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"Wait. WHAT?"

It was a rare night off.

Somehow, Bruce wasn’t brooding.

Somehow, Damian wasn’t stabbing anyone.

Somehow, they were all on the same couch eating takeout and bickering like semi-functional human beings.

Which, of course, meant it couldn’t last.

Jason, halfway through his second box of lo mein, jabbed his chopsticks toward Dick and grinned.

“Hey, Dick,” he said. “Remember when I revealed myself as Red Hood and you thought I was one of your hallucinations?”

There was silence.

Like. Dead. Silence.

Everyone’s heads swiveled toward Dick in perfect synchronization.

Dick froze, dumpling halfway to his mouth. “…Uh.”

Tim squinted. “Hallucinations?”

Damian tilted his head sharply. “Excuse me?”

Even Bruce raised an eyebrow. Which, for Bruce, was the equivalent of spitting out his drink.

Jason, oblivious, just chuckled. “Yeah, man, you were so casual about it. I was trying to be all dramatic, kick your door in, make a big ‘ta-da!’ speech, and you didn’t even flinch. Just told me to go away and kept bandaging yourself.”

He snorted. “Didn’t even believe I was real for, like, a week. Thought I was another one of your creepy guilt ghosts or whatever.”

He popped a noodle in his mouth, completely unconcerned.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family looked like Jason had just announced Dick was secretly a supervillain.

Dick finally groaned, setting his dumpling down.

“Oh my god, guys, don’t look at me like that.”

“‘Look at you like that?!’” Tim squawked. “You were… you were hallucinating Jason?? Like, regularly?!”

“I wouldn’t say regularly.”

“Define ‘regularly,’ Grayson,” Damian snapped.

Jason just grinned wider and leaned back. “Oh, it was regular. I’d show up in his kitchen at, like, 3 a.m. and he’d just go ‘not now, Jay, I’m busy’ and walk away. Like I was the world’s most annoying imaginary friend.”

Dick shot him a look. “You were annoying. Real or not.”

Jason held up his hands in mock surrender.

Tim, however, still looked horrified. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell anyone you were hallucinating your dead brother?!”

Dick shrugged helplessly. “What was I gonna say? ‘Hey guys, you know how Jason died? Well, surprise, I see him in the kitchen sometimes!’ You’d all have locked me in a padded cell.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice quiet and steady.

“…We would have helped.”

Dick winced. “I know. I just… didn’t want to bother anyone. Figured it’d go away eventually.”

Jason, in a rare show of gentleness, reached over and whacked Dick lightly on the back of the head.

“You’re such a dumbass,” he said.

Dick smiled faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

Jason grinned back.

Meanwhile, Damian folded his arms and muttered something about “pathetic coping mechanisms” while also scooting a little closer to Dick.

Tim just kept staring, wide-eyed, like he was re-evaluating his entire childhood.

And Bruce… didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t stop watching Dick for the rest of the night.

Later, though, when Dick stood up to get another soda, Jason called after him:

“Hey! Just so we’re clear—still real.”

Dick rolled his eyes and shot back over his shoulder:

“Not convinced.”

Jason barked a laugh.

"Not Real"

The first time Dick saw Jason after the funeral, it was in the kitchen.

He’d been making coffee at three in the morning, bleary-eyed and shaking after patrol, when a shadow leaned against the counter and drawled:

“You’re out of sugar. Again.”

Dick froze, fingers tight on the mug, because he knew that voice.

When he looked up, Jason was standing there. Taller than he remembered. Older. Arms crossed, smirking, like nothing had changed.

Dick didn’t even think. He threw the mug.

It sailed right through him.

And when he blinked, Jason was gone.

---

That wasn’t the last time.

Jason showed up sometimes when he was tired. Or bleeding. Or just… quiet enough for his brain to get cruel.

Perched on rooftops. Sitting in the back of his car. Slouched on the couch flipping through his mail.

Always with that same half-sarcastic, half-soft tone:

“You look like hell, Goldie.”

“Go to sleep already.”

“You let your left side drop. Dumb.”

Sometimes Dick would talk back. Just to get it out of his system.

“You’re not real,” he’d mutter.

“Never said I was,” the figment would shrug.

So when his front door slammed open one night and a leather-clad man in a red helmet stalked in like he owned the place…

…Dick barely looked up from where he was taping his ribs.

The guy stopped in the middle of his living room, fists on his hips, and said, in a voice that dripped with challenge:

“Miss me, big brother?”

Dick stared at him blankly.

Then: “…Huh.”

