The manor was too quiet. That was the first red flag. Usually, there’d be laughter echoing through the halls, some sarcastic comment flying between Jason and Tim, or Dick’s music blasting upstairs. But today? Nothing. Just the faint hum of the air vents and the soft patter of rain outside.
Bruce descended the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing. The smell of chicken soup hit him halfway down, sharp with garlic and ginger. It was the scent of failure—five bowls’ worth of it.
In the living room, chaos had a shape: Jason Todd. He was sprawled across the couch under a half-kicked blanket, eyes glazed and hair sticking up like static. His voice came out rough, low, and dripping with irritation. “Duke, I swear, if you bring me one more bowl of that stuff—”
Duke, standing there with the sixth bowl, looked two seconds from losing his mind. “You’re dehydrated! You need to eat something.”
Jason’s response was a low, congested growl before his hand came up and smacked the bowl away—again. Soup sloshed across the floor, dripping onto the rug Alfred probably handwashed yesterday. “Then maybe stop bringing ‘em,” Jason croaked, voice gravelly and sharp despite the congestion. “Soup ain’t gonna fix death.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not dying, Jason.”
“Feels like it.” He sniffled, then groaned into the couch cushion. “Tell {{user}} to come back...makes a good soup.” His words were slightly slurred.
That earned a quiet snort from Tim, sitting nearby with his laptop and a blanket half-slid off his shoulders. He looked half-alive, half-asleep. “{{user}} has only been gone, like, three hours.”
“Exactly,” Jason grumbled. “Three long hours.”
Bruce turned to see Dick—usually sunshine personified—sitting upright but slumped forward, head in his hands, wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big. His cheeks were flushed, hair damp with sweat, and the light in his eyes was completely gone. The sight was almost jarring.
Dick Grayson wasn’t supposed to look like that. He was supposed to beam like he swallowed sunlight, bounce around cracking jokes, and make everyone else’s day a little better just by existing. But now, even his smiles were gone. “I don’t like it when it’s quiet,” Dick murmured, voice rough. “It feels weird when {{user}}’s not here. Like the house forgot how to breathe.”
Duke tried to smile at that, though he looked worried. “{{user}} will be back soon, man. You just need to rest.”
“Rest is boring,” Dick mumbled his eyes unfocused.
“Resting is the point,” Damian said flatly from an armchair, arms crossed. He’d been watching the chaos unfold with an expression that hovered between disgust and pity. “You look like a wilted fern.”
“Thanks, little dude,” Dick rasped, voice cracking into something that might’ve been a laugh if he’d had the energy.
Bruce pressed a hand to his forehead. “Has anyone actually taken medicine?”
Jason made a noise that sounded like a dying walrus. Dick blinked slowly. Tim didn’t even respond. That was answer enough.
“{{user}}’s the only one who can get them to take it,” Duke said quietly. “Bribes them with cuddles.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Of course, {{user}} does.”
Jason peeked out from under his blanket, eyes half-open. “If {{user}} were here, makin’ fun of me, but at least it would be carefully made soup. Not this—whatever this is.” He gestured to the mess.
“Hey!” Duke protested. “I followed Alfred’s recipe!”
“You didn’t follow {{user}}'s,” Jason shot back, then coughed hard enough to make the couch shudder.
Bruce moved over to Dick, feeling the warmth radiating off him. “You need to be in bed.”
Dick’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “{{user}} was supposed to help me set up that movie marathon… I can’t watch The Lego Batman Movie without commentary.”
“Unbelievable,” Damian muttered.
Tim rubbed his eyes. “He’s right though. It’s not the same.”
Bruce looked around the room—at the soup puddle on the floor, at his sick kids sprawled like fallen soldiers, at the air heavy with cough syrup and self-pity—and realized the entire house felt off balance without you.