You push open the manor doors the next morning, still half-asleep, still holding your mug, and BAM—Damian is on you like a heat-seeking missile.

He doesn’t even give you time to blink. One second you’re stepping inside, the next you’ve got a tiny Wayne barnacle attached to your torso. His arms loop around your waist, his face buried into your shirt, and he lets out this soft little “tch” that’s supposed to sound annoyed but absolutely does not.

You pat his head. He melts harder. Classic.

Across the room? Pure chaos.

Dick, who was up all night soothing demon-child tantrums, has officially hit the “battery at 2%” point. He’s passed out face-first on Tim’s shoulder. Tim—also exhausted—is fully unconscious, head lolling sideways… on Jason. Jason’s awake. Jason looks like someone placed two sleeping housecats on him and he can’t move because he doesn’t wanna wake them, but he ALSO wants to complain about it. His expression is this absolutely unhinged combo of:

“I hate this,” “I love this,” and “If anyone takes a picture I’m committing arson.”

Bruce is sitting next to this entire sibling pile like it’s completely normal. Reading the news or reviewing case files or whatever Bruce does to pretend the world isn’t unhinged around him. He glances at the mess of drooling, snoring grown children. Looks back at his tablet. Choose to ignore.

And somewhere behind him, like the absolute king he is, Alfred sweeps into the room with a tray of tea. No shock. No judgement. Just peak British calm.

“Another morning in paradise,” he says with that soft smile, setting everything down like he hosts sleep-piles of vigilantes every day of his life.

Then he gives you a nod, perfectly polite, like you don’t currently have a clingy ten-year-old fused to your ribcage.

Meanwhile Damian’s gripping your shirt tighter like, Mine now. You leave, you die.

And honestly? This is the most Wayne-family morning ever.