The Batcave was cloaked in shadows and silence, broken only by the flickering glow of multiple monitors. Gotham's endless chaos unfolded across them-riot reports, traffic cams, police scanners. But Bruce's eyes were locked on one screen in particular.
Grainy security footage.
Timestamp: 2:43 a.m.
Location: East Trident Vehicle Lot.
The flames were vivid even in low-res black and white. Car after car ignited in sequence. Methodical. Precise. Efficient.
He watched the silhouette slip between shadows. Unidentifiable by the camera's grain-but the way the figure moved... fluid, agile, purposeful...
He didn't need facial recognition software.
He knew it was Dick.
And he hated it.
Behind him, quiet footsteps approached, and then-
Clink.
A tray of tea settled on the arm of the workstation chair. Alfred stood beside him, ever the perfect mixture of concern and poise.
"You've watched that footage five times now, sir," Alfred said gently. "Perhaps that's enough self-torture for one morning?"
Bruce didn't respond immediately. He hit rewind again, watching the fire spread. Watching Dick disappear into the darkness.
Alfred folded his hands behind his back. "Has Master Dick... reached out? Sent any word?"
"No," Bruce said flatly.
A pause.
"Not since the mission began."
Alfred exhaled quietly. "I see."
There was more to be said, but he chose his next words carefully. "And what of your messages, sir? Have you sent any since he first went under?"
Bruce's jaw tightened. "He knows what's at stake."
"He also knows what loneliness feels like," Alfred replied, not unkindly. "You could remind him he isn't truly alone in that owl's nest."
Silence stretched between them.
Alfred gently pushed the tea closer. "Speaking of nests... the family is upstairs."
Bruce finally glanced at him.
"Family?"
"Indeed. Sunday dinner. Remember?" Alfred arched a brow. "Master Jason brought dessert. Miss Stephanie and Master Tim are trying not to argue about who's doing dishes. And Miss Barbara is with Cassandra on the back balcony."
Bruce frowned slightly, as if realizing the day of the week for the first time.
"I arranged this over a week ago," Alfred added, a note of pointed insistence in his tone. "You've spent three nights down here without rest. Perhaps now is the time to look up from the fire and remind yourself why you fight."
"I can't-"
"You can," Alfred interrupted gently, but firmly. "And you should."
He paused, then added in a quieter voice:
"They're your children, Bruce. They don't just need you as Batman. Sometimes... they just need you."
Bruce stared at the screen for a long moment-at the roaring blaze, the ghosts moving through it.
Then he reached forward and powered the monitor off.
A long breath.
And then he stood.
"Five minutes," he said quietly.
Alfred gave a small, satisfied nod.
"I'll make sure there's a seat for you at the table. And perhaps-if we're lucky-you'll even crack a smile."
Bruce didn't answer. But as they walked toward the manor's lift, something flickered in his eyes.
Not hope.
But maybe the memory of it.
Wayne Manor's dining room was a rare place of warmth. The long mahogany table was set with Alfred's signature precision-fresh bread, steaming dishes, polished silverware, and more than a few mismatched mugs that had quietly replaced formal china over the years.
The Bat-family-impossibly fractured at times, yet always orbiting each other-gathered around the table like a well-worn constellation.
Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head as Duke munched on a bread roll beside him.
"I'm just saying," Duke said with a mouthful, "Blüdhaven's weird. That place is Gotham's younger, angrier cousin. And somehow dirtier."
"I'll second that," Damian muttered, sipping from a mug. "One of the muggers tried to rob me with a harpoon. Where do people even get those?"
Tim, seated across from them, chuckled softly. "It's not that bad."
Jason snorted. "Says the guy who nearly got chased off a rooftop by a drunk vigilante calling himself 'The Blüdhaven Bat.'"
"I told you that was a misunderstanding."
"Uh-huh. And the guy thinking you were his cousin Jeremy was also a misunderstanding?"
"Can we not bring up Jeremy again?" Tim groaned.
