Continuation

Continuation

___________________________________

It was rare to get the whole Bat-family together for dinner, but Alfred had insisted. The dining room at Wayne Manor was filled with a chaotic mix of voices, clattering silverware, and the occasional verbal jab. For once, Bruce allowed himself a moment to enjoy it—until Jason leaned back in his chair, grinning like the Joker had just handed him a free pass to Arkham.

“So, Dick,” Jason drawled, raising his voice to cut through the chatter. “You gonna tell everyone about your new best friend?”

Dick, who had been mid-sip of water, choked. “What are you talking about?”

Jason smirked. “Oh, you know. The assassin who broke into your place and decided to play Mom instead of killing you.”

The table fell silent. All eyes turned to Dick, whose face flushed under the scrutiny.

“Wait, what?” Tim blurted, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

“Oh my god, you weren’t going to tell them, were you?” Jason cackled.

Bruce set his knife down with deliberate precision, fixing Dick with a sharp, unreadable look. “Explain. Now.”

Dick sighed, already regretting this entire evening. “It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?!” Tim interrupted. “An assassin broke into your home!”

“And didn’t kill me,” Dick pointed out, raising his hands defensively.

“That’s not the win you think it is,” Barbara said, though there was a twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

Stephanie was leaning forward, her eyes gleaming with barely suppressed laughter. “Hold up. Back up. They didn’t kill you, and instead, they… what? Offered to split the rent?”

“They made me breakfast,” Dick admitted reluctantly.

That was it. Stephanie doubled over laughing, pounding the table with her fist. “Oh my god, you charmed an assassin into meal prepping for you!”

Cass, seated beside Barbara, tilted her head and smiled. “They liked you.”

“I wouldn’t say they liked me—”

“They liked you,” Cass repeated, firm but amused.

Damian scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring at Dick. “That’s pathetic, Grayson. Allowing an enemy into your home and—what—offering to feed them?” His lip curled, but there was a faint crease of worry in his brow that didn’t escape Dick’s notice.

“I was tired,” Dick said, exasperated. “And I thought it was one of you!”

“That makes it worse,” Bruce said sharply, his tone cold enough to silence everyone. “You assumed the intruder was family and let your guard down. That could’ve gotten you killed.”

“It didn’t,” Dick said, meeting Bruce’s gaze evenly. “They left a note, and they stocked my fridge. That’s it. I’m fine.”

Bruce’s expression darkened. “I’ll install surveillance in your building tomorrow.”

“Bruce, no—”

“Actually,” Tim interjected, “we should bug the entire block. If they come back, we need to be ready.”

“They bought me groceries, Tim!”

“They were in your apartment,” Tim countered.

“You didn’t even know they were there, did you?” Bruce asked, his voice clipped.

“I was half-asleep!”

Jason was practically crying with laughter at this point. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all year. You, the golden boy, the people’s champion, managed to turn a hired killer into your personal shopper.”

“Technically,” Stephanie added, smirking, “they’re more like a life coach. They stocked your fridge because they felt bad for you.”

“That’s even worse!” Damian snapped, glaring at Dick. “Your incompetence is so obvious that an assassin pitied you.”

“Okay, Damian, I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture me about assassins,” Dick shot back, smirking.

Damian bristled but didn’t respond, his cheeks slightly red.

Barbara leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Only you, Dick. Only you could make an assassin reconsider their target because of how pathetically you live.”

Cass giggled softly, nodding. “They care.”

“Exactly!” Dick pointed at Cass. “See? Someone gets it.”

“That’s not a compliment,” Barbara said flatly.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about irresponsibility and lapses in judgment.

“Honestly, you’re all overreacting,” Dick said, crossing his arms.

“Overreacting?” Tim repeated. “You didn’t even trace the receipt for the groceries they bought, did you?”

“Nope,” Jason said, answering for him. “Too busy enjoying the eggs, weren’t you, Dickie?”

“For the record,” Dick said loudly, ignoring Jason, “those eggs were excellent.”

Stephanie wheezed. “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Dick Grayson: Assassins fear him, but also…kind of want to take care of him?”

Bruce sighed heavily. “We’re setting up surveillance.”

“You’re not—”

“We’re setting up surveillance,” Bruce repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Dick groaned, dropping his head into his hands. This was going to haunt him forever.

__________________________________________

Jason had planned to crash at Dick’s place for the night—not that he’d told Dick. He’d gotten in late, his safehouse compromised by some bad intel, and while he could’ve gone anywhere, he’d ended up here. Grayson’s door was always open, whether Jason deserved it or not.

He told himself it was just convenience, but when he walked into the quiet, dark apartment, something felt…off.

The place wasn’t trashed, but Jason’s sharp eyes picked up on the subtle signs of a break-in: the faint scuff marks near the door, the window latch reset just slightly differently than Dick usually left it. His gut twisted. Someone had been here.

“You'd better not be dead Dick,” he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the handgun he’d pulled from his jacket. He scanned the apartment quickly, checking corners and closets. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Finally, Jason found himself standing in the kitchen. The fridge was humming softly, and the countertops were clear—except for a piece of paper folded neatly and tucked into the gap between the toaster and the coffee maker.

Frowning, Jason holstered his gun and picked it up. The sharp, precise handwriting immediately made his stomach drop. Assassins always had a certain way about them. His gaze skimmed the words, and his initial worry was quickly replaced by incredulity.

> "I was here to deliver a message, but your hospitality caught me off guard. Your fridge was so pathetic it offended me, so I ordered you groceries. Try to survive the next visit. You seem like a stand-up guy. —K"

Jason blinked. Then blinked again.

