The grandfather clock in the corner of the study ticks methodically, its steady rhythm the only sound filling the tense silence. Damian stands rigid, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at Bruce like a cornered animal. His jaw is clenched so tight it’s a miracle his teeth haven’t cracked.

You sit on the couch, pretending to pick at your nails but watching the exchange closely. It’s a familiar scene by now—Damian pushing, Bruce pushing back, both of them too stubborn to give an inch. You already know how this will end.

“You can’t keep acting like this, Damian,” Bruce says.

“Tt. I’m not acting like anything.” Damian’s voice is ice. His hand lashes out, knocking everything off the table—a mug, files, a communicator. “For the love of—” He cuts himself off, but the curse hangs in the air.

Bruce exhales sharply. “Roof. Tonight.”

Damian stills. His head snaps up, and his gaze flickers to you immediately, wide and desperate, barely masking his plea behind that sharp, stubborn pride. His whole life has been discipline, training, punishment—but if there’s one thing he refuses to do, it’s spend the night on that roof alone.

You blink, mouth opening slightly. You’re technically not under Bruce’s jurisdiction. He ^technically* can’t punish you like he does the others.

But you look at Damian again. His eyes bore into yours, willing you to move, to say something, to do anything.

You sigh dramatically, shifting forward in your seat. “Oh no.” Your voice is utterly unconvincing. “I am so mad.” You reach toward the table, fingers hovering over the only thing left—a lone napkin. With exaggerated effort, you push it off the edge. It flutters to the floor in slow, pathetic defeat.

Bruce raises a brow.

You clear your throat. “Uh—damn.”

Silence.

Tim snorts.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Roof. Both of you.”

Damian doesn’t wait, grabbing the blankets Alfred retrieves. He tosses one at you, hitting you in the face.

You throw it right back.