Laughter rippled around the table, easing some of the tension that had hung in the air since they'd all arrived. Even Damian cracked a slight smirk.
But the moment shifted when Tim's eyes wandered to the edge of the room-where Barbara sat by the window, quietly nursing a cup of tea. She hadn't really spoken much. Just the occasional smile, a nod here or there. Her posture was composed, but the weariness clung to her shoulders in a way none of them could ignore anymore.
Tim nudged Jason's arm, then gestured subtly toward her. "Have either of you noticed...?" he lowered his voice slightly, "She's been off since Dick left."
Jason followed his gaze, frowning. "You mean more than usual?"
Tim nodded. "Yeah. She used to keep the Belfry buzzing. Always running ops, field reports, surveillance analysis. Now... I don't know. She just seems sad."
Duke leaned forward. "You think she's worried about Dick?"
Damian scoffed. "Tch. He's probably sitting in some Eastern European penthouse with a fireplace and tactical spreadsheets."
"No," Tim said more quietly. "It's not just worry. I think she misses him. Badly."
Jason leaned forward, his tone a bit sharper than expected. "You think something happened between them?"
"Maybe," Tim said. "I mean, they've always had something. But I don't know... ever since he left, it's like she's carrying extra weight."
Duke glanced at Barbara again, more thoughtfully this time. "You think we should say something?"
Jason shook his head. "No. If she wants to talk, she will. Pushing her just makes her shut down more."
They all grew quiet for a beat. Damian tapped his fingers on the table, his voice more subdued now.
"I never liked him going alone."
They all looked at him.
"He's reckless when he's isolated," Damian said, eyes downcast. "And he's worse when he thinks he has to lie to protect someone."
Jason raised a brow. "That sounds like something Bruce would say."
Damian shrugged. "He and Father are more alike than either of them admit."
Before anyone could reply, the sound of the lift doors opening cut through the room.
Footsteps.
Then Bruce Wayne entered.
Every head turned. Even Barbara looked up.
There was a beat of silence. Tense. Hesitant.
Bruce's expression was unreadable, but Alfred appeared just behind him, carrying an extra plate and giving the slightest, most encouraging nod.
Bruce stepped toward the table.
"Sorry I'm late," he said quietly.
"I hope there's still room."
Jason blinked. "Did he just... apologize?"
Duke smirked. "Somebody mark the calendar."
Barbara smiled faintly-just faintly-and pulled out the chair beside her.
"Sit down, Bruce. We've got a lot of catching up to do."
And for the first time in days, the Bat-family felt like a family again. Even if only for a meal. Even if one of them was still missing.
The clatter of forks on plates and the soft murmur of casual conversation filled the Wayne dining room-a rare moment of peace in a house more familiar with war rooms and emergency alerts. Roast chicken, vegetables, and Alfred's famous garlic bread were passed back and forth. Even Jason asked for seconds.
Barbara hadn't said much, but the warmth of being around people again-this family-kept the knot in her chest from tightening too much.
Across the table, Damian wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back, looking at Bruce with that ever-curious, ever-suspicious stare.
"Father," he began, "why did you choose Grayson to go to Eastern Europe instead of someone more... resourceful?"
The table quieted.
Tim looked up from his plate. Jason raised an eyebrow. Duke leaned forward slightly. Even Cassandra, sitting silently with her plate mostly untouched, turned to listen.
Barbara's fingers gripped her mug just a little tighter.
Bruce didn't flinch. He set his utensils down with deliberate calm and folded his hands on the table.
"Because it made sense," he said.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
Bruce continued, voice steady. "The Wayne Foundation needed someone to establish partnerships with new NGOs and local outreach programs. Someone charismatic. Diplomatic. Trusted. Dick fits that role better than any of us."
Tim tilted his head. "Wouldn't Lucius normally handle that?"
Bruce met his gaze. "Lucius is managing the Gotham end. This required a personal touch."
Jason tapped his fingers on the table. "Seems weird that none of us knew about it until after he'd already left."
