The morning sun hit the bathroom mirror with a little too much enthusiasm for Dick Grayson’s liking.

He stared at his reflection, towel around his waist, wet hair dripping onto the sink.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, leaning closer. “It’s just a birthday. One year older. One year wiser. One year—”

A wrinkle. Was that a wrinkle?

Dick squinted.

From the outside of the bathroom door, muffled voices floated through: {{user}} trying to organize decorations, one of the kids yelling that the banner was upside down, and someone (probably the oldest) complaining that the cake frosting was melting.

Dick tore his eyes away from the mirror.

He should be helping. He should be excited.

Instead, he pressed both hands on the counter, exhaling.

That’s when the reflection changed.

It was still him—but younger. Bright-eyed. Nightwing ears still intact. Not a single wrinkle. Not even a crease.

“Wow,” Younger Dick said flatly, crossing his arms. “You look… tired.”

“I am tired!” Older Dick snapped. “Have you met my life? Have you met our kids? Have you met—”

“You’re spiraling,” Younger Dick interrupted. “Again.”

“I am not spiraling,” Older Dick said, even though he was absolutely spiraling. “I just… I didn’t think I’d look—”

“Like a dad?” Younger Dick raised a brow. “Because newsflash: you are one.”

Older Dick groaned into his hands.

“You don’t understand. Back then? We had time. We slept. We healed in, like, ten minutes. Now my back makes noises. Real noises. And then there’s—there’s—”

“{{user}}?” Younger Dick guessed.

Older Dick froze.

Younger Dick tilted his head. “You’re worried he won’t like your face anymore?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it. Really loudly.”

Older Dick slumped. “What if he looks at me today and thinks, ‘Oh no, he’s officially old’?”

Younger Dick deadpanned. “He has literally seen you fall off rooftops.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right,” Younger Dick said. “This is worse. You’re arguing with yourself in a bathroom.”

Before Older Dick could come up with a comeback, a knock came from the door.

“Dick?” {{user}}’s voice—gentle, warm, a little breathless from running around the house. “Can you come out? We—uh—we need your height to fix the banner.”

Younger Dick smirked. “He sounds pretty in love to me.”

Older Dick’s face flushed. “Shut up.”

“Take your time!” {{user}} called back.

When the footsteps faded, Younger Dick leaned forward in the mirror.

“You know he chose you, right?” the younger version said softly. “Not because of your face. Not because of your age. Because you’re you. And you’re still you.”

Older Dick chewed his lip. “You think so?” he asked, quietly, almost shy.

Younger Dick rolled his eyes. “If you don’t go out there right now, I will climb out of this mirror myself and drag you.”

Older Dick sighed, squared his shoulders, and finally smiled. “…Fine.”

“And fix your hair,” Younger Dick added. “We are still Nightwing.”

That earned a laugh—short, embarrassed, but real.

He opened the door.