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The rain battered against the window, a steady rhythm of dull thuds filling the room. It almost sounded like music heavier drops striking first, followed by softer ones in uneven harmony.
Jason lay slumped across the couch, a worn copy of The Five People You Meet in Heaven resting on his chest. He hadn’t made it past the first fifty pages before the sound outside pulled his attention away.
It was a song he knew well one he’d grown used to after years in Gotham.
He didn’t mind it.
If anything, it reminded him of quieter moments. Of being small enough to curl up beside his mother under threadbare blankets, sharing what little warmth they had. She used to call him her snuggle buddy, her voice softer then, gentler. Sometimes she’d call him over at night when the cold crept too deep into the apartment.
As he got older, he understood what those moments really meant there had been no money for heat, no way to keep the electricity running. But even now, he held onto those memories, fragile as they were.
Just as he reached for the book again, his phone rang, cutting through the calm.
Without bothering to check the name, Jason answered. Before he could even get a word out, he was interrupted.
“Do you know how to remove a doorframe?”
His older brother’s voice burst through the line tight, shaky, and slightly out of breath.
“Hello to you too, Dickie bird,” Jason replied flatly, rubbing his forehead as the beginnings of a migraine set in.
“Do you know how to remove a doorframe?” Dick repeated, sharper this time, urgency bleeding into every word.
Jason frowned, pushing himself up slightly. “Why would I know how to remove a doorframe?”
There was a loud crash on the other end of the line wood splintering, followed by a muffled curse.
Jason stilled.
“…Dick?”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds too long, too heavy.
Jason didn’t wait for a response. He swung his legs off the couch, the book slipping from his chest and hitting the floor, forgotten.
“I really need you, Jay.”
Dick’s voice finally came through, tight and uneven.
Jason froze for half a second.
Then it clicked. It wasn’t just breathlessness. Dick was shaking because he was trying not to cry.
That alone was enough to set something cold and sharp in Jason’s chest.
Dick called him all the time it was routine at this point. Sometimes to check in, sometimes just to talk. But this?
This wasn’t normal.
Dick Grayson didn’t call like this.
“I’ll see you soon,” Jason said, already moving.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dick had been in the middle of moving out of his apartment the same one he’d lived in for over a decade. He and Barbara were finally moving in together.
It had been the plan for years. But something had always gotten in the way.
Now, the apartment felt… wrong.
It was strange seeing the once lively, cluttered, homey space stripped bare.
The honey-brown couch where he’d fallen asleep more times than he could count was gone, no longer crammed into the far corner. The coffee table that Tim used to sprawl over during visits didn’t take up half the room anymore.
The dark oak dining table, where Duke and Stephanie would sit for hours, chipping away at homework while its uneven legs wobbled beneath them, was gone too no longer dividing the kitchen from the living room.
The crystal vase Alfred had given his eldest grandson as a housewarming gift always filled with fresh flowers whenever Alfred visited was carefully packed away in a box labelled fragile.
The bookcase Dick and Bruce Wayne had built together no longer stood by the door, slightly tilted toward the hallway the same one everyone stubbed their toes on at least once.
The worn, once-white rug that stretched across the living room where Cass would silently practice her ballet had been rolled up and left against the wall.
And Damian’s paintings and sketches no longer covered the walls, leaving them bare… almost unrecognizable.
The room didn’t feel like a place he’d once considered a second home.
It barely felt like a home at all.
Instead of the worn, well-loved furniture, Jason found his brother kneeling by the right side of the doorframe.
Dick rested his forehead against it, a wrench hanging loosely from his left hand. A red toolbox sat open by his feet, and a detached plank of wood identical to the frame lay a short distance away.
He looked… wrecked.
Completely deflated.
Jason frowned, trying to figure out what could possibly be wrong with a doorframe that had Dick Grayson in this state. For a brief second, he considered pointing out that Dick could easily afford to replace it but the thought died quickly.
Nothing about it looked broken.
No cracks. No splintering wood.
Just a single blue sticky note, still clinging stubbornly to the frame.
Jason had seen it for years.
He’d never understood it.
It always had the same thing scribbled across it January 4th, followed by a year. And every time that date passed, it would be replaced with a new one. Same date. Different year.
“That was my prediction.”
Jason didn’t flinch at the sound of Dick’s voice, muffled as it was.
He turned.
Dick had shifted, his back now pressed against the wall beside the frame, his head tilted slightly as he looked at it.
“For how tall he’d get next year,” he added, his voice thin, fragile.
Jason’s gaze moved slowly to the exposed wood.
Faint pencil marks lined the inside of the frame small, uneven lines stacked year after year. Beside each one, a date.
2018-4’3
2019-4’5
2020-4’6
2021-4’8
2022-5’0
2023-5’2
2024-5’5
Jason’s chest tightened as it clicked.
His eyes traced the markings slowly, moving from the bottom to the top, following the years like a timeline he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
Then his gaze shifted to the blue sticky note.
He estimated where the next mark would have been.
Around 5’7.
The note read: January 4th, 2025.
The day before Damian seventeenth birthday.
Jason stilled.
Today was March 22nd 2026.
“My guesses were always off,” Dick Grayson said, his voice cracking as he dragged his finger along the last mark—5’5.
Jason swallowed, something tight settling in his throat.
Damian had always been small.
Too small.
His classmates used to tower over him it had been obvious, almost jarring at times. But seeing it laid out like this… year by year… it made it impossible to ignore how little he’d actually grown.
