Work Text:
It starts small.
Dick falls asleep on the Batmobile after patrol —mask still half on, escrima sticks balanced loosely in his hands, head tipped against the window like gravity finally won.
Bruce notices first.
He slows the car.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Drops from reckless Bat-speed to a crawl through Gotham’s empty streets like he’s transporting fragile cargo instead of a fully grown vigilante who once fought a god and won.
Jason stares. “Are you… driving like that because Dick’s asleep?”
Bruce doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”
Tim tilts his head. “You’re aware he sleeps upside down from trapezes.”
“Not tonight.”
No one argues.
The next time it happens, Dick falls asleep in the Cave.
Not dramatically — no slumping, no warning. He’s standing beside the console, mid-sentence about patrol routes, and then his words trail off into silence. His shoulders dip. His head tilts.
Gone.
Tim blinks. “Did he just—”
“Don’t,” Jason whispers.
They freeze.
Bruce slowly lifts his gaze from the Batcomputer, scans Dick’s posture, the soft slackness of his mouth, the way his hands have gone loose at his sides. Exhaustion, not injury. Sleep, not collapse.
Good.
Bruce moves first. He steps forward, unfastens Dick’s utility belt, and gently sets it on the desk like it might explode if handled wrong. Then he shrugs off his own cape and drapes it over Dick’s shoulders.
Dick leans into the weight without waking.
Jason stares. “You tucked him in.”
Bruce does not answer.
Word spreads.
Not verbally. Through instinct.
Dick Grayson falls asleep, and the world bends around it.
He falls asleep on the couch in the Manor while Alfred’s halfway through lecturing Bruce about cholesterol. Alfred stops mid-sentence, gently adjusts the throw blanket over Dick’s legs, and finishes the lecture in a whisper.
He falls asleep at the kitchen table while Tim’s explaining something about encrypted networks. Tim immediately switches to typing instead of talking. Damian glares at anyone who breathes too loud.
He falls asleep leaning against the Cave railing once, forehead pressed to cool metal, and Jason physically drags a rolling chair over so Dick doesn’t fall.
Dick never notices.
He just wakes up later, warm, confused, and inexplicably cared for.
It escalates when he falls asleep outside.
Not even on patrol — just leaning against a brick wall in Crime Alley, waiting while Bruce and Tim finish scanning a warehouse. His head tips back, curls brushing the wall, eyes closed like he trusts Gotham not to eat him alive for five minutes.
Which is stupid.
Which is Dick.
Bruce notices first, again, through the drone feed.
“Jason,” he says quietly. “Cover the east side.”
Jason glances up — and freezes.
Dick is asleep.
Out in the open.
Jason’s expression changes instantly — from bored menace to something sharp, alert, territorial.
“Copy,” he mutters — and then moves.
A civilian wanders down the alley, phone in hand, oblivious. Stops short when he notices Dick slumped there in domino mask and armour.
“Yo,” the guy says. “Hey — are you—”
Jason appears out of nowhere.
Gun up.
Not aimed at the guy’s head — aimed at his chest, steady and unforgiving.
“Walk,” Jason says.
The guy raises his hands instantly. “Jesus, okay—”
“Now.”
He walks.
Jason doesn’t lower the gun until the footsteps are gone.
Then he turns, crouches slightly in front of Dick, and says quietly, “You’re safe. Don’t wake up. I’ve got you.”
Dick, unconscious, offers no opinion.
Bruce finds out ten minutes later.
Not about the gun — about the fact that someone tried to wake Dick.
He doesn’t ask questions.
He fires the warehouse security contractor the next morning.
Tim blinks at the email. “Dad. You terminated their entire firm.”
“They allowed a civilian onto an active scene.”
“…Dick was asleep.”
“Yes.”
“…You fired them because they woke Dick.”
“They startled him.”
“He didn’t wake up.”
“They could have.”
Tim stares.
Bruce closes the laptop with finality. “This discussion is over.”
It becomes routine.
Dick falls asleep on Jason’s shoulder during late-night stakeouts. Jason complains but doesn’t move.
Dick falls asleep in the Batmobile backseat and wakes up in his bed at the Manor with no memory of being transported.
Dick falls asleep in the Cave gym once, sprawled on the mat, sweat-damp curls against his forehead — and Bruce cancels training.
“Sir,” Alfred says gently, “he trains better when he sleeps.”
“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “Which is why he’s sleeping.”
Tim is the first to say it out loud.
“He’s tired.”
Jason snorts. “Everyone’s tired.”
“No,” Tim says. “He’s tired. Like… chronic. Bone-deep. Like he doesn’t stop unless he physically can’t.”
Dick, asleep on the couch between them, shifts slightly — forehead creasing — and Jason automatically drapes his arm more securely around him.
“Don’t make it weird,” Jason mutters.
Tim watches, soft. “You’re already doing it.”
Jason does not respond.
Damian pretends he doesn’t care.
Which is a lie.
Dick falls asleep once while sparring him — literally mid-stance, muscles locked in training form, eyes sliding shut like his body simply gave up.
Damian panics.
Not externally. Internally.
“Grayson,” he snaps. “Grayson—” He reaches out — then stops himself, remembering the Rule.
