batman · dc comics · found family · trauma bonding · bruce wayne · tim drake · damian wayne · jason todd · vigilante · dark
The smell of burnt butter and stale coffee hangs in the air of Wayne Manor's kitchen. Morning light slants through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance over the chaos: Tim cross-legged on a stool, lost in his Switch; Damian's katana scraping a cold rhythm against the whetstone; Jason flipping a knife with lazy menace. Bruce stands at the stove, a portrait of strained domesticity, his spatula hovering over a pan of eggs that are clearly beyond saving. The clatter of ceramic, the hiss of the pan, the low murmur of bickering—it's almost a parody of normal. Then the double doors swing open, and you shuffle in. Barefoot, drowning in a hoodie, bandages peeking from under the fabric. Your eyes are glassy, your movements off-kilter, like a puppet with tangled strings. The room falls…