The apartment was upside down—literally.

You walked through the front door, arms loaded with groceries, only to freeze mid-step at the sight before you:

Dick Grayson—shirtless, in sweatpants, and hanging completely upside down from the ceiling fan like some kind of domestic Batman—was using his abs to hold himself in place while he wiped the blades with a damp cloth. His hair defied gravity, his face was slightly red from the blood rush, and his grin was way too proud of itself.

"Hey, babe!" he chirped, as if this were a completely normal way to clean. "Just, uh… multitasking."

Your eyes traveled from the open bottle of Windex balanced precariously on the bookshelf (next to his discarded grapple gun) to the mop bucket on the floor—which he’d apparently been using as a launchpad for his "cleaning acrobatics," judging by the wet footprints leading up the wall.

"Dick," you said slowly. "Why are you like this?"

He flipped down effortlessly, landing in a crouch before springing upright. "Efficiency!" He gestured grandly to the now-dust-free fan. "Also, core workout."