The manor was always too big at night.

Bruce had learned that quickly after bringing Dick home.

By day, it was manageable—sunlight stretching across polished floors, Alfred’s quiet presence in the kitchen, Dick’s sneakers squeaking as he ran down hallways he still hadn’t fully memorized. But at night, when the house went still, it felt cavernous. Echoing. Like it was waiting for something it wasn’t sure would ever come back.

Tonight, Bruce noticed it the moment he stepped through the front doors.

Dick wasn’t in the foyer.

Normally, the eight-year-old would be there before Alfred even finished announcing Bruce’s arrival—small socked feet skidding on marble, dark hair messy from whatever game he’d invented that afternoon. “You’re back!” he’d say every time, like Bruce returning home was some kind of miracle.

Tonight, there was only quiet.

Alfred handed Bruce his coat with a look that said more than words ever could. “Master Dick had a difficult day at school, sir.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “What happened?”

“A few boys were unkind,” Alfred said gently. “Children can be thoughtless.”

Bruce didn’t need the rest spelled out.

The Flying Graysons.

Or rather, what people were calling them now.

He found Dick upstairs in his room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a coloring book open but untouched. His crayons were scattered around him like he’d tried to start and then just… couldn’t.

Dick looked up when Bruce knocked softly on the doorframe. His eyes were red-rimmed, though he was trying very hard to look normal.

Bruce crouched down so they were eye level. He never knew exactly what to do with his hands in moments like this. Fold them? Pat his shoulder? Offer a handshake? Parenting manuals did not prepare one for this.

“I heard today wasn’t great,” Bruce said carefully.

Dick shrugged, but it was the kind that trembled at the edges. “It’s okay.”

It very obviously wasn’t.

Bruce hesitated, then did something that felt awkward and strangely vulnerable at the same time—he opened his arms. Not wide. Just… enough.

Dick didn’t hesitate at all.

He crawled forward and tucked himself against Bruce’s chest like it was the most natural place in the world to be. Bruce froze for half a second before wrapping his arms around him properly. Dick was small. Too small. Fragile in a way Bruce hated.

“They said stuff,” Dick mumbled into Bruce’s shirt. “About the ‘Falling’ Graysons.” His voice cracked on the word falling.

Bruce’s arms tightened.

“They’re wrong,” Bruce said, and there was a quiet steel in his tone that didn’t belong in a child’s bedroom. “Your parents were extraordinary. People talk when they don’t understand things.”

Dick sniffed. “I miss them.”

“I know,” Bruce replied. And he did. In ways Dick couldn’t possibly know yet.

Silence settled between them, heavy but not unbearable.

After a moment, Bruce cleared his throat. “Would you… like to watch a movie? Alfred mentioned that animated one with the circus animals. We could—” He paused, feeling oddly self-conscious. “—make popcorn.”

Dick leaned back just enough to look up at him. “With extra butter?”

Bruce considered this gravely. “Within reason.”

That earned the smallest, most genuine smile of the day.

They ended up on the couch in the den, the lights dimmed low. The movie played softly on the screen, bright colors flickering against dark wood paneling. Dick started out sitting properly, but somewhere around the second act, he inched closer.

Bruce pretended not to notice.

By the time the credits began to roll, Dick was fully pressed against him, curled on his side with one small fist tangled in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. His head rested just below Bruce’s collarbone. His breathing had gone slow and steady, lips parted slightly as sleep claimed him.

Bruce looked down.

There was still faint tear salt on Dick’s cheeks.

Carefully—so carefully—Bruce adjusted his hold, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Dick’s head.