, of course, they came.

The first was Richard.

“Look at you, Professor Wayne,” Dick said, leaning against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “What are we solving today? The riddles of Rome?”

Damian scowled, but it was theatrical. “I’m reviewing vocabulary. I am perfectly capable.”

Dick dropped into the chair beside him anyway. “Yeah, but I miss doing homework. Let me help. I want to feel useful before Steph eats all the good snacks.”

“I never eat all the good snacks,” Stephanie said, appearing at the door with a granola bar in hand. “Okay, that’s a lie. But you love me anyway.”

“Incorrect assumption,” Damian muttered, but he shifted to make room as Steph flopped into the chair on his other side.

I watched from the far counter as Cassandra padded in next, barefoot and silent, and perched herself on the kitchen island. She didn’t speak—she rarely did—but she leaned forward and gently turned Damian’s notebook toward herself.

Cass pointed at a line, then raised an eyebrow.

Damian gave a half-nod. “Yes. That declension is irregular. I memorized the exceptions.”

Steph leaned in, pretending to squint at the page. “I don’t know what half these words mean, but I feel smarter just sitting next to you.”

“I cannot lower the academic standard for your benefit.”

“Wow. That hurt.”

“I said ‘cannot,’ not ‘will not.’”

Tim entered next, yawning and holding a steaming mug. “Is there a Latin party and I wasn’t invited?”

“Apparently,” Dick said. “Dami’s holding court. Bring a scroll.”

Tim smirked. “What’s the topic?”

“Declension,” Damian replied.

“Love it.” Tim pulled a chair up and sipped his coffee. “You know, when I was in school, I got extra credit for writing a poem in Latin. It was awful. Rhymed ‘mortem’ with ‘boredom.’”

“That’s… not even close to valid Latin verse structure,” Damian said, appalled.

“I know. The teacher still gave me an A.”

By now, all five of them were gathered around the small table. Cass was quietly correcting one of Damian’s notecards. Steph had absconded with his highlighter. Dick was doodling a smiley face in the corner of the workbook. Tim was critiquing everyone’s penmanship.

Damian, for his part, had long since stopped pretending to protest. There was a light in his eyes, subtle but clear.

He leaned back slightly, allowing the soft chaos to unfold around him.

I made no move to interrupt. Instead, I returned to the stove and brewed a second pot of tea. I knew, from decades of experience, that this moment—these rare bursts of uncomplicated togetherness—were fleeting.

“Okay,” Steph said. “Pop quiz. What’s the Latin for ‘annoying older sibling’?”

“Grayson,” Damian replied flatly.

Dick clutched his chest. “Wounded. Betrayed.”

“Accurate,” Cass added.

Tim nodded solemnly. “Consensus achieved.”

Dick rolled his eyes but smiled warmly. “I only come here to be roasted.”

“You come here because you love us,” Steph teased.

He didn’t deny it. None of them did.

The room grew quieter as they leaned in together, working through a particularly tricky section of grammar. The occasional giggle, the shuffle of papers, the creak of old chairs—it all blended into a symphony of family.

Damian rested his elbow on the table, chin on his hand, and watched them bicker and solve problems and steal his pencils.

He didn’t need them here.

But he wanted them.

And perhaps more importantly—they knew it.

As I stood in the doorway, observing from the fringe of light cast by the kitchen’s pendant lamps, I felt something shift.

This was not a battlefield.

This was not strategy or obligation.

This was love.

Quiet. Relentless. Unearned and unconditional.

“Alfred,” Tim called. “Got any cookies left?”

I smiled.

“Always, Master Drake.”

And so I brought them cookies, and tea, and napkins for the crumbs they never remembered to clean. And I watched them be children, be siblings, be safe—if only for a moment.

And in that moment, Wayne Manor felt like home.

Eventually, Bruce appeared, his shadow long against the far wall, having returned from patrol. He stood at the threshold a moment, watching. I saw his shoulders ease, barely perceptible, but I noticed it.

“Homework?” he asked, his voice rough from the cold outside.

“Technically,” Damian answered.

Bruce’s eyes swept the room, his children, all gathered like stars around their smallest sun.

“Good.”

He said nothing more, but he crossed the room and rested a hand gently on Damian’s shoulder. Damian didn’t flinch.

“Latin?”

“Review and minor reinforcement. My command remains superior,” Damian stated proudly.

Dick laughed. “He means he’s getting straight A’s and making us all look bad.”

“We’ve always looked bad,” Tim replied, sipping his coffee. “Dami just makes it look effortless.”

Before Bruce could retreat into the shadows again, a pair of boots hit the wooden floor with a thud from the hall.

“Did someone say Latin? You nerds are still at it?” Jason Todd strode in, removing his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. “I figured all this smart talk would end before I got here. Guess not.”

“You are welcome to leave, Todd,” Damian quipped without missing a beat.

“Love you too, demon brat.” Jason walked up behind Damian and ruffled his hair with a gloved hand. Damian swatted him away.