---

Jason had this whole speech planned. This whole thing. He’d imagined it all week. The shock, the horror, maybe the tears — all of it. He was ready to throw his helmet at the wall and scream if he had to.

But Dick just… went back to bandaging his ribs.

Jason blinked. “Uh. Did you… hear me? Or are you too busy bleeding out?”

“Don’t care,” Dick muttered. “Go away.”

Jason froze. “Excuse me?”

“I said go away.”

Dick ripped off the tape, wincing, and shot him a sharp, exhausted look.

“You’re not real. You’re never real. Just… let me sleep tonight, okay?”

And just like that, he stood and walked past Jason. Didn’t even look at him again.

Jason just stood there, helmet dangling in his hand, completely thrown off his game.

“…What the hell,” he mumbled.

---

It took Jason hours to figure it out.

He stayed in the apartment, leaning against the doorframe and watching Dick sleep fitfully on the couch, mumbling his name.

It wasn’t until Dick sat up around dawn, bleary and pale and whispering, “I keep seeing you,” that Jason got it.

Oh.

Oh.

This wasn’t shock.

This was routine.

And maybe it shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

---

The next night, Jason came back.

He didn’t storm in this time. Didn’t make a big speech.

He just sat on the counter, helmet by his side, and said quietly:

“Hey. It’s really me this time.”

Dick, half-asleep and halfway through stitching his arm, just snorted.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sure you are.”

Jason didn’t argue.

He just stayed.

Because someday, Dick was gonna believe it.

"Nap Trap"

Wayne Manor was a big house.

Big enough that, at least twice a week, someone misplaced a Robin.

On this particular Tuesday morning, Alfred was making his usual rounds with a tray of tea when he stopped mid-step and stared at the grandfather clock. The secret clock. The one that opened the entrance to the cave.

Because there was a Tim Drake, fast asleep, sitting cross-legged on the little shelf inside the open clock like it was a very strange chair.

Alfred sighed, fondly. He set the tray down.

“Master Tim,” he said gently. “This is neither an ergonomic nor dignified resting place.”

Tim mumbled something unintelligible and rolled his head to the side, narrowly avoiding clunking into the pendulum. He didn’t wake.

Alfred left him. Honestly, there was no point.

---

The next to find him was Dick.

Dick came bounding into the manor around noon with a bag of takeout. “Guess who brought dumplings!” he called. Then he stopped, his eyes catching on the clock.

“…is that…?”

He put the bag down and pulled out his phone, already giggling.

“JAY. C’mere. You have to see this.”

---

Jason stomped up the stairs a moment later, still in his boots. He took one look at Tim curled up in the clock, snoring faintly, and barked a laugh.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. This kid could sleep on a coat rack.”

“He basically is,” Dick grinned, holding up his phone and snapping another photo.

Jason crouched down, staring. “How is he even balanced? Look at his legs. That’s not natural.”

“Years of crimefighting.”

Jason snorted. “Or years of espresso and insomnia catching up to him.”

---

By the time Damian arrived, he already knew something was up—because Dick had texted him a photo captioned:

📸 Your brother is a bat-shaped raccoon. Come see.

Damian glared at the clock, unimpressed.

“Tt. He’s going to get himself crushed by the mechanism if someone closes the door.”

But even he couldn’t help peeking closer, just to make sure Tim wasn’t about to fall and snap his neck.

Dick slung an arm over Damian’s shoulder. “See? Kinda cute, right?”

“…He’s an idiot,” Damian muttered. But he didn’t move away.

---

An hour later, Tim finally stirred. He cracked open one bleary blue eye… only to find all three of his brothers sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the clock, eating dumplings and watching him like he was a nature documentary.

“Wha—” Tim croaked.

“Good afternoon, replacement” Jason said cheerfully, tossing him a bao.

Tim blinked, caught it automatically. “…how long was I out?”

“Couple hours.”

“In the clock??”

“Yep,” Dick said, grinning. “New personal record. Even you have never managed the Clock Shelf before.”

Tim groaned, flopping his head back against the wood. “I hate you guys.”

“No you don’t,” Jason said.

And he didn’t. Not really. Especially when Damian, after pretending to be disgusted, shoved a cup of tea into his hand and muttered:

“…Tt. Don’t fall asleep in there again. It’s unsanitary.”

Tim hid his smile in the steam.

---

Later, when Bruce came home and found four of his kids sitting on the floor eating dumplings in front of the clock, he stopped in the doorway.

He just shook his head, quietly fond, and kept walking.

"The Rooftop"

The rain came down in sheets, slicking the rooftops and making the whole city glow like broken glass under the streetlights.

