No one wanted to be the one to say it. They'd all seen it - the mullet phase, the disco collar era, the fingerstripes that somehow extended to his fingers (??), and whatever that first Nightwing suit was (Jason calls it the "disco chicken" behind Dick's back). But today was the final straw.

Dick waltzed into the manor wearing high-waisted jeans that should have stayed in 1985, paired with a hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal a neon tank top underneath. His hair was gelled in that specific way that screamed "I think this looks GREAT" while everyone else silently suffered.

"What?" Dick asked, noticing everyone's stares as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. "Is there something on my face?"

Jason, leaning against the doorway in his perfectly distressed leather jacket and artfully tousled hair, just snorted. "Yeah. Your entire fashion sense."

Tim, looking effortlessly put-together in his simple black hoodie and jeans (that actually fit this decade), didn't even look up from his tablet. "I've been compiling evidence for months. You have approximately 37 pairs of the exact same ugly jeans, Dick. Thirty-seven."

"My clothes are comfortable AND stylish!" Dick protested, doing a little spin that made the hawaiian shirt flare out in a way that physically hurt Damian's eyes.

"Grayson," Damian said with all the disgust a 13-year-old prince raised by assassins could muster, "I was trained from birth to withstand torture. Your wardrobe tests the limits of that training."

Bruce, who had been suspiciously quiet during this intervention, finally looked up from his newspaper.

"He was in the circus, guys."

That was it. That was his entire contribution.

Alfred, passing through with a tea tray, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "explains the colors, not the taste level."

Dick just grinned and ran a hand through his gel-crusted hair, somehow making it worse. "You're all just jealous of my signature style!"

Jason made a gagging noise. "Is your signature style 'color-blind time traveler'?"