Chapter Text
I woke up a little after nine in the morning.
For someone who’d just wrapped up a mission that basically boiled down to “fiery tango with aliens and then blowing up their planet before making a run for it,” this was a perfectly reasonable time to wake up. Honestly? I’d call that disciplined.
I stayed in bed, unmoving, while my brain took a few seconds to ran the reboot sequence: Location—Wayne Manor / Physical condition—no missing limbs / TDL—currently not required to deal with the old man.
Yeah. Not bad.
This should’ve been a good sign.
I stared at the ceiling for a while, stayed in bed for another ten minutes and then slowly realized something was…off.
Wayne Manor usually “online” in shifts boots up in waves: someone pulling an all-nighter, someone catching up on sleep, someone who apparently runs on pure chaos and caffeine.
But today the house was too quiet. No Alfred knocking right on schedule. No Dick bursting in from a direction he logically should not exist in, followed by a pained yelp as he hits a wall. No Tim being forcibly resurrected by coffee before work. No Stephanie complaining after failing—again—to “help” in the kitchen. And no demon spawn making that little tch sound while verbally poisoning some poor, innocent bystander.
That put a very unpleasant thought in my head.
…Alright.
I sighed, rolling over and sitting up, rubbing the back of my neck with my right hand. Wayne Manor’s beds and pillows were, as always, criminally soft—stay in them too long and your whole body pays the price.
“At least there aren’t any aliens dancing at my bedside.”
——————————
By the time I washed up and went downstairs, all the curtains were already pulled open.
Gotham was actually sunny for once. Sunlight poured in through the high, transparent floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting up the floors and walls until they practically gleamed. The air carried an oddly misplaced warmth, like the city’s usual permanent gloom had been temporarily evicted.
I stopped halfway down the stairs and took a deep breath. My nose immediately filled with the sweet smell of freshly baked cookies.
Okay. At least the kitchen was still functioning like a kitchen.
Maybe the sunshine messed with my instincts, because I decided to ignore the way the conversation in the dining room abruptly died the second I got close.
Turns out, that was a mistake.
Something was clearly wrong with Wayne Manor today.
I pushed open the dining room door, stepped inside—and walked straight into what was possibly the most intense yet most carefully restrained group stare this family had ever managed.
Dick was sitting in a chair.
Yes. A chair.
Both feet planted firmly on the ground.
He was talking. At a normal speed. At a normal volume. Without flailing his arms around. No attempts to occupy half the dining room with body language alone.
Tim sat across from him, tablet spread out on the table. His fingers were tapping rapidly, but his attention was clearly not limited to the screen.
Damian sat perfectly upright, hands neatly placed on the tabletop, his expression so serious it looked like he was attending a meeting he found utterly pointless—but was still obligated to endure.
Cassandra stood off to the side, leaning against the edge of the table, quietly observing them all with a calm, unreadable expression.
Stephanie had appeared from absolutely nowhere and was currently attempting to steal a slice of toast with the subtlety of a raccoon in broad daylight.
Alfred stood near the head of the table, like the stabilizing anchor of the entire scene—composed, unflappable, and utterly irreplaceable.
Hell, no. That’s not normal.
This house never gathers this many people in one place unless something’s wrong.
I paused in the doorway, my steps faltering, suddenly unsure if I’d missed something important.
“Morning,” I said.
I hadn’t raised my voice, but the effect was immediate—at least three people turned to look at me at the exact same time. The speed and synchronization made the muscles across my shoulders tense on instinct, my fingers itching to reach for a gun that wasn’t there.
“Were you guys holding an election or something?” I asked.
“Good morning, Master Jason,” Alfred spoke first, his tone flawlessly natural. “Breakfast is ready.”
“Thanks, Alfie.” I nodded and walked over to the table, taking a seat.
The table setting was already done there.
Milk on my right, perfect temperature, not too hot, not too cold.
By all logic, everything looked normal. Still, I couldn’t help scanning the whole table—this was the only seat with breakfast laid out. And unless I’d developed sudden amnesia, this was indeed where I usually sat.
I glanced down at the glass of milk, then back up at Alfred.
“Is something special today?”
“No, Master Jason.”
“Then should I be checking my mail to see if I accidentally got elected to something?”
Alfred smiled faintly. “Just because you’re home.”
Alright. I decided I’d accept that explanation for now.
Just for now.
Dick cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, “how was the mission?”
I looked at him.
“Not bad,” I said. “Aside from the overly enthusiastic alien ‘friends,’ the thin atmosphere, and the part where I had to make a very undignified escape.”
