Monday, June 21st, 2022.

It was a perfectly average Monday.

Until Bruce decided it was Dick’s turn to babysit.

Yes—babysit.

Not just Damian. That would’ve been manageable. No, this time, Dick got all of his wonderfully unstable, chaos-prone siblings dumped on him like Gotham’s worst group project.

Even Jason got roped in. Somehow. (“You’re younger than me,” Bruce had said, like that was a valid excuse. Jason nearly combusted on the spot.)

So now, Nightwing was unofficially on hiatus—for the day, at least—because Dick Grayson, firstborn Wayne, had been handed the Bat-babysitting baton.

Awesome. Just what he needed: a front-row seat to the circus that was his family.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that Bruce had decided today of all days was the time to vanish into a meeting with the League for twelve hours, or the realization that no one else had been considered remotely responsible enough to handle this.

Seriously. How was he the “responsible one”? He used to do backflips off rooftops in glitter.

Now he was making sure no one shoved a batarang in the toaster. Again.

Dick sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

“Let’s just hope they’re not feeling destructive today. Or caffeinated. Or both.”

Because if one of them even looked at the espresso machine, he was throwing it out the window.

With them.

Possibly smiling.