Chapter Text
The Watchtower meeting room was cold. Metal, glass, and silence—Batman's preferred atmosphere for discussing matters that might end worlds. Clark had always found it unnecessarily sterile. Diana seemed to accept it as necessary. Hal simply looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"The proposal is simple," Clark began, keeping his voice even. "We need to formalize a leadership succession plan. We need to bring in younger members who can connect with the next generation of heroes."
The silence stretched. The League had danced around this topic for years, a necessary evolution that no one wanted to be the first to explicitly name.
"I nominate Nightwing," Clark said.
All heads turned toward Bruce.
Clark watched him closely. This was the moment. For years, Bruce had resisted any official League involvement for Nightwing. No one was exactly sure why.
Bruce's face was unreadable behind the cowl. The room held its collective breath.
"I support the recommendation," Bruce said.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Clark exchanged a look with Diana. Her eyebrows had raised nearly to her hairline.
Hal leaned back in his chair, the metal groaning. "Whoa. Okay. That's… not what I was expecting."
"I'm surprised as well," Diana admitted, her voice measured. "You've rejected similar proposals twice before, Bruce. What's changed?"
Bruce steepled his fingers. The motion was familiar, a self-soothing gesture he probably didn't realize he made. "The world has changed. So have I. So has he."
He looked away from Diana, toward the vast starfield visible through the panoramic window. His voice, when he spoke again, was lower. "He's led the Titans successfully for years. He's carved out a territory in Blüdhaven that was deemed ungovernable. He's managed intergalactic crises, magical threats, and diplomatic standoffs with a finesse I… couldn't always manage. He has alliances with younger heroes I can't access. He's ready."
Clark felt a strange warmth spread through his chest. That was more than a professional assessment. That was pride. Unfiltered, almost paternal. It was as alien as anything they'd fought.
"I agree," Diana said, her tone shifting from surprised to pleased. "Wholeheartedly. But I'll ask again, Bruce. Are you certain? This isn't just a role. It will put him in a position of authority over seasoned Leaguers. It will bring a level of scrutiny he's never faced."
Bruce turned back from the window. The white lenses of his cowl seemed to fix directly on Diana. "I am certain. Nightwing was meant for greatness. The only surprise is that I took so long to see it clearly."
The quiet sincerity in that statement landed like a punch to the gut. Hal Jordan was suddenly fascinated by the surface of the conference table. Clark had to actively resist the urge to fly over and check Bruce for signs of shape-shifter infiltration.
Diana simply nodded, a slow, thoughtful smile touching her lips. "Then we have our first nominee. And given your endorsement, I doubt there will be any opposition."
"There won't be," Bruce confirmed.
"Excellent," Clark said, deciding to push forward before the strange atmosphere could settle. "There's one more name I'd like to put forward for consideration. Flamebird."
This time, the reaction was more uniform: confusion.
"Flamebird?" Hal leaned forward. "Wally West? I like the kid, don't get me wrong. He's fast as hell. But League level?"
"He's more than just speed, Hal," Bruce countered, and Clark had to fight the urge to rub his eyes. Another endorsement? Was Bruce ill? "His work with the Titans, with the Young Justice team, has been exemplary. He's a strategic mind, and crucially, he's a bridge. Between the Flash legacy and the new generation. Between science and… other approaches. He's earned it."
Again, that almost personal investment. Clark couldn't shake the feeling he was watching a play where everyone but him had been given the script. "He also is 27 the same age you joined the league at." Clark reminded. " We are looking at the next generation because we have forgotten them until now."
"A fair point," Diana conceded, nodding slowly. "And you make a compelling case, Bruce. Two new inductees then. From the same generation, from the same team. This could work."
There was a general murmur of agreement around the table, though Hal still looked skeptical. The foundation was laid.
"Now, the question of informing them," Clark said, steering the meeting to its logical conclusion. "We should do this in person."
"My team will handle outreach," Bruce said immediately. "I'll speak with Nightwing myself."
Another pause. Hal and Diana exchanged another one of those looks that spoke volumes. Batman handling delicate personnel matters personally? Clark made a mental note to check the Watchtower's atmospheric filters for any strange gasses.
"Very well," Diana said finally. "Let us know how it goes."
Bruce gave a curt nod and rose from his chair, the movement abrupt. "I'll be in the Cave." Then he was gone, the doors sighing shut behind him.
