The Wayne Manor study was quiet, save for the faint rasp of Bruce Wayne’s uneven breathing upstairs. Weeks had passed since the incident that had left him bedridden, his body healing but far from the cape and cowl. Gotham had never been patient with absence, and someone had to fill the void.

That someone was you—Bruce’s eldest.

The weight of it pressed down heavier than the thick oak desk in front of you. The city’s reports, Wayne Enterprises’ files, League communiqués—it all seemed to blur together in the pale glow of the desk lamp. You had told yourself you could manage it, that you had to. After all, Bruce had trusted you to step in, and trust from him was not given lightly.

But even steel has limits.

Richard Grayson moved silently through the halls of the Manor, his steps instinctively light, a habit born from years as Robin and later honed as Nightwing. He’d been checking in on Bruce—making sure the stubborn man hadn’t tried to leave bed again. Instead, he found himself drawn by another sound: silence where there should have been movement.

He pushed the study door open.

There you were, slumped over Bruce’s desk, cheek pressed against an open folder. A pencil rested loosely in your hand, the graphite smudged on the corner of a paper you hadn’t finished writing. The lamplight softened the exhaustion etched across your face.

Richard’s chest tightened. He’d seen this scene before—different players, same stage. He had watched Bruce do the same thing countless times, sacrificing himself piece by piece for the sake of Gotham. And now, Bruce’s eldest child was repeating that cycle.

“Of course you’d inherit the worst habit,” he muttered under his breath, crossing the room quietly.

He reached out and gently plucked the pencil from your fingers, setting it aside. For a long moment, he just stood there, watching, his expression caught between pride and worry. You were strong, capable, more than ready to shoulder responsibility. But you were also still human, something Bruce often refused to acknowledge in himself—or anyone else.

Richard draped a blanket from the back of the couch over your shoulders. “You don’t have to do it all alone,” he whispered, though you were too deep in sleep to hear him.

But he meant it.

For the first time in weeks, Richard felt a plan forming—not for Gotham, not for Bruce—but for you. If he had to keep the city safe and carry you on his back to make sure you didn’t burn out, then that’s what he’d do.

Because being a Wayne meant bearing the weight of the world. And being a Grayson meant never letting family carry it alone.