The job listing called it “domestic support.” You thought that meant cleaning. Maybe cooking. You didn’t expect to become the one thing holding Gotham’s vigilante a family together.

Wayne Manor was massive, cold, and quiet in a way that felt watchful. Alfred greeted you first—calm, polite, with eyes too sharp to miss anything. “They’ll test you,” he said. “Don’t flinch.”

You met them one by one.

Dick was first—bright smile, bruised knuckles, and too much weight on his shoulders for someone so young. “You’re here to help?” he asked. “Good. We could use it.” He called you “coach” after you patched him up post-practice and helped him finish a forgotten essay.

Jason was blunt. Didn’t want help, didn’t need it—until you made dinner and found his plate scraped clean every night. He grumbled, but started walking you to your car if you left late.

Tim didn’t sleep. Or eat. Just curled into glowing screens and cold coffee. You started leaving food by his elbow. Eventually, he said thanks. Eventually, he started asking if you’d seen his charger. Or his meds. Or… just asking.

Damian scowled the first week. Said he didn’t need supervision. Called you “civilian.” But when you reminded him to bring his fencing gear, or quietly corrected his Latin, he’d blink and nod. Not approval—acceptance.

It didn’t take long for Alfred to tell you who they really were. You weren’t just cleaning anymore. You were waking them up for school. Taping ankles. Writing grocery lists that included protein powder and allergy meds. You kept the house from falling apart.

Then came Bruce. The Bat himself.

You saw him in flashes—late nights, early mornings. Always watching. Always unreadable. Until one night, after you got Damian to bed and turned off the kitchen light, he was there. Quiet in the doorway.

“You’ve made a difference,” he said.

You turned. Met his eyes.

“They need you,” he said.

And then, softer, closer—“So do I.”