The remaining three Leaguers sat in the ensuing silence for a full ten seconds.
Barry broke it, swiveling in his chair to face Clark. "Okay. What the hell was that?"
Clark leaned back, mirroring Diana's thoughtful posture. "I'm not entirely sure."
"He practically read Nightwing's resume from memory," Barry continued, incredulous. "And the Flamebird thing? He's never even worked with Flamebird on any major League operation. He sounded like… a...like I don't even know. How does he know my nephew so well? That is terrifying."
"He sounded proud," Diana said, her voice low and contemplative. "And sad."
Clark nodded. That was it. The strange combination of emotions that had made the whole interaction feel profoundly wrong. "Proud of Nightwing's accomplishments, yes. But also… regretful. As if he's just realizing what he's been missing."
"Maybe he's finally getting over whatever grudge he's been holding," Hal suggested, tapping a rhythm on the table. "Dick's a good guy. Maybe they finally had a talk, cleared the air."
"Perhaps," Diana said, though she sounded unconvinced. "But there was something else. A deference. When he said he would speak to Nightwing himself… it wasn't the tone of a senior officer informing a subordinate. It felt like he was asking for a favor."
Clark's mind raced. Deference. Pride. Sadness. Bruce's sudden, uncharacteristic support for two heroes he'd previously ignored. It didn't add up. It was like looking at two sides of a coin that shouldn't exist together.
***
The Zeta-Tube announced its arrival with a familiar wash of blue light. Dick Grayson stepped out onto the cold metal floor of the Batcave, the acrid scent of ozone and old stone hitting him instantly. He'd been gone for three days, helping with a flood relief effort in the Philippines with the Titans. Three days of civilian clothes, exhaustion, and the simple satisfaction of making a difference without the weight of the cowl.
Now this.
Bruce stood by the massive computer, back turned, staring at the cascading data streams. The same posture he'd had for twenty years. The same posture he probably had when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
"You wanted to see me?" Dick's voice echoed slightly in the vast space.
Bruce turned. His face was shadowed, but Dick could feel the intensity of his gaze. "There's a meeting next week. At the Watchtower."
"Okay," Dick said, crossing his arms. He waited. There was always more.
"The Justice League is expanding. Formalizing a succession plan." Bruce's words were clipped, precise. "They're inducting new members. Younger members."
Dick's stomach tightened. This again. "And you told them no."
A beat of silence. The kind that in the Batcave felt like a geological epoch. "No," Bruce said. "I told them yes."
Dick froze. He replayed the words in his head, certain he'd misheard. "Come again?"
"I am recommending you for a position on the Justice League," Bruce said, each word distinct, as if he were reading from a script he hadn't fully memorized. "And Wally. Flamebird."
The silence this time was all Dick's. His mind went completely blank, then raced through a dozen impossible scenarios. A mind-control plot. A clone. A hallucination brought on by bad street food in Manila. He searched Bruce's face for any tell, any crack in the granite facade that would betray the joke.
"Okay," Dick finally managed, his own voice sounding foreign to him. "What's the catch?"
Bruce flinched. It was microscopic, a fractional tightening of the jaw muscle, but Dick had spent a lifetime learning to read those tells. The flinch itself was a language.
"There isn't one," Bruce said. The words were too quick, too defensive.
"Right," Dick said, letting a little of his old skepticism creep back in. It felt more comfortable than this strange, hollowed-out feeling. "So after blocking my nomination twice—once when I was twenty-two, once when I was twenty-six—you've just… changed your mind? No reason? You just woke up this morning and thought, 'Gosh, Dick has earned my trust'?"
"I always trusted you, Dick." The words were low, rough.
"Then what was it?" Dick pushed, taking a step closer. "Was it Blüdhaven? Was it that you were afraid I'd bring the city's grime into your pristine space station? Or was it just easier to keep me at arm's length, where you could pretend I was still just your little soldier boy?"
Bruce's shoulders slumped, just an inch. It was the equivalent of a full collapse for anyone else. "It was never about trust."
"Then what, Bruce?" Dick's voice wasn't angry anymore. It was just tired. "Because I've spent years trying to figure it out. I have theories. A lot of them. None of them are flattering."
"You deserve it." Bruce's voice was barely a whisper, and he still wasn't looking at Dick. He was looking at a spot on the floor about three feet to Dick's left, as if the answers were written in the limestone. "That's all. You've earned it. There's no catch."
