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The spacious dining room of Wayne Manor glowed softly with flickering candlelight, casting long shadows across the ancient oak table that had witnessed countless family gatherings. Tonight was one of those extremely rare moments—the Bat family actually managed to carve out a sliver of normal life from Gotham’s endless chaos. No capes, no masks; just a group of vigilantes pretending to be an ordinary, dysfunctional family, gathered around the lavish dinner Alfred Pennyworth had so carefully prepared.
Bruce sat at the head of the table, his usual stern expression softened slightly by the glass of Scotch in his hand. To his right was Dick Grayson—the original Robin, now Nightwing—his blue eyes sparkling with that natural charisma that could always light up the room. Dick was in an especially good mood tonight, cracking jokes as usual, stringing conversations together effortlessly, as if he were born to be the social glue of this family. Across from him sat Jason Todd—the Red Hood—who had only grudgingly shown up after Dick sent several very persuasive texts. Jason’s posture seemed relaxed but carried an undercurrent of wariness; his green eyes scanned the room, a mix of vigilance and reluctant amusement. He had never liked these gatherings—too many old grudges simmering just beneath the surface—but for Dick, he came anyway. Tonight he held a bottle of beer, and he looked almost… content.
Farther down was Tim Drake, Red Robin, nursing a soda instead of alcohol because “someone has to stay sober.” He was buried in his tablet, occasionally looking up to toss out a dry, academically flavored quip. Next to him sat Damian Wayne, the youngest and sharpest-tongued, dissecting the food on his plate with surgical precision while his pet cat Alfred (the one named after the butler, much to the real Alfred’s exasperation) curled in his lap. Barbara Gordon—Oracle, formerly Batgirl—wheeled herself in, carrying a tray of desserts she had insisted on bringing from her own apartment; her red hair gleamed under the candlelight as she traded barbs with everyone. And of course there was Alfred himself, moving around like a benevolent ghost, gracefully refilling glasses and plates.
“Grayson, pass the roast, would you?” Jason spoke up, his voice carrying that rough Gotham-street edge, though noticeably lacking its usual bite. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his leather jacket slung over the armrest. Dick grinned wide, sliding the platter over and—under the table—nudging Jason’s knee in that subtle, intimate gesture only the two of them understood.
“Here you go, Little Wing. Don’t eat it all; leave some for us mere mortals,” Dick teased, his tone light and playful. Jason rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, unable to hide the small smile.
Bruce cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back. “I’m glad we’re all here tonight. No Bat-Signal. Thank God.” His voice was still low and gravelly, but it carried a rare warmth. These dinners were his way of reminding everyone—and himself—that they were more than just soldiers in his war on crime.
“Yeah, don’t jinx it, old man,” Jason shot back, taking a long swig of beer. “Last time you said that, we were chasing Killer Croc through the sewers before dessert was even finished.”
Tim let out a quiet chuckle and finally set his tablet down. “Statistically speaking, the probability of a major incident occurring during a family dinner is only about 27%. Still… don’t tempt fate.”
Damian scoffed, stroking his cat. “A bunch of incompetents. If Father would let me take more patrol responsibility, these interruptions wouldn’t happen.”
Barbara laughed brightly. “Come on, Little D. Even you need a break sometimes. And Alfred’s cooking is worth the risk.” She raised her glass. “To family—no matter how messed up we are.”
Glasses clinked all around, the clear sound echoing through the room. Dick’s smile was especially radiant as he clinked his glass against Jason’s with extra force, earning a mock-glare in return. “Well said. And to Alfred, for putting up with us all these years without poisoning anyone.”
Alfred, who was placing a basket of fresh-baked rolls on the table, raised an eyebrow. “Master Dick, if I had ever intended to poison anyone, I would have done so long ago. Now please enjoy them while they’re warm.”
From there the conversation flowed easily into lighter topics. Dick, ever the storyteller, launched into a vivid recounting of one of his Blüdhaven adventures. “So I’m swinging across the city, and this punk thinks he’s clever—hides inside a dumpster. A dumpster! Like I wouldn’t check the lid. I flip it open, and there he is, buried in yesterday’s pizza boxes, looking up at me like a deer in headlights.”
Jason snorted, leaning forward with interest. “And then? You let him marinate in the garbage soup a little longer?”
“Nah, I yanked him out and zip-tied him to a lamppost. But get this—the cops show up, and one of them recognizes him as the guy who stole his kid’s bike last week. Poetic justice.”
Tim nodded approvingly. “Very efficient. I’ve checked Blüdhaven’s crime stats—since you went full-time there, the rate’s dropped 12%.”
