Chapter Text
The Manor is a different world at night.
Soft yellow lamps light the hallways. The antique clocks click quietly. Most of the family is asleep—except Tim, who’s working on something in the computer room; Damian, who is pretending to meditate but is clearly awake; and Jason, who is raiding the kitchen like a raccoon with better hair.
Victor wanders, unable to sleep. His thoughts won’t settle. Every chapter of his life has been chaotic—now things are better, but the adjustment is its own kind of storm.
He ends up in the kitchen doorway just in time to see Jason balancing a jar of pickles, a box of cereal, and a leftover slice of cake on one arm.
“Dude,” Victor says, eyebrows raised, “you good?”
Jason freezes like he’s been caught stealing from Gotham Museum. “This is for science.”
Victor snorts. “What kind of science needs cake and pickles?”
“A very important study,” Jason replies, placing everything on the counter. “I’m figuring out which snack tastes better at midnight. Want in?”
Victor hesitates. Midnight scenes involving food used to mean something else entirely—slamming cabinets, shattering plates, stumbling footsteps, his father’s angry slurred words echoing down the hall. He pushes the memory away.
“Sure,” he says, taking a seat at the counter.
Jason hands him a fork and the cake. “Try this first.”
Victor takes a bite. It’s rich and sweet. Comforting.
“Now,” Jason says, opening the pickle jar with dramatic flair, “the contender.”
Victor laughs, really laughs, which surprises both of them. He takes a pickle. “This is stupid.”
“Stupid is a Wayne family tradition,” Jason says, crunching into one.
They try combinations—cake before pickles, pickles before cereal, cereal before cake—and argue about which one is scientifically superior. Victor’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
Then Jason pauses, wiping cake crumbs from his lip.
“Hey,” he says, tone softening. “How’re you settling in? Really.”
Victor looks down at his hands. “…I’m still figuring it out. Everything’s so different. Good different. But scary, too.”
Jason nods. “I get that. When I first came here, I felt like I was gonna break something just by breathing. Took me a long time to accept that Bruce wasn’t waiting to toss me out.”
Victor swallows. “Do you… think he’d toss me out?”
“No,” Jason says immediately. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with us now.”
Victor’s throat gets tight in a way he doesn’t expect. He blinks it away quickly.
Jason bumps his shoulder. “Also, sorry about earlier today. With the training. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Victor shakes his head. “It wasn’t you.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re my brother now. I look out for my brothers.”
Brother.
The word hits Victor like a warm wave—heavy, overwhelming, but not bad.
“…Thanks,” he whispers.
Jason raises the pickle jar like a toast. “To confused feelings and midnight snacks?”
Victor huffs a laugh and clinks his fork against the jar. “Yeah. To that.”
They sit there in the quiet kitchen, two shadows lit by soft ceiling lights, sharing cake and pickles, learning—slowly—that family can mean warmth instead of pain.