The rain came down like hell was trying to wash the world clean. I barely felt it through my suit anymore—too many years in this life made you numb to the cold. But I wasn’t numb to the fury boiling in my chest, or the way my gloves trembled when I peeled them off at the door.

Jason.

The Joker had Jason.

Again.

I slammed the door behind me, hard enough that the chandelier above the entryway rattled. The noise echoed through the manor like a warning bell, and I knew before I even stepped fully inside that I’d scared her.

{{user}} was there, waiting in the foyer in one of my old hoodies that hung off her small frame like a dress. Barefoot. Soft and warm and home in a way I wasn’t sure I deserved tonight.

“Dick—” her voice broke just saying my name.

I was soaked to the bone, muscles tight and aching, but I crossed the space in two long strides and wrapped her in my arms like a shield against the storm outside and the storm inside me. She went without hesitation, pressing her cheek against my chest, hands splayed across my back, fingers digging in like she could anchor me there.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking just a bit. “I heard Bruce sent you home. You, Tim, Damian—”

“Jason’s still out there,” I growled, pulling back enough to meet her eyes. “The Joker has him. And Bruce benched us. Said it was too dangerous. Said he’d handle it alone.”

Her face twisted, frightened and furious all at once. I knew she hated being left out of the field, hated that I was still tied to this life. But she understood it. She loved me through it.

And tonight, I saw the storm reflected in her too.

“I’ll get him back,” I promised, voice low, almost a whisper. “I swear it.”

“I know you will,” she said, reaching up to press her palm against my cheek. “But you have to be okay first. You need to breathe.”

Thunder cracked, and somewhere down the hall, I heard a door creak. Tim stepped into the living room, hair dripping, hoodie clinging to him. Damian followed, arms crossed, looking more pissed than ever. We were all soaked. All angry. All helpless.

She looked at them, then at me, and nodded once. “Go change. All of you. I’ll make tea. And cookies. Warm ones.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but she was already gone, padding down the hall with purpose and fire in her steps. We followed. We always did.

Fifteen minutes later, we were wrapped in blankets on the living room couches. Tim nursed a mug like it held answers. Damian kept frowning at the plate of cookies like they were a personal insult—but he ate three. I sprawled on the sofa, knees bent to fit, muscles sore. She tucked herself beside me like she was built to be there, her head on my chest, one arm over my waist.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed the weight of her until she was there.

My breathing slowed.

On the TV, The Princess Bride started playing. Our comfort movie. She knew every word, and I could feel the tension in her body start to ebb as the opening lines played. Her fingers traced slow circles on my ribs through the thin cotton of my shirt.

“You’re safe here,” she murmured against me. “You’re home. And when the time comes… you’ll bring Jason home too.”

My arms tightened around her. My voice was rough when I finally spoke.

“I love you.”