A week after his birthday, Damian had demanded that Bruce take him to a doctor about his height.
The family had laughed it off at the time. Told him he’d shoot up soon enough.
After all, his father was over six feet tall.
He would catch up.
He had to.
But he never did.
Because later, they found out Damian Wayne’s growth plate had been damaged. Endless hours of brutal training had stunted his growth permanently. The doctors said he’d be lucky to reach five foot seven.
He never even got the chance.
Jason slid down the opposite side of the doorframe, his back resting against it as he watched his eldest brother trace the last mark the final place they had measured their baby brother.
5’5.
They sat there in silence, the kind that pressed in on your chest, broken only by the sound of each other’s breathing.
“You know…” Dick Grayson started, before his voice faltered. He swallowed hard, trying again. “When B was picking out a coffin for him… I almost wrote down his height. For the measurements.”
Jason’s eyes shut tightly, his head tipping back against the wood as he stared blindly at the ceiling.
Dick’s voice cracked. “He—he was still 5’5… he couldn’t grow, not with the conditions Slade Wilson forced him to liv—”
The sentence shattered into sobs.
Jason felt it then, the burn behind his eyes, the pressure he’d been holding back finally breaking. A tear slipped free, trailing down his temple as he stayed where he was, unmoving.
He hadn’t known.
None of them had.
That day in February they didn’t know it would be the last time they saw Damian alive.
They didn’t know he would vanish in the middle of the night.
They didn’t know Slade had planned it all a trap, built to risk dozens of children’s lives just to draw him in.
To take the youngest.
Damian hadn’t known either.
He had only wanted to save them.
And he did.
Jason’s jaw tightened.
Damian died on January 4th, 2026. After more than a year in captivity.
The day before his eighteenth birthday.
The day he was supposed to be here, standing in this doorway, arguing about his height,
Instead, their father had found him.
Bruce had found his son’s small body in the bathtub, lying in a pool of his own blood.
A kryptonite necklace hung around his neck just enough to silence his heartbeat, to make sure Jon Kent wouldn’t hear it.
Wouldn’t come.
Wouldn’t save him.
Their father had found him.
His son.
Their baby brother.
Dead.
“I can’t leave this here,” Dick Grayson sobbed, his eyes fixed on the line of heights carved into the wood.
His voice broke again.
“I can’t lose this part of him too.”
Jason didn’t argue. He just nodded softly.
Carefully, he reached over and took the wrench from Dick’s hand, his movements slow and deliberate. Then he got to work, loosening the frame piece by piece freeing the slab of wood that had documented their brother’s growth over the years they had him.
They didn’t acknowledge each other’s tears.
They didn’t need to.
They worked in silence, in sync, careful not to damage something that suddenly felt more fragile than anything else in the room.
Something irreplaceable.
Jason thought he had nothing left in him no tears, no breath, nothing.
until Dick spoke again.
“He’s never going to step foot in my new home.”
The words weren’t loud.
But they shattered something anyway.
Jason’s hands stilled as Dick pulled the wood free, cradling it against his chest like it might fall apart if he didn’t hold it tight enough.
Like it was him.
Like it was Damian.
And that, that was what broke him.
The sobs came hard and ugly, tearing out of him before he could stop them. Because this, this was the closest he would ever get to holding his little brother again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dick did move into his new home with Barbara.
And he brought his family with him, in every way that mattered.
The pieces that remained the ones tied to memories found their place again.
He and Barbara spent evenings picking out curtains, arguing softly over colours until they found something that felt like theirs.
Jason helped him carry the old honey-brown couch into his office, the two of them complaining the entire time like nothing had changed.
Tim insisted on finding the “optimal” place for the coffee table somewhere it wouldn’t be in the way, though it still somehow ended up exactly where it always had been.
Stephanie and Duke helped choose a new dining table, one sturdy enough not to wobble under the weight of late nights and loud conversations.
The crystal vase Alfred had given him was placed proudly at the center of it.
Bruce Wayne helped him build a new bookshelf one Dick planned to fill with photos. He hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time, not until Bruce accidentally slammed his toe into the corner and tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend it didn’t hurt.
Cassandra Cain helped lay out new rugs none of them white this time.
And together, they hung Damian’s paintings and sketches along the walls, bringing life back into the space.
Making it feel like a home again.
Near the entrance to the living room, above the couch, four framed photos were placed side by side.
John Grayson.
Mary Grayson.
Alfred Pennyworth.
And last—
closest to the door—
Damian Wayne.
Right beside that doorway, carefully secured into the new frame, was the slab of wood Dick had salvaged.
The pencil marks remained untouched.
2018 — 4’3
2019 — 4’5
2020 — 4’6
2021 — 4’8
2022 — 5’0
2023 — 5’2
2024 — 5’5
And just above them a small space left empty.
Saved.
For a long time, no one touched it.
Not Dick.
Not Jason.
Not even Bruce.
It stayed that way through quiet mornings, loud dinners, and nights where the house felt a little too still.
Until one evening Dick stood there alone.
The house was calm, the kind of calm that no longer felt empty.
In his hand was a pencil.
He hesitated, just for a moment, his thumb brushing over the last mark—5’5.
Then, carefully, he reached up.
Not higher.
Not where Damian should have been.
But right where he was.
And beneath it, in smaller writing, steadier than his hands felt, he added:
Always ours.
Dick let out a slow breath, resting his forehead briefly against the wood.
A quiet, broken smile pulled at his lips.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Behind him, unnoticed, Jason Todd lingered in the doorway.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
For once, silence said enough.