“Respect the scholar at work,” Dick joked.

“Scholar, my ass. I caught him watching ‘Looney Tunes’ in Latin last week,” Jason grinned.

Damian cleared his throat with excessive dignity. “It was an educational experiment.”

Bruce gave a short shake of the head, but the corner of his mouth twitched—nearly a smile.

“And I brought snacks,” Jason announced. “Alfred, please don’t be mad—I raided the cookie stash.”

I folded my arms but raised an eyebrow. “I trust you at least replenished it afterward.”

Jason handed me a sealed pack of shortbread with a grin. “With interest.”

Before anyone could sit again, another voice piped up from behind the group.

“You guys didn’t even wait for me?” Duke Thomas stepped into the room, shoulders still dusted with flakes of snow. “I had a whole flashcard set ready.”

“We assumed you were out fighting crime,” Tim replied.

“Or flirting with that barista at Ruck’s Café,” Steph teased.

Duke rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. “Whatever. I’m here now. What’re we studying?”

“Declensions,” several voices replied at once.

“Still?” Duke grabbed a kitchen stool and dragged it closer. “We’re gonna need a whiteboard soon.”

“I have several,” Damian said casually. “Color-coded and categorized by grammatical complexity.”

“You’re terrifying,” Duke said cheerfully, elbowing him.

“True,” Damian responded with an incline of his chin.

The room swelled again—not just in number but in warmth. Jason took a seat beside Cass, throwing a peanut at Dick for no reason in particular. Dick retaliated by flicking a pencil at his forehead. Cass caught it midair and smirked.

Duke pulled out his own notes, joining Steph and Tim in quizzing Damian on obscure terms, though more than once, the quiz derailed into increasingly ridiculous fake translations.

“So what’s the Latin for ‘giant demon clowns’?” Tim asked.

“Jason,” Damian said.

Jason laughed. “Alright, that’s two burns tonight. I’m keeping score.”

“What’s the Latin for ‘beloved sibling’?” Duke asked.

Damian paused. His gaze flicked up, slowly scanning the circle of faces. “I believe the phrase would be... frater carus.”

“You’re just making that up,” Steph accused playfully.

“Look it up.”

“I would,” she muttered, “if you didn’t hide the dictionary again.”

“I did not hide it,” Damian replied. “I relocated it.”

“To where?”

“To encourage resourcefulness.”

Tim groaned. “He’s going full League logic again.”

“Next he’ll booby trap the fridge,” Duke said.

“He already did,” Jason muttered. “I almost lost a hand reaching for the orange juice.”

“A test of reflexes,” Damian responded with no remorse.

Amid the laughter, Bruce lingered at the edge of the group. I saw it in his posture—hesitation born from years of solitude. He watched them as if from behind a pane of glass.

Then Dick looked up and motioned him over. “C’mon, B. Sit with us.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You live here,” Tim said. “You literally own the chairs.”

Bruce looked to me. I gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

He took a slow step forward. Then another.

When he sat—quietly, almost awkwardly—beside his children, something inside me stirred. The unthinkable, made real. The war-hardened soldier, the grieving father, the lonely man—sitting not apart from his family but among them.

Cass reached over and handed him one of Damian’s highlighters.

Jason passed him a cookie.

Duke leaned in and whispered, “We’re testing him on verb endings next.”

Bruce took the highlighter.

He took the cookie.

And he stayed.

The night drew on, longer and softer than any of them noticed. Homework was finished. Flashcards were reshuffled. Someone (likely Steph) drew a cat with a cape on the last page of Damian’s notebook.

And still, no one moved to leave.

They belonged there. Together.

And I, quiet in the corner, did what I have always done.

I bore witness.

To the miracle of healing not wrought in battle, but in laughter.

To the family stitched together not by blood, but by choice.

To a home, not haunted, but held.

Wayne Manor was never meant to be a fortress.

But tonight, it was a sanctuary.

And tomorrow, it would be again.

Chapter Text

There are many things I’ve had to become accustomed to in my time as butler, guardian, medic, counselor, and occasional weapons technician to the Wayne family. A boy in a cape and cowl was but the beginning. A second boy, brimming with anger and defiance. A third with a detective’s mind and quiet desperation for belonging. And so many others since.

But of all the peculiarities I have endured, rescuing Master Bruce from Himalayan exile, baking soufflés while stitching up gunshot wounds, locating obscure cuts of steak for a visiting Atlantean king, nothing prepared me for the smell of cannabis drifting downward from the roof of Wayne Manor.

It began subtly. I was in the west corridor, tending to a matter of some urgency, a carpet stain, caused by Master Damian’s attempt to conceal a training katana inside a vase, when the scent made itself known. It wasn’t just smoke. It was warm, earthy, sweet. The sort of scent that doesn’t just appear in a manor of this age without deliberate effort.

I knew immediately.

The manor is a place of secrets, and its roof has always been one of them.

