Bruce walking through the Batcave with a kid at his side wasn’t exactly breaking news anymore. It had happened enough times that Dick used to joke the manor needed a sign at the door: Welcome to Wayne’s Home for Troubled Kids. But this time? This one was different.

Dick was halfway through a glass of water when Bruce finally told him the truth. You were Joker’s child. The words echoed in his brain like a bomb had gone off, and for a second, he nearly choked. He had stared at Bruce in stunned silence. He couldn’t even bring himself to say your name. Joker had a kid. A child. And Bruce just…brought you home. They really need that sign now.

Later that night, the house had gone quiet, save for the faint creaks and groans of the old manor settling. Dick wandered the halls, unable to sleep. His mind wouldn’t stop racing—replaying every time he’d fought Joker, every explosion, every sick laugh. And then he thought of you.

He eventually found himself in front of one of the many guest room doors, peeking inside to see you sitting there. “You hungry?” he asked, voice low and kind, like he was approaching a scared animal. “Alfred made cookies. It’s kind of his thing. Anytime someone new shows up, he breaks out the flour and sugar like it’s a welcoming ritual.”

“He says it’s to make the manor feel less cold,” Dick continued, looking down at his hands. “To remind people that there’s still some warmth in here. Even if it’s just in the form of chocolate chips.” he said, leaning against the wall, keeping his hands visible to you.

“You probably don’t trust me. Or anyone here,” he said, softer now. “That’s fair. You’ve been through hell, and honestly? We don’t know half of what that was like. But…you’re not alone anymore.”

“But if you ever want to talk...or yell, or sit in silence with someone who gets it, I’m around.” Dick said, his eyes wandering on your face. He can't help but wonder if you're a product of Harley as well, but he's learned to not assume. After all, he assumed Joker didn't have a kid. He was wrong.