The words landed with the weight of a mountain. You deserve it. A younger Dick would have wept with relief. The Dick standing here today only felt the old scar tissue throb. Those words had been a ghost at his feast for decades, something he'd craved so badly it had twisted him into shapes he didn't recognize. Now that they were finally spoken, they felt… insufficient. They felt late.
He looked away, toward the display case. The glass was pristine, reflecting the dim light. Inside, the old Robin uniform was preserved. It looked so small.
"You're right," Dick said, the fight draining out of him, leaving behind a quiet ache. "The catch is that you said them now."
He heard Bruce's sharp intake of breath. That was it. The core of it. Not the rejection, not the obstruction, but the timing. The timing that made it feel less like an offer and more like an apology offered too late to fix anything.
Dick pushed the feeling down. He'd learned to do that. compartmentalize. Tuck the pain away in a neat little box labeled 'Deal With Later' and focus on the problem at hand. The problem was that Batman was nominating him for the Justice League.
"Fine," Dick said, his tone all business now. "Wally and I will discuss it. We'll give you an answer."
"You'll say yes," Bruce stated, a flicker of the old certainty in his voice.
"You don't know that."
"I do." Bruce finally looked at him. His eyes, even in the shadow of the cowl, were intense. "This is what you've always wanted."
Dick held his gaze. He wanted to say, Not like this. Not from you. Not now. But what came out was, "What changed?"
The question hung between them, fragile and sharp. Bruce's jaw worked. He looked away again, toward the tumbling data streams.
"I realized I was holding you back," he said, the words sounding like they'd been torn from him. "I realized… I've been holding a lot of people back."
It was as close to an admission of fault as Dick had ever heard. It still wasn't enough.
"Okay," Dick said, the word flat. "I'll talk to Wally. We'll call you."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked back toward the Zeta-Tube, the weight of Bruce's stare heavy on his shoulders. He didn't look back. He never looked back anymore.
***
The house in Blüdhaven never tried to be anything it wasn't. It was a narrow, three-story brownstone, squeezed between a laundromat that always smelled faintly of bleach and a bodega that sold suspiciously good produce. To anyone else, it was just another building in a city that chewed people up and spat them out. To Dick, it was the quiet center of the universe.
He opened the front door and the smell hit him immediately. Not the sterile, cold stone of the Cave. This was garlic, sizzling olive oil, and the faint, sweet scent of Wally's cinnamon-apple candle burning on the mantelpiece. The air was warm, lived-in. Pairs of shoes were piled near the door like a small, chaotic sculpture of their lives. From the kitchen, he could hear the low thrum of a familiar argument.
"No, that's not how it works! The kinetic energy transfer would create a feedback loop that would literally melt the gauntlet!"
"You're underestimating the dwarf star alloy's capacity for heat dissipation, and you know it!"
"It's not just about heat, it's about maintaining the structural integrity of the power conduits!"
Dick smiled, the tension from the Batcave already beginning to unknot in his shoulders. He hung up his jacket on the crowded coat rack, next to Wally's Flash jacket and a high-school letterman's jacket he didn't recognize but knew belonged to Jon.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen.
The scene was perfect. Damian, sixteen years old and still somehow growing, stood at the stove, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder, expertly dicing vegetables with a knife that moved almost too fast to see. He wore a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his dark hair slightly mussed. He was focused, intense, radiating that particular brand of al Ghul concentration that could be terrifying in the field but was endearing when applied to garlic and onions.
Wally leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, a mock-scowl on his face. He was in civilian clothes, a worn-out band t-shirt and jeans, vibrating with restless energy. Jon sat at the small kitchen table, a textbook open in front of him, a spoon halfway to his mouth, clearly enjoying the show.
"The feedback loop is a theoretical possibility, not a certainty!" Damian insisted, not looking up from his cutting board. "A calculated risk is preferable to guaranteed failure. Your modification would render the gauntlet's primary function useless in any high-stakes scenario."
"My modification would prevent it from becoming a bomb on your arm!" Wally countered, gesturing wildly. "I'm talking about basic safety protocols, Damian! You can't optimize for pure power output and ignore the fact that it could literally take your arm off at the elbow!"
"That's a negligible risk when compared to the strategic advantage!"
"It's your arm!" Wally pushed off the counter and crossed the small kitchen in two strides. Jon grinned into his textbook.