Accessible only through a narrow attic hatch and a stubborn metal ladder, it was never meant for leisurely visitation. And yet, many of the boys have used it—some to brood, some to read, some simply to be alone.

And now, it seemed, to partake in recreational narcotics.

I did not interrupt that first night. Nor the second. Observation, after all, is more informative than confrontation.

By the third evening, I decided to investigate.

I climbed the narrow ladder in silence, years of field work and child-rearing granting me the stealth of a seasoned wraith. The night was cool, the stars scattered in rare clarity across the Gotham sky. And there, sitting on the roof’s edge like gargoyles in hoodies and combat boots, were Master Jason Todd and Master Timothy Drake.

Jason had his boots off, socked feet resting on warm stone, and a small joint pinched between two fingers. Tim was in an oversized sweatshirt, legs stretched out, the smoke curling lazily from his mouth as he laughed—laughed, a sound not nearly common enough from either of them.

Between them sat a thermos, two mugs, and a Ziplock bag of questionable gummy bears.

“Okay,” Tim was saying, “but hear me out: Bruce actually is immortal. The man has never sneezed. I’ve known him since I was thirteen and I’ve never once heard him clear his throat.”

Jason smirked. “You think that’s immortality or just extreme repression?”

“Both. That man doesn’t burp. That’s not natural.”

Jason handed him the joint. “You ever think about how weird it is that this is our life? Like, this is our normal? Rooftop tea parties with weed and a side of childhood trauma?”

Tim took the joint and leaned back on his elbows. “We could’ve been accountants.”

“I would’ve robbed your firm blind,” Jason said.

“You’d be a financial vigilante. ‘The Red Ledger.’”

Jason groaned. “That’s actually a sick name. Damn it.”

They laughed. I remained unseen.

After a few minutes, their laughter ebbed. The air quieted.

Jason’s voice dropped. “I used to hate you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “I know.”

“I thought you were trying to replace me. Like Bruce hit CTRL+C on Robin and pasted in a quieter, more obedient version.”

Tim exhaled, slow. “I was trying to hold the line. Not replace you. Just… stop everything from collapsing.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I know that now. I just... wasn’t ready to see it then.”

A beat of silence.

Tim offered the joint again, gently. Jason accepted.

“You know what’s weird?” Tim asked. “I think I used to hate you too. Not because you were angry. Because you didn’t pretend not to be.”

Jason blinked. “You’re mad I had a personality?”

“I’m mad you were real. You didn’t perform. You didn’t care about Bruce’s approval. I was killing myself trying to earn it. You burned the whole house down and just... walked away.”

Jason let the words settle.

“You ever regret coming back?” Tim asked quietly.

Jason flicked ash into a mug. “All the time. But I also think… maybe I was supposed to. Not for me. For the rest of you.”

Tim side-eyed him. “That's dramatic as hell.”

“Trauma’s theatrical, baby bird.”

They both snorted. Jason took another drag and looked out across the skyline.

“You ever wonder if Bruce knows we’re up here doing this?”

“Oh,” Tim said. “He definitely knows. He’s just pretending he doesn’t. For Alfred’s sake.”

At that, I cleared my throat.

Jason flinched like I’d fired a grappling hook into his soul. “Oh shit.”

Tim turned slowly. “...Alfred?”

I climbed fully onto the roof and approached with a familiar silver tray. “Gentlemen.”

“Uh,” Jason blinked. “We’re not—”

“I brought tea,” I said calmly, “and a blanket. You’ll catch a chill.”

Jason squinted. “You’re… not mad?”

“Master Jason,” I said as I poured chamomile into both mugs, “I have cleaned blood off the dining room ceiling, escorted sorcerers out the foyer, and once prevented a diplomatic incident involving the Martian Manhunter and a can of seltzer. Two young men smoking a mild herb on their own time does not even crack the top hundred of my concerns.”

Tim looked stunned. “I don’t know if I’m more scared or grateful.”

“Gratitude would be sufficient,” I replied, and draped the blanket over their legs. “Now do be careful on the ledge. I’ve no desire to see you tumble to your deaths during a philosophical debate.”

Jason grinned. “We’ll be careful.”

“I am, however,” I added, “confiscating the gummy bears. You’ve each had precisely enough.”

Tim groaned. “But the blue ones are—”

“Poison,” I said firmly, pocketing the bag. “Delicious, euphoric poison.”

They laughed again.

I did not linger long—this was their space, after all. I took my tea and sat just out of sight, listening. Occasionally, I heard murmured voices—jokes, confessions, shared memories, absences filled. Their laughter rose and fell with the wind.

By the time I descended, the stars were fading into the early blue of morning.

Some healing happens in therapy.

Some happens on rooftops, beneath shared blankets, over smoke and tea, when the people you thought you'd never trust become the ones you find yourself leaning against without even realizing it.

And sometimes, all it takes is a quiet place, a clear sky, and someone to pass you the lighter.