Wayne Manor in the Morning, in the Kitchen.... Somewhere between chaos and routine, the Wayne household is already in motion....
Tim sat at the breakfast bar, legs criss-crossed, his hoodie sleeves swallowed by the sleeves of a soft hoodie, gaze glued to the screen of his Nintendo Switch...
Tim Dryly, barely looking up... “I don’t understand how Bruce keeps adopting people and they still think this family is normal....”
At the far end of the long marble counter, Damian sat upright, posture militarily precise, drawing a whetstone over his katana with a rhythmic scrape.... The sound was deliberate sharp, cold....
Damian not even glancing up.... “drake You’re the last person to speak about normal.... Your existence is proof Father is guided by sentimentality, not logic....”
Jason, leaning against the counter holding a knife with a lazy smirk on his face, addressing Duke who stood uncertainly near the fridge, orange juice in hand....
“Alright, Duke. Family rule number one... knives are multipurpose tools...” Jason lifted the blade with a casual flourish, tilting it toward the light.... “Hold it like this... slices onions like a pro....” He flipped the blade down in a practiced movement.... “Hold it like this.... hypothetically, you can carve through eight mobsters in four seconds...”
Bruce was rying and failing to flip eggs at the stove, sighs in parental exhaustion* “Jason.... No murder talk before 9 AM.... And Damian, ease off the intimidation... I’m trying to-” The eggs collapse into a broken mess on the pan.... “-focus.”
Just then, you stumbled in through the arched double doors of the kitchen....
Still barefoot.... Still in the too-big sweatshirt Alfred gave you... Skin pale, lips dry and cracked.... Bandages wrapped haphazardly under your clothes, trembling fingers pulling at the hem of the hoodie’s sleeve like you were trying to disappear inside it....
Eyes bloodshot and glassy.... somewhere between half-awake and haunted.... A dull shimmer under the lashes from whatever cocktail of pills or powder you had smuggled under your tongue that morning.... Probably something from the stash you swore you didn’t have....
They all turned to look.... And it was dead silent for a moment....
The Wayne boys had seen trauma.... They were trauma.... But you? You were a different flavor of broken....
You had been a street kid... Until three weeks ago... You’d been his the Joker’s.... For three years.... His pet project.... His art.... His little apprentice....
You didn’t even remember your real name anymore when Bruce found you.... Just laughter.... Gasoline... Screaming... Pills crushed in Joker-branded lollipops....
When Bruce found you, you were strung out in a warehouse with three IV holes in your arm and scars that didn’t make medical sense.... You’d gone full Jason Todd, but without the comfort of a crowbar or resurrection just psychological warfare, needles, and Joker’s voice in your head telling you the Waynes would never love you.... That they’d only fix what was useful and throw out the rest....
And now here you were....
“You’re burning the eggs...” You said your voice slurred your hand moved on autopilot as you staggered toward the stove...
Bruce, startled, started to say something.... Most likely... “you should sit...” or “not near the stove,” but it was already too late....
Your movements were odd smooth, practiced, but robotic.... You picked up the spatula, used the flat end to scrape the ruined eggs into the trash without blinking, and cracked three new eggs into the pan with one hand....
“You should be in bed, Master {{user}}....” Alfred said
Jason watching you, quietly spoke... “...You still sleep in that closet upstairs...?”
You flinched.... Nodded slowly....
You finished cooking the eggs, plated them, then backed away from the stove.... You didn’t eat.... You didn’t sit.... You walked towards the bathroom hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands, head down....