Damian finally looked up, green fire in his eyes. "A tactical asset I am willing to risk if it means preventing a Class-3 extinction event."
"You are not a tactical asset!" Wally's voice rose, frustration and worry warring in his tone. "You are my son! There is a difference!"
"I am well aware of the distinction," Damian snapped back, his grip on the knife tightening. "I am capable of making the necessary calculations."
"You're sixteen! You're not supposed to be calculating the statistical probability of your own dismemberment!"
"It's 12.7 percent!" Damian shot back. "Acceptable!"
"It is not acceptable!" Wally threw his hands up in exasperation. "Anything over zero is not acceptable! What part of 'I would like you to keep all your original limbs' is confusing you?"
Jon finally piped up, not looking up from his book. "I think Dami's point is that the 12.7 percent only applies if you're simultaneously fighting three meta-humans and a small army of robots during a solar flare. The baseline probability is way lower."
Damian shot him a grateful look. "Thank you, Jon."
Wally narrowed his eyes at Jon. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying," Jon said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, "the math is the math."
"There is more than math at stake here!" Wally insisted, turning back to Damian. He stepped forward, invading Damian's personal space, all traces of playfulness gone. "This isn't one of your video games, D. You don't get extra lives."
"And you don't get to dictate tactical modifications to my equipment," Damian retorted, his chin jutting out. "You're a speedster. You don't understand the intricacies of sustained combat."
"I understand the intricacies of you coming home in one piece!"
"And I understand the necessity of minimizing collateral damage and neutralizing threats efficiently!"
The kitchen was electric with the force of their argument. The air crackled. Dick watched from the doorway, a fond smile touching his lips. This was the symphony of his home. The fierce, protective love that sounded exactly like a fight.
"I swear to god," Wally said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. "You're going to be the death of me."
"I would endeavor to make it quick," Damian said, a hint of his old arrogance creeping back in. "Least you could do."
Jon closed his textbook with a soft thud. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He crossed the small kitchen with a lazy, confident grace that was pure Kent. Damian tracked his movement, still coiled with righteous indignation.
Without breaking stride, Jon leaned in.
He kissed Damian.
It wasn't a long kiss. It was just a press of lips against the corner of Damian's mouth, quick and proprietary. A punctuation mark.
Damian froze. The tirade he was about to launch died in his throat. A flush, starting at the collar of his t-shirt, crept up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a color that had nothing to do with anger. He stared at the cutting board as if it had just revealed the secrets of the universe. The knife in his hand wavered, then was set down with an exaggeratedly careful click.
"You," Damian said, his voice a strangled whisper. "Are an unfair opponent."
Jon just grinned, that lopsided, sunny grin that could disarm terrorists. "Worked, didn't it?"
Wally threw his hands up, a gesture of pure, theatrical defeat. "Oh, I see how it is. I get the lecture about acceptable risk percentages, and he gets the… that." He gestured vaguely at Jon. "I see where the real power in this relationship lies."
"There is only power where you permit it to exist, Dad," Damian said, straightening up and attempting, and failing, to regain his composure. He wouldn't look at any of them. He focused very intently on scooping the diced onions into the sizzling pan. The sound of them hitting the hot oil was a loud, aggressive hiss.
"That is such a Damian thing to say," Jon said, laughing as he leaned against the counter next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He snagged a piece of bell pepper from Damian's cutting board and popped it into his mouth. Damian pointedly ignored him.
It was then that Dick let out the laugh he'd been holding. It wasn't a chuckle. It was a full-body release, a laugh that started deep in his chest and shook him free. The last of the tension, the lingering chill from the Cave, the ghost of Bruce's words—it all evaporated in the warm, noisy, chaotic perfection of this room.
"Welcome home, Baba," Damian said, not looking up from the stove, but the affection in the title was unmistakable.
"Home," Dick agreed, the word feeling more true than it ever did in the Manor. He crossed the kitchen in two steps and wrapped both Jon and Damian in a one-armed hug, squeezing them tightly. Jon laughed and hugged him back. Damian stayed rigid for a full second before he relaxed, melting into the embrace for just a moment, a rare, unguarded gesture that Dick cherished. "Alright, alright," Dick said, releasing them. "Break it up, you two. What's for dinner? And more importantly, is there enough for two more mouths?"
Before Damian could answer with a withering comment about his ability to cook for a speedster let alone his family or the precision of his measurements, the front door slammed open, followed by the thud of heavy combat boots on the hardwood floor.