The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Well done, Dick. You’ve really made that city yours.”
Jason, not to be outdone, smirked. “Yeah, yeah, golden boy Grayson. But don’t forget that time you fell flat on your face during the circus revival show. I still have the video.”
Dick groaned dramatically, covering his face. “Come on, Jay! That was one time—and the net was soaked from the rain!”
“Excuses,” Jason drawled, but his eyes were full of warm mischief. The table erupted in laughter, even Damian cracked a tiny smile.
Barbara steered the conversation toward tech, knowing it would hook Tim and Bruce. “Speaking of gear, I’ve been tweaking the Oracle network. Added some new AI protocols—don’t worry, nothing sentient. But crime hotspot prediction accuracy is up to 85% now.”
Tim’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? I’d love to see the code. I’ve been working on something similar for the Batcomputer.”
The two of them immediately dove into technical discussion while Damian turned to Jason with dead seriousness. “Todd, your methods… are unorthodox. But effective. Perhaps we could spar sometime. I could teach you proper technique.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, amused. “Kid, I’ve got plenty of technique. But sure, why not? Just don’t cry when I pin you.”
“I would never cry,” Damian huffed, though a spark of excitement hid in his tone.
Alfred refilled Bruce’s Scotch and murmured, “It is most heartening to see the young masters getting along so well, sir.”
Bruce gave a small nod. “Indeed.”
Dinner continued, plates slowly emptying, glasses refilled again and again. After his second beer, Dick switched to red wine, savoring the rich bottle Alfred had selected from the cellar. Jason paced himself with beer, while Bruce and Barbara reminisced about the early days—before any Robins, just Batman and the young Batgirl against the mob.
“Remember that time with the Riddler and the exploding riddles?” Barbara asked, eyes sparkling.
Dick leaned in. “Oh, I’ve heard this one. You defused the bomb under City Hall in the last second.”
“Teamwork,” Bruce said modestly, but Barbara waved him off.
“Please. You were busy brooding on a gargoyle. I did the heavy lifting.”
Laughter rang out again. Jason, warmed by the alcohol and the rare harmony, even shared one of his own stories—a sanitized Red Hood version involving a smoke bomb and a perfectly timed motorcycle rev that left a gang scrambling in confusion.
“Sounds almost easy,” Tim said, with a hint of admiration. “Adrenaline must have been through the roof.”
Jason shrugged. “Adrenaline’s my middle name. Jason Adrenaline Todd.”
Dick burst out laughing, nearly spilling his wine. “That’s awful, Jay. Truly terrible.”
“But you love it,” Jason murmured, low enough for only Dick to hear the layered implication.
Dessert arrived—Alfred’s signature chocolate mousse with fresh berries—and the conversation turned more personal. Damian bragged about the stray dog he’d recently rescued, named Titus II (naturally, in honor of the original). Tim talked about balancing college courses with vigilante life. Barbara gave updates on the Birds of Prey, and Bruce… Bruce mostly listened, occasionally offering a gruff piece of advice.
By now Dick’s cheeks were flushed from the wine. He raised his glass for another toast. “To us. Gotham’s weirdest family. May we always have each other’s backs.”
“To us!” came the chorus.
Jason clinked glasses with him again, fingers brushing briefly. “Yeah. To this.”
As the night deepened, stories, laughter, and clinking glasses continued. In their world such unity was painfully fleeting, but right now, under the warm lights of Wayne Manor, it felt utterly real. When the clock neared midnight, Dick shot Jason a subtle look—time to head back to Blüdhaven. The drive awaited, and so did the private space of the apartment they shared. But that could wait. For now, they lingered in the moment, reluctant to let it end.
Later, as the car cruised smoothly down the highway toward Blüdhaven, city lights gradually brightening in the distance. Dick was behind the wheel of the understated black SUV—no Nightwing motorcycle tonight; they’d both been drinking, safety first. Jason leaned back in the passenger seat, window cracked to let the night air sweep away the lingering scent of wine and the woody, smoky smell of Wayne Manor. One hand rested on the window sill, the other idly tapping a rhythm on his thigh, as if following some song in his head.
Dick didn’t talk much while driving, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue tonight. He kept stealing glances at Jason, a slightly goofy, tipsy smile playing on his lips.
“Tonight was pretty great, huh?” Dick’s voice drawled a little, thick with drink. “Damian didn’t try to kill you, Tim didn’t drag any of us—or one of us—into crime-data analysis… a miracle.”
Jason huffed a laugh, low and rough. “Yeah, miracle. Even the old man said more than two human sentences. Must be your pretty smile’s doing.”
