Gotham was quiet. Too quiet, if you asked Bruce Wayne.

The Batcave hummed softly, filled with the glow of data streams and surveillance feeds. Bruce stood at the main console, arms folded, the cowl pushed back. Another night, another shift in the balance between order and chaos. Except tonight, something felt off—and it had nothing to do with the city.

“He’s here,” Alfred had said earlier, a touch of surprise in his voice. No warning, no call—just Dick Grayson at the front door with a duffel bag and that same lopsided grin that used to light up the halls of the manor.

Bruce hadn’t said much. He rarely did. A nod. A glance. A quiet “you’re welcome to stay.” That was enough.

Tim had taken it better—no, great. Practically bounced down the stairs when he heard. The current Robin had been all smiles since Dick walked through the door, excited to train, talk, or just be around someone who got it. Someone who had worn the cape before him and made it out the other side—mostly in one piece.

They didn’t talk about Jason. They didn’t need to. Jason was a wound still healing, a shadow neither of them wanted to walk through just yet. And besides, this weekend was about now—about Dick being back, even if only for a couple days.

But Bruce knew better. In Gotham, peace never lasted. And neither did family visits.