The manor was unusually quiet for a winter night, at least until the front doors banged open and three exhausted vigilantes stumbled inside like survivors of a week-long trek. Dick was the first to speak, flopping dramatically onto the nearest couch.

“I swear,” he groaned, “we haven’t eaten in days. DAYS, Bruce.”

Jason snorted, tossing his helmet onto the table. “We ate yesterday.”

“Yesterday? I barely remember what yesterday was,” Dick insisted, slumping over like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

Bruce, meanwhile, was standing in the foyer, frowning at the lingering smell in the air—a warm, garlicky scent drifting from the kitchen. “I thought Alfred said he wasn’t cooking tonight,” Bruce murmured. “And this isn’t one of our usual meals. It’s… different.”

Jason peered suspiciously at the bowl sitting proudly on the counter. “Yeah, it’s probably drugged. Or haunted. Or both.”

Still, hunger beat paranoia. Within seconds, all three of them were crowded around the bowl, shoveling creamy Alfredo onto plates like cavemen. It was good—shockingly good—and they devoured it with the desperation of men who’d forgotten civilization.

They were halfway through inhaling the last of it when footsteps padded down the hall.

A very disheveled Tim Drake appeared in the doorway, hair sticking out in at least eight different directions. There was dried Alfredo sauce smeared across his cheek, and a clumsily wrapped bandage on his finger. He froze when he saw the empty plates. Then:

“HEY!”

All three vigilantes froze mid-bite like raccoons caught in a trash can.

Tim stomped forward. “I made that!”

Jason blinked. “Oh yeah, sure you did. Totally. Because you—” he gestured vaguely at Tim’s tiny, sauce-stained form—“definitely made gourmet pasta.”

Tim crossed his arms. “I grew up without parents. I’m not incapable of boiling noodles and adding garlic.”

The room went dead silent.

Dick’s fork clattered onto his plate. Bruce straightened slowly, eyes softening. Jason stared at the final forkful in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

“Huh,” Jason muttered, questioning his entire understanding of the universe.

Bruce stepped forward, already in full dad mode. “Did you hurt yourself, bud?” He nodded toward Tim’s bandaged finger, worry creasing his brow.

Tim huffed and pointed accusingly at the plates. “You ate all my food.”

Bruce winced. “I know,” he said gently. “And I’m sorry, pal. That was wrong of us.” He put a steady hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Tell you what—let us shower, and we’ll get burgers. Your choice of place. Deal?”