“What the hell?” he muttered, flipping the note over as if the back might offer some clarification.

He set the note down, opened the fridge, and stared. It was fully stocked—eggs, milk, fresh vegetables, yogurt. The yogurt was even the expensive kind. Jason let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Golden boy, you absolute idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head. The guy could charm just about anyone, but this? An assassin breaking in and deciding to do his grocery shopping instead of his dirty work? That was peak Dick Grayson.

But beneath the humor, Jason couldn’t quite shake his unease. An assassin breaking in to deliver a message was one thing. Leaving a note, making breakfast, and restocking the fridge was another. Who the hell was this person, and why hadn’t Dick called anyone about it?

When Dick finally walked in, fresh from patrol and looking like he’d spent the night dragging himself through a cement mixer, Jason was waiting for him. He sat on the counter, arms crossed, the note note in one hald and a bag of monster munch in the other.

“Hey, Dickie,” Jason called casually, but there was a sharp edge to his voice. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”

Dick froze mid-step. His eyes darted to the note in Jason’s hand, and he groaned. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Jason’s lips twitched, his smirk masking his concern. “Oh, don’t worry, I saw it. Read it. Even checked out the fridge. Wanna explain why a professional killer decided to play Gordon Ramsay in your kitchen instead of, you know, killing you?”

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not what it looks like—”

“Not what it looks like?!” Jason barked, standing up and waving the note. “An assassin broke in here, Grayson. They were probably two seconds away from cutting your throat, and somehow, you convinced them to restock your pantry instead. What the hell, man?”

“They weren’t going to kill me,” Dick said defensively, though the way he avoided Jason’s gaze didn’t help his case.

“You don’t know that!” Jason shot back. “What if this is some weird psychological game? What if they poisoned your milk or something?”

“They didn’t poison my milk, Jay.”

Jason stared at him, jaw clenched, before running a hand through his hair and laughing—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “God, you’re lucky you’re so damn charming, or you’d be dead twenty times over by now.”

Dick tried to hide his sheepish smile. “That’s why you love me.”

Jason glared at him for a moment longer before the smirk broke through. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you alive. Speaking of, when were you planning on telling everyone else about this little incident?”

“Uh… I wasn't?"

Jason paused and then grinned, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “So you're saying Bruce doesn'tknow about this?”

“No.”

“Well, he’s gonna,” Jason said gleefully. “Because there’s no way I’m keeping this to myself.”

“Jason!”

“Relax,” Jason said, smirking. “Think of it as a bonding experience. Bruce will yell at you, Tim will freak out, Damian will call you pathetic, and I’ll be here to laugh through all of it.”

Dick groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re the worst.”

Dick Grayson barely registered the creak of his apartment door as he stumbled in, shoulders sagging under the weight of another grueling night. Three jobs and a patrol shift in Blüdhaven would do that to a guy. He kicked off his boots, dragged himself toward the couch, and froze mid-step.

Someone was already here.

For a split second, instinct had him reaching for the escrima sticks he kept stashed near the door. But then he caught the faintest whiff of something familiar—coffee beans? The expensive kind. And the faint rustle of someone shifting in the dark. He relaxed. Probably one of his siblings. Jason liked breaking in unannounced when he was in a mood, Tim treated locks like they were a mere suggestion, and Damien was Damien.

"Tim, if you're raiding my coffee stash again, at least leave some for me this time," Dick grumbled, flopping onto the couch without bothering to look.

Silence.

"Jason? Did you lose your keys, or are you here to eat all my leftovers again?" He paused. "Duke, if that's you, I—okay, actually, no idea why you'd be brooding in the dark, but it's been a long day, so I'm just gonna roll with it."

The silence stretched on, but Dick was too exhausted to care. Whoever it was, they could wait until morning. "Look, I’m on your side. Or, I will be in the morning when I’ve had some sleep." He yawned, dragging himself up off the couch and toward his bedroom. "I’ll make breakfast. We’ll talk then. Pancakes or eggs, your call. Just...try not to trash the place while I’m out, yeah?"

The figure didn’t move, and Dick didn’t wait for an answer. He fell into bed and passed out almost immediately.

---

When Dick woke up, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the blinds. The second thing he noticed was the smell of coffee.

He frowned. Coffee? He hadn’t made any.

Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, on the counter, was a steaming mug of coffee and a note. Beside the note sat a printed receipt and a bag of fresh groceries.

Dick blinked, reaching for the note first. The handwriting was sharp and precise:

> "Not one of your siblings. Sorry for the confusion. Came to deliver a message, but your ‘brotherly’ assumption and hospitality caught me off guard. Your fridge was so pathetic it offended me, so I ordered you groceries. They should last a week. Try to survive the next visit. You seem like a stand-up guy. —K"

He stared at the note, then at the receipt. The assassin—or whoever they were—had bought him eggs, milk, bread, fresh vegetables, and even a few snacks.

Setting the note aside, Dick opened his fridge. Sure enough, it was freshly stocked. His two protein bars and box of expired cereal were still there, now dwarfed by the bounty of fresh food.

He shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “Only me,” he muttered, sipping the coffee. It was good. Better than what he usually bought.

Dick leaned against the counter, rereading the note. Whoever this “K” was, they clearly didn’t know how to keep things impersonal. And while the whole “message from an assassin” thing was technically alarming, he couldn’t help but feel amused.

“I guess I should be worried,” he mused aloud, glancing at the groceries again. “But hey, at least they care about my nutrition.”

It was the weirdest start to a morning he’d had in a while, but for Dick Grayson, that wasn’t saying much.