No One Wakes Dick.
Bruce steps in silently, places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, eases him down onto the mat, and drapes a towel over him.
Damian watches, jaw tight.
“…Is he ill?” Damian asks quietly.
“No,” Bruce says. “Just human.”
Damian considers this. Then sits beside Dick and stays there until he wakes up.
Dick finally notices something’s off when he wakes up in his room one morning wearing Jason’s hoodie.
He blinks at the sleeves — too long. Smells like gun oil and coffee.
“What the hell…?”
He stumbles downstairs.
Finds Bruce at the table, Alfred nearby, Jason leaning against the counter, Tim half-asleep over cereal, Damian pretending not to stare at Dick too hard.
“Why am I wearing Jason’s clothes,” Dick asks.
Jason shrugs. “You fell asleep on me.”
“…And?”
“You drooled.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Tim looks up. “Also you fell asleep on the Cave stairs last night.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” Bruce says. “Jason carried you.”
Jason: “I did not—”
Bruce: “You complained the whole time.”
Jason: “…He’s heavy.”
“I am not—”
“You’re dense.”
Dick squints. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something.”
Everyone freezes.
Alfred smiles serenely. “Pancakes, Master Dick?”
“Yes please.”
Crisis averted.
It breaks two nights later.
Dick falls asleep at the Cave console again — chin tipped forward this time, breath slow, eyes fully shut. But this time, when Bruce steps closer, Dick doesn’t stir.
Doesn’t shift.
Doesn’t react to the movement.
Bruce’s stomach drops.
He places two fingers gently at Dick’s throat.
Pulse. Strong.
Good.
But when Bruce touches his shoulder — nothing.
Jason’s already moving. “What.”
“He’s exhausted,” Bruce says. “Not waking.”
Tim swallows. “Like… how exhausted.”
Bruce exhales slowly. “Like he hasn’t been resting properly in weeks.”
Jason’s jaw tightens.
They don’t wake him.
They lift him.
Carry him upstairs.
Tuck him into bed.
Cancel patrol.
Dick wakes up twelve hours later.
Which never happens.
He blinks at the ceiling, disoriented, body heavy in that deep, aching way that only comes from true depletion — the kind sleep can’t immediately fix.
He sits up slowly.
Finds Bruce in the chair beside his bed.
“…Hey,” Dick murmurs.
Bruce looks up instantly. Relief hits his face before he can mask it. “Hey.”
“Why am I in bed.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I always fall asleep.”
“This time you didn’t wake up.”
Dick frowns. “That’s… ominous.”
Bruce studies him quietly. “When was the last time you took a full day off.”
Dick opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…Define ‘full.’”
Bruce sighs.
They talk.
Not dramatically. Not with speeches.
Just Bruce sitting beside him, low voice, steady presence, asking questions Dick didn’t realise he’d been avoiding.
How long have you been this tired.
How often are you sleeping less than four hours.
Are you eating regularly.
Are you okay.
Dick jokes at first.
Then doesn’t.
“I just… forget to stop,” he admits quietly. “And when I do stop, my brain doesn’t. And then suddenly it’s morning and I’m on patrol again.”
Bruce nods slowly. “You don’t have to earn rest.”
Dick smiles faintly. “I know.”
“…Do you.”
Dick doesn’t answer.
Jason takes it the hardest.
Not outwardly. Jason never does.
But after that night, he’s suddenly always near Dick — leaning against the same doorframe, sitting on the same couch, riding shotgun instead of the backseat.
Dick notices.
“You stalking me,” he asks lightly.
Jason scoffs. “Please. You’re not interesting enough.”
“Jason.”
“…You fall asleep too much.”
Dick softens. “Yeah.”
Jason looks away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t do it where people can touch you.”
Dick blinks.
“…You mean don’t fall asleep in alleys.”
Jason’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to be unconscious around strangers.”
Dick studies him — sees the fear under the irritation.
“Okay,” he says gently. “I won’t.”
Jason nods once.
The final incident happens three weeks later.
Dick falls asleep in the Manor living room, curled on the couch, head tipped against the armrest, TV murmuring quietly in the background.
A new Wayne Enterprises intern walks in — clipboard in hand — sees him, and says brightly:
“Oh! Mr. Grayson, sir—”
Before Dick can even stir, Jason’s gun is out.
Not fired.
Not aimed at the intern’s head.
But the message is unmistakable.
“Leave,” Jason says flatly.
The intern freezes. “I—I just—”
“Out.”
Bruce walks in behind him.
Takes one look at the scene.
And fires the intern.
Not because of the gun.
Because they woke Dick.
Dick finds out later.
He laughs.
“You can’t just fire people for waking me up,” he tells Bruce.
Bruce deadpans. “Watch me.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Probably.”
Jason smirks. “Worth it.”
Dick looks at all of them — Bruce pretending he’s not hovering, Tim pretending he’s not watching his breathing, Damian pretending he’s not sitting closer than necessary, Jason pretending he doesn’t care at all — and something warm settles in his chest.
“You guys are insane,” he says softly.
“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “But you’re safe.”
Dick smiles.
Then promptly falls asleep again.
No one moves.