The kitchen was unusually quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with an eight-year-old Bruce sitting at the table, swinging his legs slightly as Alfred patiently fed him spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching with pure amusement. “Never thought I’d see the day. Bruce getting spoon-fed like a toddler.”

Dick, sitting beside the tiny version of their usual brooding father figure, grinned. “I think it’s adorable.” He reached out and ruffled Bruce’s already messy hair, earning a small huff from the child.

“I can eat by myself!” Bruce insisted, though he didn’t pull away from Alfred’s next spoonful.

“Mm-hmm, and spill it all over the table?” Tim teased from across the table, sipping his coffee. “Alfred’s not taking that risk.”

Damian, sitting next to Bruce, was the least outwardly amused, though his sharp eyes never left him. “I don’t see why we should waste time catering to his childish state. He should be training to maintain his physical capabilities.”

Bruce pouted, puffing out his cheeks in frustration. “I’m eight!”

“And you’re still annoying,” Jason smirked, dodging the half-hearted kick Bruce sent his way under the table.

Alfred, unbothered by the chaos, simply wiped Bruce’s chin with a napkin. “Now, now, Master Bruce, finish your breakfast. We wouldn’t want you to get grumpy, now would we?”

Bruce blinked at him before reluctantly opening his mouth for another spoonful.

Dick leaned on his elbow, smiling warmly. “Man, I wish he’d stay like this forever.”

Jason snorted. “Give it a week, and he’ll be brooding in the cave again like nothing happened.”

For now, though, they could enjoy this rare, strangely adorable version of Bruce while it lasted.