“Hey, I’m a professional mood-maker,” Dick said smugly, tilting his chin up, then added, “But you didn’t storm out or flip anyone off, so I’m counting that as a win.”
Jason turned to look at him, green eyes catching the faint glow of the dashboard. “Who told you to spam me with texts? ‘Just come for dinner, no explosions, I swear’—I almost thought you were gonna get down on your knees and beg.”
Dick laughed, the wheel wobbling slightly before he steadied it. “That was heartfelt pleading, thank you very much.”
“Heartfelt my ass,” Jason muttered, but his heart had gone soft. He reached over and gave Dick’s thigh a light smack. “Eyes on the road, drunkard. Don’t send us both to the hospital.”
They didn’t talk much for the rest of the drive—just occasional glances, or Dick reaching over to hold Jason’s hand for a few seconds before letting go. When the car finally pulled into the underground garage of their old Blüdhaven apartment building, it was nearly one in the morning.
The elevator ride was just the two of them. Dick leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed for a moment of quiet. Jason stood in front of him, hands in his pockets, gazing down at Dick’s flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips.
“Look at you,” Jason said with a smile in his voice. “Acting all tough when you can barely walk straight.”
Dick opened his eyes; they were glassy and bright. “I’m not drunk… just buzzed.”
“Buzzed enough to float,” Jason replied, reaching out to steady him by the waist and pull him off the wall. “Come on, home.”
The moment the apartment door shut behind them, the familiar scent hit—Dick’s citrus laundry detergent, the faint mint-tobacco of Jason’s occasional cigarettes, and the indefinable warmth of the two of them together, safe.
Dick kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch face-up, letting out a long breath. “Ah… finally home. Thank God.”
Jason didn’t sit right away. He went to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses of water, and came back to press one into Dick’s hand. “Drink first. Save yourself the hangover headache tomorrow—and don’t blame me.”
Dick took it obediently, gulping down most of it, then set the glass on the coffee table. He looked up at Jason, eyes suddenly turning… clingy.
“Jay.” His voice dropped, roughened by alcohol. “Come here.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, staying where he was, arms crossed, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “What? In your current state, you think you can still do anything?”
Dick’s face flushed deeper, but the buzz made him bold. He pushed himself up on the couch and grabbed Jason’s belt buckle, yanking him closer.
“Of course I can,” he mumbled, looking up with stubborn seriousness. “Tonight… I want to fuck you.”
Jason let out a low, rumbling laugh from his chest, amused and dark. “Oh yeah? With you like this?”
He didn’t resist, letting Dick pull him in until his knees bumped the couch edge. Dick’s hands were already sliding up under his shirt, tracing the lines of his abs through the fabric.
“I’m serious,” Dick slurred, voice thick. “Just… give me a minute. I’ll be fine. Just a few minutes.”
Jason leaned down, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other gripping Dick’s chin to force eye contact. His green eyes were full of mockery and heat.
“Sure. Take your time,” he murmured, voice low against Dick’s ear. “I wanna see how hard the great Nightwing can get when he’s three sheets to the wind.”
Dick’s breath hitched at the words, face burning hotter. He tried to retort but only managed, “You just wait… I definitely…”
Before he could finish, Jason kissed him—hard, claiming, teeth grazing his lower lip, tongue pushing in to chase the lingering taste of red wine.
Dick made a muffled sound, arms wrapping around Jason’s neck, kissing back fiercely, like he was trying to burn off all the tension he’d held in the car.
By the time they broke apart, both were breathing hard. Jason pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Dick’s, breath hot.
“Still need ‘a minute’?” he rasped, mocking. “Your pants are already tenting, huh?”
Dick panted, eyes hazy but still defiant. “That’s… that’s because you—”
Jason didn’t let him finish. He shoved Dick back onto the couch and straddled him in one smooth motion, knees bracketing Dick’s hips.
“Shut up,” he growled, leaning down to bite Dick’s earlobe. “Either prove it to me now, or... Just obediently admit defeat and let me serve you drunkard for one night..”
Dick’s throat bobbed. His hands suddenly clamped onto Jason’s waist, familiar control-freak determination flaring in his eyes.
In one swift move he flipped them, pinning Jason beneath him, looming above.
“Who’s admitting anything?” Dick’s voice was thick with wine and danger. “Tonight… you don't cry.”
Jason lay back on the couch, staring up into those blazing blue eyes, and slowly grinned.
“Then bring it, Grayson.”
The living-room light stayed on, warm yellow spilling over their bodies. The night was still young, and all the unspoken understanding, arguments, and desire between them melted into the most primal heat, rising slowly.