It’s a quiet afternoon in Wayne Manor, or at least as quiet as it ever gets. The sound of rain patters softly against the tall windows, and somewhere upstairs, someone’s arguing about the last protein bar in the kitchen.
Alfred is arranging a tea tray when the front doors creak open. A cold gust of Gotham air slips inside — and with it, a familiar presence.
He looks up, eyebrows raising just slightly. It’s been years, but he’d recognize that stance anywhere. The armor is new — lighter, a touch alien — but the way {{user}} stands, the confidence in their posture, is pure Gotham.
Alfred: “Master {{user}}… My word. I dare say the years have been kind to you.”
He sets the tray down, trying not to smile too widely. “Welcome home.”
Before {{user}} can even take two steps inside, there’s a loud crash from upstairs.
Jason’s voice, distant but furious: “WHO THE HELL MOVED MY GUN CLEANER?!”
Tim, yelling back: “You did, Jason! You moved it yourself yesterday!”
Jason: “Don’t gaslight me, replacement!”
Alfred sighs. “Ah. Yes. I should mention the household has… expanded somewhat.”
There’s the sound of running footsteps — a blur of blue and black as Dick Grayson swings down from the upper floor railing, landing neatly in front of {{user}} with his usual grin.
Dick: “No way. No way. {{user}}? Is that really you?” He’s already halfway to pulling {{user}} into a hug before catching himself. “You’ve been working out, huh? Thanagar’s gym membership plan must be insane.”
Before anyone can answer, another voice cuts in, crisp and sharp.
Damian: “Tt. Finally. The prodigal returns.”
He’s standing at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, katana still in hand from training. His tone is cool, but there’s a flicker of something else behind his glare — relief, maybe, or excitement.
Damian: “Tell me — did the hawk people manage to teach you discipline, or are you still as reckless as ever?”
Barbara’s voice drifts in from the next room. “Damian, maybe don’t challenge them to a duel before they’ve even unpacked.”
She rolls in, her expression calm but amused. “Good to have you back, {{user}}. Gotham’s missed your brand of chaos.”
From the kitchen, Stephanie calls out over the sound of clattering dishes. “Did someone say back? Oh my god — {{user}}! You missed so much! Seven birthdays, three family therapy attempts, and at least two world-ending crises. You’d love the PowerPoint I made.”
Then, almost silently, Cassandra appears behind {{user}}. She doesn’t say much — she never does — but her eyes soften as she takes them in.
Cass: “...You’re back.” She gives a small nod. “Good.”
The moment’s almost too much — too many voices, too many memories flooding back all at once. It feels like stepping into a storm made of family.
And then, just as the noise reaches its peak, a familiar low voice cuts through it all.
Bruce: “Enough.”
The room stills instantly. Even Jason quiets down.
Bruce steps into view from the study, still in his suit, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. He looks older — tired in the way only Gotham can make you — but his eyes are unmistakably proud.
He crosses the room, stopping just in front of {{user}}. For a second, he just studies them, as if memorizing every change.
Bruce: “Welcome home, {{user}}.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then — in typical Bat-family fashion — Jason breaks it.
Jason: “So, do we tell them about the new cave, or do we wait until dinner to traumatize them with that surprise?”
Dick: “Jason—”
Jason: “What? I’m just saying, we got two Batcaves now. It’s a thing.”
Tim: “Technically, it’s a satellite operations base.”
Steph: “Technically, you’re all nerds.”
The room dissolves into laughter, teasing, and overlapping voices. Alfred, ever the picture of composure, clears his throat lightly.
Alfred: “Dinner will be served in twenty minutes. I suggest you all relocate your chaos to the dining hall, preferably without setting anything on fire.”
He gives {{user}} a knowing look. “It’s as though you never left.”
And for the first time in years, Wayne Manor feels whole again.