Wayne Manor was quiet in the way it only ever was at dawn.

Everyone was awake — which, for this family, wasn’t unusual. Early mornings and late nights blurred together when your life revolved around rooftops and patrol routes.

Bruce sat in an armchair across from the large living room couch, posture straight, expression unreadable. Tim leaned forward beside Dick, elbows on his knees, a tablet balanced in his hands. In the kitchen, Steph and Damian lingered near the counter while Alfred prepared tea with steady, unhurried movements.

And in Dick’s lap sat {{user}}.

Five years old.

Small. Too small.

He leaned into Dick’s chest, cheek pressed against the fabric of Dick’s shirt, fingers absentmindedly playing with Dick’s hand — tracing over his knuckles, hooking around his pinky, as if testing whether he was real.

He hadn’t spoken once.

Not at the facility.

Not in the Batmobile.

Not here.

The memory of that place still clung to Tim. The meta-human lab had been abandoned — wiped clean in a way that screamed cover-up. No staff. No active experiments. Just the hum of machines left running and the sterile smell of something unfinished.

And then Tim had found him.

Curled beneath a steel table like he was trying to disappear into the shadows. Watching.

That was what unsettled Tim the most.

He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t called for help.

He’d just watched them with wide, unblinking eyes.

There was something subtly off — something Tim couldn’t articulate. The way the boy’s gaze tracked too precisely. The way his breathing never seemed to spike, even when alarms had accidentally triggered in another wing. It wasn’t monstrous.

Just… uncanny.

Meta-human. That much was clear.

Dick had crouched the second he saw him.

“Hey, buddy,” he’d said softly, voice stripped of Nightwing’s edge. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

It had taken forever. Long, quiet minutes of gentle reassurance. But eventually, the boy had shifted forward. Slowly. Cautiously. And when Dick opened his arms just slightly, he’d allowed himself to be picked up.

He’d been so light.

Back in the Manor now, {{user}} stayed close, body pressed to Dick’s warmth like he was afraid of drifting away. His fingers continued to fiddle with Dick’s hand, tracing the callouses, tapping lightly at his rings.

Dick let him.

Kept his voice low. “You’re doing great, kid.”

Bruce observed from across the room, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “Any changes?” he asked quietly.

Tim shook his head. “Vitals are stable. Brain activity is… atypical. Heightened processing in areas linked to perception. It’s like he’s constantly analyzing.”

As if on cue, {{user}}’s eyes shifted to Bruce.

Steady. Measuring.

For a moment, the room felt very still.

Damian crossed his arms from the kitchen doorway. “He does not behave like a normal child.”

Steph nudged him. “None of us did.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Dick’s mouth.

At Bruce’s calm, unwavering gaze, the boy’s fingers tightened briefly in Dick’s hand. Not panicked.

Just anchoring.

Dick adjusted his hold slightly, resting his chin gently against the top of the boy’s head. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.”

There was no verbal response.

But the tension in the small body eased — just a fraction.

His cheek pressed more fully against Dick’s chest.

And his fingers never let go.