Bruce was already moving before the call even finished crackling over the comms.

“–Bird down. Repeat. Red Robin down.”

Jason’s voice, sharp and unsteady, filled his earpiece.

He didn’t even bother responding. He just ran.

When he got there, the scene was chaos.

Tim lay sprawled near the edge of the rooftop, half-conscious, his uniform torn and bloody at the side where a knife had found its mark. The rain had already turned the wound into a mess of crimson and water, streaking down the slick tiles beneath him. Jason was crouched at his side, jacket tossed off and pressed tight to Tim’s ribs, trying to stop the bleeding.

Dick was pacing like a caged animal, comms barking to Oracle to call in a medevac. Damian stood stiffly a few feet away, face pale, hands clenched into fists so tight they were shaking.

“–Don’t you dare die on me, Replacement,” Jason growled through gritted teeth. “Do you hear me? You don’t–”

Tim gave the faintest huff of laughter, though it ended in a cough that left more red on his lips than Bruce could stand to see.

Bruce dropped to his knees beside him, his hands already moving, checking vitals, applying pressure. He didn’t say a word — didn’t trust his voice — just met Tim’s eyes and nodded.

“I know,” Tim rasped, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I… I’m okay.”

But his eyelids were already fluttering, and Bruce could feel how fast and shallow his breaths were coming.

“No,” Bruce said flatly. “Stay awake.”

He reached for the line in his cowl. “Where’s that medevac?”

“Two minutes out,” came Barbara’s calm, clipped reply.

Dick dropped to one knee next to them, his gloved hand resting lightly on Tim’s shoulder. “You hear that, Tim? Just two more minutes. You’ve got this.”

Jason’s jaw was tight, his voice low. “You’re too damn stubborn to die anyway. Don’t prove me wrong.”

For once, Damian said nothing. He just stood there, watching, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword so hard Bruce was sure it would snap in two.

Bruce kept his hand on Tim’s chest, kept his eyes on his son’s, willing him to stay with them. He couldn’t — wouldn’t — lose another.

And then, faint but there, Tim’s hand lifted and closed weakly around Bruce’s wrist.

“…’kay,” he whispered. “Still here.”

Bruce let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

When the medevac finally arrived, they loaded Tim up, and Bruce climbed in with him, refusing to let go of his hand.

Outside the helicopter window, Gotham was still shining below. Still broken, still bleeding, but still standing.

It was quiet in Wayne Manor. Too quiet.

Bruce should have known something was up the second he stepped through the study doors. His sons — all of them — were sitting around the big living room table. The sight alone was enough to set off alarm bells.

Dick was grinning. That was rarely good.

Jason looked… smug. Always bad.

Tim was sipping coffee, which meant he was plotting.

And Damian? Damian was scowling, arms crossed, which… okay, that was normal. But still suspicious.

Bruce stopped in his tracks, narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms.

“What are you all doing?”

“Family bonding,” Dick announced, far too brightly. “You’re just in time!”

Jason snorted. “Don’t listen to him. We’re just here to prove who’s the best.”

“Which is me,” Damian cut in, his tone sharp and absolute.

Bruce blinked. “At… what?”

“Monopoly,” Tim deadpanned, and gestured to the board.

Bruce stared at the table. Indeed — Monopoly. The board was already halfway through a brutal-looking game. Piles of fake cash littered the table. The little silver dog was on Park Place. The thimble was somehow upside down in jail. Dick had all the orange properties lined up neatly in front of him, and Jason had amassed what appeared to be… every railroad.

Bruce closed his eyes. He counted to five. It didn’t help. When he opened them again, they were all still there. Waiting expectantly.

“No,” he said firmly, and turned to leave.

“Aw, come on, B,” Jason called after him, grinning. “What’s the matter? Afraid to lose?”

Bruce froze.

And that — as every one of his sons knew — was the wrong thing to say.

He turned back. Slowly. Purposefully.

“Make room,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Dick whooped. “That’s the spirit!”

Bruce sat down at the head of the table, picked up the top hat piece, and surveyed the board with the calm intensity of someone planning a corporate takeover.

Alfred appeared in the doorway, holding a tray of tea. He paused at the sight of the room, taking in the cutthroat Monopoly battle about to unfold.

“Ah,” he said. “Another Wayne family bloodbath.”

“Bring popcorn,” Tim muttered, already calculating mortgage values in his head.

Alfred sighed, shook his head, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Somewhere in the manor, a grandfather clock struck eight. The Bat-Signal was shining over Gotham.

But tonight? Tonight, even Batman could wait.

Family came first.

Even if it ended in disaster.