“Oh. Uh—oh, that’s… that’s good.” He nodded, looking a little awkward.
Tim glanced up at me, then immediately dropped his gaze back to the screen, fingers resuming their rapid tapping.
“You look…good ,” he said.
“Is that a compliment,” I asked, “or are you running a health check, Timberly?”
“…Could be both.”
“Then you might want to watch your margins of error,” I said.
Cassandra gave me a small nod.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” I replied.
Damian glanced at me, then quickly looked away.
“When you returned,” he said, “the jacket you were wearing was inappropriate for the current weather.”
I blinked.
“Uh…thanks for remind?”
“It is simply a fact.”
I didn’t quite understand why he suddenly cared that, but I nodded anyway.
“Alright. I’ll remember to consult you next time, habibi.”
Stephanie finally succeeded in stealing toast.
“Has anyone noticed,” she said through a mouthful, “that the vibe today is kind of—”
“No,” Tim cut in immediately, shooting a quick glance in my direction. “Not at all.”
Unfortunately for him, that glance wasn’t subtle enough. I caught it easily.
Stephanie blinked.
“Well, okay. Must just be me.”
I lowered my head and took a sip of milk.
Yeah. Familiar taste. Alfred had even added sugar.
What the hell—was this some kind of group experiment I hadn’t been informed about?
Right then, my phone buzzed.
I pulled it out. The notification bar was going wild.
I unlocked the screen.
—Barbara (online)
Almost immediately, another message popped up.
—Barbara: How are you doing today?
I stared at the message for two seconds, then lifted my gaze and scanned the table—at the collection of people who were all acting distinctly unnatural.
“…Can someone tell me,” I said slowly, “if I missed something?”
No one answered. But almost everyone suddenly found something very important to do.
I leaned back in my chair, shoulders relaxing, a smile tugging at my mouth that I didn’t fully commit to.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll just assume this is your quarterly, collective jerk ?”
No one objected.
They were really acting strange.
Tim’s tablet screen was lit, but whatever was on it was clearly neither a mission nor work.
I caught his fingers tapping, but the rhythm was uneven—starting, stopping, speeding up, slowing down—like he was waiting for some kind of feedback. Every few taps, he’d look up, then immediately drop his head again before our eyes could meet, as if the screen had suddenly become the only true love of his life.
Dick was already on his second bowl of cereal.
That alone was abnormal. He usually started talking halfway through the first bowl—even if it was just to speak out loud to himself. Right now, though, he was very clearly using cereal as a way to keep his mouth occupied.
The spoon tapped rhythmically against the bowl, a steady little clink-clink-clink—Dick deliberately manufacturing the universal background noise of “I’m busy, please don’t ask me anything.”
Damian had already finished eating, yet he was still sitting there. Not standing up. Not leaving the table. Not launching into any sharp, acid-laced commentary.
He was sitting too properly—back straight, hands placed neatly at the edge of the table. Alfred the cat was rubbing against his ankle, and somehow, unbelievably, Damian wasn’t reacting at all.
Fuck! What the hell was wrong with him? Did I take a wrong turn somewhere on my way back from space and end up in the wrong universe?
I stared at Damian for over a minute, until he finally shot me that familiar, irritated look. Only then did I pull my gaze back, one by one, and look down at my own plate.
The eggs were cooked perfectly—the yolks set but not dry. The toast had its crusts cut off. The bacon had been carefully drained, the excess shine wicked away by a napkin.
For the sake of health, Alfred usually kept breakfast fairly light. Today, though, he’d broken from tradition and added the hot sauce I liked into my sandwich.
I poked the eggs with my fork, just to make sure they weren’t about to stand up and start talking, then looked up at Alfred.
“Alfred,” I said, “are you in a particularly good mood today?”
Alfred was returning a kettle of hot water to its place. His movements were steady and precise; the bottom of the kettle touched the table without making a single unnecessary sound. He turned at my question.
“And what leads you to think that?”
“Because this breakfast clearly involved extra effort.” I gave my fork a small wave, tilting my head toward the plate. “That usually means one of two things. Either you’re in a good mood—or I’m about to be informed of some very bad news.”
Alfred smiled faintly, his expression impeccable.
“Caring for one’s family has always been my responsibility.”
Oh. That sounded far too natural.
I decided to proceed with caution, lest this conversation end up filed in the Batcomputer under its highest clearance level—labeled by Tim as Family Embarrassments.
“Then I’m honored,” I said.
Alfred nodded with a smile and turned back to his work.
I had just finished the sandwich—the one with hot sauce—when my phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t Barbara.
