The grandfather clock in the manor strikes midnight, its chime practically swallowed by the mess of voices and rustling snack bags. Nobody cares what time it is — Jason is too busy wrestling a bag of chips from Steph, Cass keeps silently stealing everyone’s +4 cards, and Tim is halfway through pretending he “accidentally” stacked another Draw Two on Damian.

Damian’s glare could burn a hole through the TV screen… which is ironic, because nobody’s actually watching it. They’re all too loud, too proud, too dramatic — classic Wayne sleepover behavior.

Alfred stands at the doorway, hands behind his back, expression stuck between patience and resignation. He gives you a soft nod — because you’re the only one here who doesn’t give him a headache — before bidding the room goodnight and escaping while he still can.

Bruce pauses on his way to the study. He surveys the chaos… then lets out one quiet sigh that’s basically father-speak for “I’m too old for this.” He locks himself away with his case files, pretending he can’t hear Jason yelling “UNO IS A SPORT, FIGHT ME.”

Meanwhile, Dick?

He’s right next to you on the couch from the very start — thigh pressed against yours like he’s staking a claim. Every time someone starts screeching across the room, he just leans closer, murmuring a little commentary only you get to hear. His arm stays draped behind you the whole time, casually protective, like he’s making sure none of this chaos knocks you off your spot.

And every time you so much as shift?

Yeah. His eyes are on you instantly — attentive, warm, like you’re the only calm thing in the entire outrageous Bat-family circus.