"If there's not enough, we're ordering pizza," a familiar, gravelly voice called out. "I'm starving."
Tim Drake appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and exhausted. His Red Robin jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he was squinting at the bright kitchen light as if he'd just emerged from a cave of his own. He took in the scene: Damian at the stove, Wally looking put-upon, and Jon looking smug. His eyes immediately found the schematics Wally had brought up on the tablet lying on the counter.
"Oh, god," Tim said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Not this again."
"He's trying to get himself dismembered!" Wally accused, pointing a thumb at Damian.
"I am trying to prevent a city-wide catastrophe!" Damian shot back, pointing the knife at Wally.
Tim ignored them both. He leaned over the tablet, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by sharp focus. "Let me see. The gauntlet... the power routing... okay, I see the problem." He looked up at Damian, then at Wally, then back at the tablet. "He's right, you know."
"He is not!" Wally and Damian said in perfect, outraged unison.
"Not about the risk being acceptable," Tim clarified, holding up a placating hand. "I'm with you, Wally. Any non-zero percentage of limb loss is unacceptable for my favorite—and only—nephew."
Damian made a strangled noise of protest but Tim rolled on, pointing at the screen. "But the feedback loop he's talking about is a real, calculable eventuality with this design. The heat dissipation is insufficient for sustained output above ninety percent."
"So you're saying we should nerf it?" Jon asked, stealing another piece of pepper.
"I'm saying we should reinforce it," Tim countered, a gleam in his eye. "Add a redundant cooling system, maybe an adamantium weave to the power conduits. You could probably even boost the output safely if you reroute the energy through the central chassis."
Damian looked from Tim to the tablet, a slow smile of dawning comprehension spreading across his face. It was the look of a predator who had just found a new, more interesting prey. "A redundant system..."
"Exactly," Tim said, already grabbing a stylus and starting to sketch modifications directly onto the tablet's surface. "We could build in a failsafe that automatically vents excess energy if it reaches a critical threshold."
"It would compromise the sleek profile," Damian mused, leaning closer to the screen, their heads bent together in shared concentration.
"The sleek profile won't matter if your arm looks like a burnt piece of bacon," Wally muttered, though he was watching them both with reluctant admiration.
"Ah, family arguments about weapon design," a new voice drawled from the doorway. "Truly brings a tear to my eye. Nothing says 'home' like debating the optimal way to not get blown up."
Jason Todd leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused. He wore a well-worn leather jacket over a dark hoodie, and there was a familiar duffel bag slung over his shoulder, no doubt filled with an alarming assortment of firearms and explosives. His presence didn't so much enter the room as it filled the spaces between the words, a chaotic counterpoint to the controlled energy of the others.
"Jay!" Jon's face lit up. He moved to hug him, and Jason clapped him on the back, a genuine, easy affection in the gesture.
"Super brat. Keeping this one out of trouble?" Jason asked, jerking a thumb toward Damian, who had straightened up and was now glaring at him with theatrical disdain.
"Someone has to," Jon retorted. "He was about to volunteer to be a one-armed wonder."
"My limbs are perfectly safe," Damian sniffed. "Unlike your brain after one of Uncle Jason's 'educational' movie nights."
Jason laughed, a rough, genuine sound. He sauntered further into the kitchen, dropping his bag with a heavy thud by the door. He peered over Tim's shoulder at the tablet. "Ooh, new toys. Let me guess. Little D wants to crank it to eleven and the little Flamebird is threatening to ground him for a century."
"A succinct, if crass, summary," Damian allowed.
Jason's eyes scanned the schematic, an expert's gaze. "You know," he said, tapping a gloved finger on the power core diagram, "for something this powerful, the failsafe is weak. You're relying on software to prevent a hardware catastrophe. Bad idea."
"The software is flawless," Damian insisted.
"Nothing's flawless, kiddo," Jason countered, a strange light in his eyes. "Trust me. I've made a career out of finding the flaws." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Look. You want to make it so it can't blow up in your face unless you really, really mean it? You gotta build a physical lock. A series of redundant mechanical triggers. Think of my helmet rig."
Dick felt Wally tense beside him. Everyone in the room knew what Jason was referring to. The bomb Jason had once rigged in his own helmet, a final, desperate card to play. A weapon that could only be detonated by a sequence of specific, deliberate actions, making accidental discharge impossible.
