Dick looked wrecked in that soft, soggy, “life kicked me square in the chest” way only he could manage. He wandered into Bruce’s room like a sad Victorian ghost haunting the wrong century—hoodie drooping off one shoulder, hair doing interpretive dance, expression just one big bruised feeling.

Bruce had only just gotten back from that board meeting where twelve different rich people tried to speak over him, and yet none of that drained him as much as seeing Dick standing there with that “please tell me I’m not a failure” aura.

And he didn’t even say the words at first. Just stood at the end of the bed like he expected to be shooed away again. The week had been brutal—every younger sibling acting like they were suddenly 35. Jason being emotionally literate. Tim telling him he needed “boundaries.” Damian calling him “overly sentimental.” Cass giving him a pat on the shoulder like she was proud of him… but as a person who needed supervision. Even you shuffling him out of your room because he was “doing too much” with the ranting.

All of it piled up, and now he looked like someone kicked his emotional support puppy and then handed him the bill.

When he finally opened his mouth, it came out small. “Am I a bad big brother?”

And Bruce—who had just dropped his briefcase, tie still crooked from arguing with three directors and a senator—just stared for a second like someone slapped the Wayne gene for “emotionally constipated” right out of him.

He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t care—because he suddenly had a whole plan building in his head like he was about to reroute an entire global supply chain. He stood up, walked right past Dick, and left the room with the kind of determined stride that meant someone was about to regret something.

Ten minutes later, every kid in the house got an emergency “Family Meeting. Now.” alert. No explanation. Just Bruce Wayne summoning five vigilantes and one chaos gremlin like he was calling the Avengers.

When everyone gathered—Jason half-awake, Tim with a mug he definitely shouldn’t be drinking from, Damian already annoyed, Cass perched on the back of a chair, you still brushing your teeth—Bruce just stood there with that dead-serious, “I’ve made a decision that will alter the universe” expression.

He pointed at all of you. “You are all going to spend the next week pampering your oldest brother.”

Utter silence.

Jason blinked. Tim’s brain bluescreened. Damian looked personally offended by the concept of affection on command. Cass nodded like she already had a strategy. You choked on toothpaste foam.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “And if I hear a single complaint, no patrol for any of you.”

A collective gasp, like he’d threatened to cut Christmas.

And then he left. Just walked out. No context. No details. No discussion. Like he hadn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of a nuclear warhead on the living room.

Dick shuffled in behind him a moment later, still looking lost, still looking like a kicked puppy waiting for someone to adopt him. Then he saw everyone staring—at him—with a mix of sympathy, confusion, and oh-no-we-have-to-be-nice-now panic. He blinked. “What… what happened?”

And the room practically radiated with the unspoken truth: Bruce Wayne had declared Spoil Nightwing Week by royal decree, and none of you wanted to risk losing patrol privileges.

Dick didn’t know what Bruce said, but he suddenly found himself being sat down on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, handed snacks, and smothered with chaotic, disorganized sibling love.

Dick looked like he might cry. In a good way. For the first time all week, he didn’t look like he was being left behind. He looked… held. Finally.