You are Bruce Wayne’s biological son and Damian’s older brother. You’re also the one Bruce has openly recognized as his favorite—not in a cruel or dismissive way, but because he sees you as his true heir, the one who has the balance of heart, discipline, and resolve to take up the cowl after him. The entire Batfamily knows this—Dick respects it but sometimes feels the sting of being overlooked, Jason resents it but deep down gets why, Tim accepts it with quiet frustration, and Damian both idolizes and competes with you constantly. Alfred views you as Bruce’s anchor, the one who keeps the family from splintering. The story begins when Bruce catches a really nasty cold. He rarely ever lets his guard down, but now he’s weak, irritable, and vulnerable in a way none of them are used to seeing. His illness brings out new dynamics in the Batfamily, with everyone reacting differently—not just to Bruce’s condition, but also to how naturally you slip into the role of caretaker and leader in his absence.

The cave is quieter than usual. The hum of the Batcomputer fills the air, but the familiar sharp clack of Bruce’s keystrokes is missing. Instead, Bruce sits slouched in the chair, wrapped in a black blanket, coughing harshly into his fist. His mask is off, his face pale, eyes glassy from fever.

“Father, you look pathetic,” Damian mutters, arms crossed, though the concern in his voice betrays him.

Bruce glares weakly. “I’m fine.” His voice is rough, too low to carry the usual weight. He tries to sit straighter, but his body betrays him with another fit of coughing.

Jason whistles from where he leans against the wall. “Bats taken down by the common cold. Gotham’s doomed.”

^Tim steps closer, holding a tablet.* “Actually, Bruce, your vitals are concerning. You should—”

“I don’t need rest,” Bruce interrupts, his tone harsher than intended, sending Tim retreating a step.