"You built in a triple-redundant dead man's switch," Tim said, looking up from the tablet with grudging respect. "Two pressure plates in the lining and a sub-dermal palm switch."
"And," Jason added with a grim smile, "a timer that couldn't be disarmed once started. I wanted to make sure even I couldn't chicken out."
The room went quiet. The memory was a cold one, a ghost from a darker time. Jon shifted uncomfortably beside Damian, who had gone very still.
"So," Jason said, breaking the silence, his tone shifting back to casual as he straightened up. "You apply that logic here. You want to vent the energy, you gotta pop three separate catches, one on the gauntlet, one on the chest plate, and one you gotta trigger with a specific sequence of finger movements. That way, no stray energy surge or lucky hit from a bad guy is going to make you pop your own arm like a zit."
"That's… actually a brilliant design philosophy," Tim admitted, looking at the tablet with renewed interest. "It's not about preventing the failure, it's about controlling the failure."
"Controlled demolition," Jason said with a shrug. "Works for buildings. Works for bombs. Might just work for a teenager's death ray."
"Alright," Dick said, stepping forward and putting a gentle but firm hand on the tablet, closing the cover. His voice was warm but left no room for argument. "That's enough shop talk for one night. Jason, we're glad you're here. We're also not building a dead man's switch into our son's gauntlet over dinner."
"But—"
"No," Dick said, looking at Damian. "We can workshop tactical innovations tomorrow. After school. And homework. Tonight, we eat."
Damian's shoulders, which had been tense with creative fervor, relaxed. He gave a short, sharp nod of acquiescence. "Of course, Baba." He turned back to the stove, and the professional ease returned to his movements. He added the final spices, stirred the pot with a decisive flourish, and then began arranging a frankly comical spread of food on the counters.
There was the curry, fragrant and steaming in a massive pot. A mountain of fluffy white rice. A basket piled high with warm, soft naan bread. Bowls of raita, mango chutney, and a bright green cilantro-lime sauce. A platter of roasted vegetables, glistening with olive oil and herbs. It was a feast, an unabashed, joyous declaration of sustenance.
Everyone moved in tandem. Jon and Jason grabbed plates and cutlery. Tim helped Wally carry the platters to the already-crowded dining table. Dick poured glasses of water and milk. It was a chaotic, unchoreographed dance they had performed a hundred times, a ballet of clinking dishes and overlapping conversation.
As they settled into their places—a mixture of mismatched chairs around a table that was slightly too small for all of them—Jon leaned over and kissed Damian on the cheek. "It all looks amazing, D."
"Stop that," Damian mumbled, but there was no heat in it. A faint pink colored his cheeks again as he spooned a generous portion of curry onto Jon's plate.
"Oh, stop it yourself," Jason retorted from across the table, earning a kick under the table from Tim. "What? I'm just saying. If they get any cuter, we're all going to get cavities."
"Says the man who brought Jon an illegal firework for his sixteenth birthday," Dick shot back, passing the naan basket to Jason.
"A practical lesson in chemistry and trajectory," Jason said, unrepentant. "Hardly the same as googly eyes at the dinner table."
Damian, instead of bristling as he might have years ago, simply ducked his head, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. He carefully served himself, then looked up, his gaze sweeping over the table. "Thank you," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "For making it."
The table went still for a beat. The gratitude wasn't for the food. It was for the gathering. For the being here.
"Wouldn't miss it," Jason said, his usual smirk softening into something genuine. "I like my internal organs right where they are. I want to avoid that promise to rearrange them if I missed a second family dinner this year."
"A threat I fully intend to follow through on," Damian confirmed, spearing a piece of roasted zucchini with unnecessary force.
"He's getting so good at expressing himself," Wally said to the table at large, his voice brimming with a pride so potent it was almost a physical force. He reached across the table and ruffled Damian's hair, an action that was tolerated with only a minimal eye-roll. "Makes a man's heart swell."
Dick watched them, a warm, profound sense of rightness settling in his chest. This. This was the reason the Batcave felt like a museum and the Watchtower felt like a boardroom. This loud, loving, chaotic tangle of people was the center of his world. He caught Damian's eye as the boy took a bite of curry, and for a second, the sixteen-year-old hero vanished, and all Dick could see was the little boy who used to stand ramrod straight at attention, waiting for orders. He winked, and Damian, after a brief, startled pause, winked back. It was their language, a shorthand of shared history and unbreakable bonds.