"That was my call," Bruce said. "He was under pressure. A clean departure was the best way to protect his focus. No distractions. No drawn-out goodbyes."
Barbara stayed silent, watching Bruce closely. She knew how good he was at this-delivering truth wrapped around lies. Every part of her wanted to believe Dick was simply overseas, doing foundation work, but she'd been in this life too long.
She knew better.
Still, she kept her expression neutral. If Bruce was lying, pressing him now would only drive the wedge deeper.
Duke looked around at the table, then spoke up. "I don't know. It's just... quiet without him. The city feels different."
Tim nodded slowly. "He's not just a guy in a suit. He is Blüdhaven. And he's the glue here too. When he's gone, we all feel it."
Bruce's jaw tightened slightly, but he gave a small nod.
"He'll be back," he said.
"I trust him."
The words were simple. But the weight in them was too carefully placed-measured.
Barbara's heart ached.
The others seemed to accept it, or at least stop pressing. Damian leaned back again and muttered, "He better bring me something cool from Europe."
Jason smirked. "If he comes back with a tourist shirt that says 'I survived Bratislava,' I'm never letting it go."
Chuckles circled the table again.
But Barbara didn't laugh. She reached down to her lap, where her phone was tucked beneath the tablecloth.
Still no new messages.
Still no missed calls.
Dick's silence wasn't just physical anymore.
It was starting to feel like distance with a purpose.
And deep down, she feared what that purpose truly was.
The conversation shifted again, drifting toward familiar topics-Tim's recent skirmish with Firefly, Duke's patrol with Signal training cadets, Jason bragging about stealing a sandwich out of Killer Croc's fridge ("Best ham I've ever had, and yeah, it was terrifying"). Laughter came easier now.
But then Stephanie, poking at the last of her potatoes, glanced toward Barbara and asked-almost casually:
"So... has Dick reached out to you lately?"
The question hung in the air like a pin dropped in a vault.
Barbara blinked, caught off guard by how direct it was. Everyone else paused-Jason raised his brow, Tim looked over curiously, and even Damian turned his full attention toward her.
Barbara hesitated for only a heartbeat before speaking.
"Yeah," she said softly. "He messaged me a few nights ago."
Jason leaned in slightly. "Seriously?"
Barbara nodded. "It wasn't much. Just a short note to say he's okay. Said he's tired, but pushing through. Apologized for going quiet."
Tim smiled faintly. "Sounds like him."
"Did he say where he was?" Duke asked. "Which city?"
Barbara shook her head. "Just said Eastern Europe. No real details."
Bruce didn't say a word.
But a sharp observer would've seen the way his eyes narrowed-just slightly. The way his jaw clenched beneath the collar of his dress shirt. The subtle flex of his right hand beneath the table.
It was the only betrayal of his anger.
He had told Dick explicitly: no contact.
None.
Not even with her.
And now, Dick had gone against that order.
Risked exposure.
Put her in more danger.
Bruce said nothing, but beneath the calm façade of Gotham's stoic protector, fury began to smolder.
Alfred, standing quietly at the threshold with folded hands, saw it. The tightness in Bruce's shoulders. The storm behind his silence.
He cleared his throat gently. "Miss Brown, perhaps you would be so kind as to help me with dessert?"
Stephanie glanced around, clearly noticing the sudden weight in the air. "Uh... sure. Pie duty sounds safer than Bat-glare duty."
She stood and followed Alfred out, and with that, the table slowly returned to motion. But Bruce remained still, his gaze fixed not on Barbara, but the empty spot at the far end of the table.
Where Dick would've sat.
Barbara looked at Bruce for a moment, sensing the shift, but said nothing.
She just returned to her cup of tea.
And Bruce, in his silence, reminded himself:
This is the cost of secrets. Even your best soldier has a heart. Even he... disobeys.
But what infuriated Bruce most wasn't the disobedience.
It was that-for all his planning, all his strategy-he had no idea what Dick would risk next.