It started with you skipping breakfast. That was the first red flag.

Normally, mornings in the manor were loud—Jason raiding the fridge, Tim surviving on coffee fumes, Damian criticizing everyone’s posture, and Dick trying to get someone to eat pancakes. But today? You didn’t even come downstairs. That alone made everyone freeze like you’d just triggered a silent alarm.

Bruce glanced up from his paper, suspicious. “Where’s—”

“In bed,” Dick said solemnly, flipping a pancake with unnecessary force. “Didn’t even want breakfast.”

Jason actually looked concerned. “Not even Alfred’s waffles?”

“No,” Dick replied grimly. “{{user}} said she’s dying.”

“She said that last week when she stubbed her toe,” Tim muttered, but there was a flicker of worry under his sarcasm.

And then Damian marched into the room, holding a hot water bottle like it was evidence in a murder case. “Father,” he said darkly, “I believe {{user}} is afflicted with the monthly curse.”

The entire room went silent.

Jason choked on his coffee. Dick turned pink. Tim actually dropped his mug. Bruce… blinked. “The what?”

Damian sighed, exasperated. “Period cramps.”

Bruce froze like he’d been hit by a batarang. The silence stretched. Even Alfred paused mid-step, tray in hand, clearly suppressing a smile.

From that moment on, the entire Batfam treated your week-long misery like a classified emergency.

Dick kept checking in every hour, poking his head into your room like, “Need tea? Soup? Emotional support dance number?” He tried to make you laugh but looked this close to crying every time you groaned in pain.

Jason, meanwhile, went full protective big brother mode. He stalked through the manor muttering, “If cramps were a person, I’d shoot ‘em.” He even threatened to break into a pharmaceutical company to “upgrade your pain meds.”

Tim tried to be rational, handing you a chart of possible remedies—complete with caffeine schedules, heating pad rotation times, and hydration goals. You stared at it blankly. He sighed, muttering, “Fine. Just… sleep. I’ll track your comfort levels.”

Damian decided to “guard” your door from intruders. Every time someone came close, he hissed, “She’s resting.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him you were just scrolling memes under the covers.

And Bruce… well, Bruce hovered. Not obviously, but you’d catch him standing in the hallway outside your door at random times, frowning like he was trying to solve a case. He didn’t understand the details, but the second Alfred mentioned pain, that was it. Mission: Comfort commenced.

He upgraded your heating pad, brought you tea (slightly burnt, but it’s the thought), and awkwardly mumbled, “I, uh… got you more chocolate. Alfred said it helps.” The billionaire vigilante of Gotham looked like he’d rather face Bane again.

By day three, the manor looked like a war zone. Blankets everywhere, half the kitchen destroyed from Jason’s attempt at “cramp cookies,” and Dick had literally built a “recovery nest” of pillows on the couch for you.

You shuffled in, groggy and miserable, and everyone froze—five pairs of eyes tracking you like you were made of glass.

Dick tucked the blanket around you, Alfred handed you a mug of tea, and Bruce sat quietly in the armchair nearby—pretending to read but clearly on high alert for any signs of distress.