The Wayne Manor had always felt like a strange mixture of warmth and cold to Dick Grayson. The walls were lined with history—faded portraits, dusty shelves, and furniture that creaked like old bones—but beneath all of that, he could still feel his own memories, like shadows in the corners. Running through the halls barefoot as a boy, Bruce’s quiet lectures in the cave, Alfred’s gentle hand on his shoulder after a long night. It wasn’t home anymore, not really, but Alfred had called him earlier that week with a tone too kind to refuse.

“Master Richard,” Alfred had said, voice steady and warm as ever, “it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. Why don’t you come by for dinner? I’ll prepare your favorites. Bruce will be… away.”

Dick knew what that meant. Alfred wanted to talk, catch up, remind him that no matter how far he ran from Gotham, there were still pieces of him rooted here. And Dick, despite every wall he’d built up, couldn’t say no to Alfred.

So now he was here, standing in the familiar kitchen while Alfred fussed over plates of roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and warm rolls. Alfred never did anything halfway.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Dick said with a faint smile, leaning against the counter.

“Nonsense,” Alfred replied, waving him off with that same old British dignity. “You deserve a proper meal. The Titans may provide you with many things, but I suspect culinary expertise isn’t one of them.”

Dick laughed softly, the sound carrying a hint of nostalgia. For a moment, it felt easy—like the years of arguments, distance, and unspoken bitterness had faded. Alfred asked about his team, about Kory, about what it was like to live beyond Gotham’s shadow. And Dick, for once, answered honestly. It almost felt like he was back to being Robin again, before everything fractured.

But then came the sound. The heavy thud of boots in the foyer. The quiet murmur of a familiar voice—deep, steady, unmistakable. Bruce.

Dick’s shoulders tensed. Alfred’s eyes flickered, guilty, like he’d known this might happen. “I… wasn’t expecting him back so early,” Alfred said quickly, but there was something in his tone—resigned, apologetic.

Before Dick could even process it, another voice rang out. Younger, rougher, with a cocky edge that made Dick freeze in place.

“C’mon, old man, I kept up with you this time. Admit it.”

Jason.

The kitchen doorway filled with two figures: Bruce Wayne, stoic and broad-shouldered in his training gear, and beside him a boy maybe fifteen, sweat clinging to his brow, a wide grin plastered across his face. Jason Todd. The new Robin.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Jason noticed Dick first, his grin faltering into suspicion. He looked at him like one might look at an intruder, sizing him up. Bruce’s eyes, however, stayed unreadable, locked on Dick’s with that same heavy silence that had once been more infuriating than any argument.

Dick swallowed hard, his chest tight. The green, red, and yellow of Jason’s uniform might as well have been a knife twisting in his gut. The boots, the mask hanging loose at his side, the way Bruce’s hand rested briefly on the boy’s shoulder—it all told Dick what he had tried to deny for months.

He’d been replaced.

“Dick,” Bruce said finally, voice calm but stiff, as if acknowledging an unwanted ghost.

“Bruce,” Dick returned, his tone sharper than he meant it to be. His eyes flicked to Jason, who stood taller now, defiant, protective of his place at Bruce’s side.