Tim is sitting on the kitchen counter. He knows full well he is not supposed to- Alfred has explicitly mentioned that butts are not made for sitting on counters, and counters were not made for butts to sit on.
But it’s midnight, and Jason hasn’t been home for three days. Longer since they’ve seen him, but three days since he’s been gone. It shouldn’t leave Tim as flustered as he is. Jason can be gone for up to weeks at a time. It’s not uncommon. It’s not something to be particularly worried about. Sure, it pisses Bruce off- for Christ’s sake, the kid is only 16, he should be at home- but by Jason standards, three days is practically no time at all.
But something feels different this time.
So Tim is sitting on the counter. He knows that the kitchen will be the first place Jason checks in after a mission. Tim knows that, any minute now, Jason will come gliding through the swinging door, graceful as ever, already half out of costume, and on the hunt for one or two or seven of Alfred’s amazing gingersnaps. The ones he makes specially for Jason.
If Tim could just stay awake long enough, he would be the first to see his big brother return. And when he does, Jason will ruffle his hair, throw his cape across Tim’s shoulders, and playfully scold him for being out of bed so late.
But it’s past one o'clock now, and little Timmy can’t keep his eyes open. He hops down from the counter, stumbles across to the kitchen table, clambers up, and dozes off. He’ll still be the first to greet Jason, he’s sure of it.
It’s one-thirty now, and Tim wakes to the sound of dragging feet and big yawns. He pretends to sleep, determined to give Jason a surprise when he walks through the door.
But it’s not Jason. It’s Dick, wrapped in a blanket and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“What are you doing in the kitchen?”
He knows Tim isn’t asleep. There’s no fooling Dick.
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?”
But Dick has that knowing look in his eyes, the inescapably knowing big brother look that he has mastered over the years. He doesn’t even know when he’s using it.
Dick climbs up onto the table and pulls Tim into his side.
“Do you think he’ll come soon?”
“I don’t know.” But his voice breaks. Dick knows, he just won’t say. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
But Tim won’t go. He’s promised himself he’ll see Jason, and there’s no way he’s going to bed now. So Dick pulls his blanket across Tim and they curl up together on the table. Soon enough, they both doze off.
Dick won’t admit it, but he had come down to the kitchen to investigate the sounds of snoring and shuffling. He had hoped it was Jason.
It’s three-twelve when the sound of tiny footsteps wakes Dick. Tim is still fast asleep, curled into Dick’s side. And Dick knows that sound. It’s tiny little Damian, out of bed and wandering the mansion. He does so when he can sense the tension in the house. He does so when he knows something is wrong, although he can’t communicate that yet.
When tiny Damian pushes open the big swinging door, staring open-mouthed at his brothers on the kitchen table, eyes glassy with exhaustion, Dick wordlessly scoops him up and tucks him into his other side, a brother under each arm. It warm, it’s comfortable, but it’s not enough. There is supposed to be a third brother, one to hold onto Tim’s empty side. He isn’t here. Tim scoots closer to Dick, and Dick’s heart breaks.
It’s seven-thirty when Alfred enters the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of tangled limbs and mops of black hair sprawled across the breakfast table. As much as he would like to believe it is due to the shock at finding three of his grandsons sleeping in the kitchen, it is truly due to disappointment. He had hoped it was the fourth grandson he had heard fumbling around in the night.
It is eight-thirty when Bruce finally steps into the kitchen. And he stops. And he stares. Dick, his eldest, is sitting on the edge of the counter, an arm around each of his youngest brothers. The three of them have their heads bowed, and they do not stir upon hearing Bruce enter. Their tangles of black hair and rumpled pjs flow from one into the next, and Bruce swears his boys could be a single living entity in this moment, living, breathing, worrying together as one.
Alfred is sitting in a wooden chair in the corner, shoulders slumped, staring blankly into space. He hasn’t made breakfast, he hasn’t even put clothes on. He’s sitting in his robe, an empty look painted on his face, wiping all emotion from his features.
Bruce can’t blame them. He didn’t sleep a wink last night. He could swear he heard Jason shuffling around in the kitchen.
Without wasting his breath on “good morning"s that will go unheard through the breaks in his voice, Bruce simply pulls open the fridge and begins to pull out edible arrangements leftover from the funeral.
“Dear Wayne family,” reads one, “Our condolences. He will be missed. Signed, the GCPD.”
“Dear Bruce,” reads another, “I’m so sorry for the loss of your son. C. Kent .”
“Dear Bruce, We will all miss Jason. He was something special. Well wishes, S. Kyle.”
