Dick is singing something off-key from the 2000s, flipping pancakes in a pan that he’s definitely about to burn. Damian is arguing with Tim about the correct temperature for storing eggs. Jason has just opened the fridge and declared they’re out of “the good kind” of milk, which he refuses to define.
Stephanie and Cass are painting glitter on each other’s nails at the table. Cass does not flinch when Steph spills. Duke is sitting cross-legged on the counter eating cereal out of a measuring cup.
Bruce, standing in the doorway, has not yet been noticed. He doesn’t know how to enter this scene.
He was supposed to be reviewing mission footage. He meant to be upstairs for ten minutes. The house wasn’t like this when he left it.
Now—sunlight. Laughter. Shoes on the counter. Someone left the window open and Alfred is going to be livid. There’s a trail of muddy bootprints across the tile from where Damian brought the goat in last night (long story, not relevant). It smells like cinnamon and acetone and home.
Dick catches sight of him first. “Bruce!” he beams. “Want a pancake?”
Cass waves at him, glittery. Jason, at the sink, mutters something about “old man caffeine dependency” and slides him a mug of coffee. There is exactly one sip left in it. Bruce takes it without speaking.
There is no mission. No costume. No emergency. Just…this.
Instead, he leans against the counter, lets the noise wash over him. Listens to Damian yell “YOU CAN’T MICROWAVE EGGS,” and Stephanie reply “It’s called innovation, baby,” and Tim mutter “we’re going to die.”
Somewhere beneath the chaos, he feels it: that ache of love that comes not all at once, but slowly. Like sunlight inching across cold stone.
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