—Cass: U THERE?
I looked down at the screen, my thumb hovering above it.
Cassandra was sitting across from me, drinking water. She was always quiet in her movements; the cup barely made a sound when it left the table.
I looked up at her.
She met my eyes briefly, then looked away, as if confirming that something had already been established.
I looked back down and typed.
—yep.
Three seconds later.
—Cass: 👌
I looked up again.
Her expression was calm. She gave me a small nod.
And just like that, it was over.
I decided not to pursue it. In Wayne Manor—also known as the home of the emotionally constipated—some conversations simply ended like that.
Stephanie stood up and slid her plate toward the sink. The porcelain clinked lightly as it bumped against the others. She looked like she was about to leave—but as she passed behind me, her steps slowed just a fraction.
“How’ve you been sleeping lately?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, folding my napkin without thinking. “Haven’t dreamed about anything weird.”
“Like?”
“Like suddenly becoming the topic of a family meeting. Complete with a ninety-nine–slide, full-color PPT.”
She laughed once, then picked her pace back up and kept walking.
No denial.
Oh…
I slowly finished the last bite of toast and drained the milk from my glass, already mentally assigning a score to Today’s Overall Level of Weird.
That was when Tim finally looked up.
“Do you have any plans for today?”
“Not really,” I said. “Unless you’re about to ask me to deal with some mess none of you want to touch.”
“No.” He answered almost too quickly—like the exchange had already been rehearsed in his head.
“That’s great,” I nodded. “I was thinking of catching up on sleep, contribute a little sleep quality to world peace.”
There was a pause. A very brief one—so brief that anyone less practiced at noticing details would’ve missed it entirely.
“Of course you can rest,” Dick said immediately, bright and easy.
“Anytime,” Tim added.
“Your room has already been tidied,” Alfred followed smoothly.
“Fresh sheets,” Stephanie said.
I slowly looked up at them.
“Are you all recommending hotel service?” I asked, then considered it for a second. “Do you need me to leave a five-star review?”
No one laughed.
…Okay.
I blinked once.
“I’ll take it.”
I stood up, picked up my empty plate. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor as I moved. Just as I was about to take the plate where it belonged, Alfred reached out and took it from me first.
“I’ll take care of that, Master Jason.”
“Thanks.”
And I REALLY meant it. Their collective level of friendliness today had already exceeded the maximum tolerance of one fully grown, world-class bad guy known as Red Hood.
As I turned to leave the dining room, something on Tim’s tablet caught my eye.
I wasn’t trying to look. Trust me.
It was just sitting there, glowing a little too brightly for the moment.
A single line of text flashed across the screen.
[Final confirmation: vital signs stable.]
I hesitated, just for a beat.
Then I kept walking, like nothing had happened.
In this house, there are some things you either ask about immediately—
—or you act like you never saw them at all.
And today, I was very clearly choosing the second option.
Come on. I’d just wrapped up an exhausting, brain-melting, body-breaking alien mission—
I really didn’t feel like jumping straight into a medical symposium about my own vital signs.
By the time I reached the hallway, my phone buzzed again.
— Barbara: If you need anything, just say the word.
I stopped and looked at the message.
“Anything” is a dangerously broad term.
It usually means the other person already has a checklist prepared.
I typed back.
— Like what?
She replied almost instantly.
— Barbara: Like quiet.
I looked up, down the hallway.
The carpet was spotless. Sunlight lay softly against the walls.
From the kitchen came low voices, and the faint clink of dishes being put away.
I smiled to myself.
— Then I don’t need anything right now.
— Barbara: Okay.
I slipped the phone away and kept walking.
——————————————————
I passed the training room on my way back to my bedroom.
The door was wide open.
Damian was standing inside, already changed into his training gear—but instead of doing anything productive, he was just standing there, holding Alfred the cat in his arms, running a hand through its fur, slow and steady.
Alfred looked extremely pleased with this arrangement.
“You’re not training?” I asked.
“Not urgent today,” he said.
I nodded.
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“You are misremembering, Todd.”
“Then keep it up.”
I ignored the strange look Damian shot me and reached back to pull the door closed.
Back in my room, I shut the door and leaned against it for a moment.
The house was quiet.
Oh. Oh wow.
I realized I was actually starting to enjoy that.
Whatever. I shrugged and walked over to the bed, fully intending to demolish an unreasonable number of spicy hot dogs in my dreams to make up for the psychological damage I’d taken this morning.
“As long as you don’t suddenly throw me a welcome-home party,” I said to the empty room, “I’m good with anything.”
I lay down and closed my eyes.