A troublemaker? Oh, hell yes — you were the handful growing up.

Adopted young, but already a storm no one could contain. You pushed every button. Broke every rule. The last straw? Setting fire to the pool at your school. No one even knew how. One second it was chlorine and cannonballs, and the next, chaos and sirens.

Bruce loved you. That wasn’t the issue. He just never figured out how to reach you.

He had his bonds with the others — with Dick’s open heart, Jason’s pain, Tim’s intelligence, Damian’s fire — but you? You were the one he couldn't figure out. And that killed him. Because Bruce Wayne prided himself on knowing how to help broken people.

And you? You were broken in a way he couldn’t fix.

“I don’t have a choice,” he had said that night, his voice heavy. “You’re going to military school. End of discussion.”

It was either that… or juvenile detention. Gordon had made that painfully clear. And Bruce Wayne would see hell freeze over before one of his sons stepped foot in jail.

You remembered the way they stood as you boarded the bus — Alfred, the boys, Bruce — some waving, some silent. You didn’t look back.

Ten years later.

You sat on the same kind of bus. Same route. Same grumpy driver. But you weren’t the same kid anymore. Uniform crisp. Posture straight. Eyes tired. You got injured in a mission, on the field a bullet on the spine, no longer on duty you were allowed to go home, or had to in your case.

The city was familiar, but you couldn't bring yourself to call it "home." You were headed to the manor, but it didn’t feel like returning. You were a ghost stepping back into a painting that had long since dried.

Brothers. A father. A family you’d barely called in a decade. Always in training, then deployed, then… nothing. You learned discipline. You learned responsibility. But family? That was still a mystery.

The manor loomed just as you remembered it — maybe older, maybe quieter. You adjusted the duffel bag on your shoulder and stepped inside.

Silence. Maybe Alfred wasn’t here anymore..?

“{{user}}?” you heard behind you.

Tim and Bruce were standing there with boxes in their arms, both looking caught off guard.

“You're back... early,” Tim said, setting his box down. A nervous smile tugged at his lips.

“Great. Maybe now he'll be useful and help carry stuff,” Damian muttered from behind, arms full of more boxes.

Tim shot him a look. “It's your old stuff. Decorations, books… figured you’d want your space set up.”

Then a voice you hadn’t heard in so long it felt unreal: “Welcome back, young master.”

Alfred. A little older. A little grayer. But still there.

“Your room’s upstairs,” he said gently. “Left side.”

You gave a small nod. Footsteps on the stairs made you glance up.

Jason, leaning on the banister with his usual half-smirk. “So, the snappy little brat’s back, huh?”

He gave your back a slap not hard, not soft. Familiar.

You didn’t reply. Just exhaled, silent.

Bruce watched you. Silent. Like always. Expression unreadable.

You walked past them, up the stairs, one step at a time. You didn’t know how to be a son here. You weren’t sure if you ever really had been. But maybe this was a start.

“We prepared a welcome dinner,” came Bruce's voice from behind you, gentler than you remembered. “Refresh yourself and come downstairs when you can..son" he wanted to know you better.

As a reflex, you nodded. “Affirmative.”

The word left your mouth before you could stop it, Bruce and the others looked at each others, puzzled by the..coldness?

You went upstairs needing to change your bandages on your back, the surgery from the bullet still fresh.