[crookshanks-07]

Sweet Beginnings Pt. 3

Bat!mom x Tim Drake; tiny bit of Bat!mom x Jason Todd

Summary: A year after losing your son, Tim comes to the manor, becomes the next Robin, and tries to uphold the mantle. 

A/N compared to the other parts this one is a lot longer; also kinda inspired by a TikTok about how Jason and Tim are similar so sorry if it's not lore accurate; all pictures are from pinterest

Asks/ requests open!! Part 1 Part 2 Masterlist

How long is too long to wallow in grief? 

Your therapist had told you Prolonged Grief Disorder wasn’t uncommon. That everyone dealt with grief differently. But this felt different from just any ordinary grief. Jason was never supposed to die before you. He was your baby boy, so full of life and love. To think he would never come running down the halls of Wayne Manor again was unbearable. 

Of course the news was all over the tabloids. 

Bruce Wayne’s son dead from a freak fire accident. 

Of course they would never know what actually happened. That Jason left looking for his mother, protecting her, his real mother. That she betrayed him to the Joker. But everyone knew he died of asphyxiation. 

Your sweet boy, died all alone. That was what hurt the most. Did he know how loved he was? Did he know how much life hurt without him in it? You hoped if there was some sort of afterlife, he knew your heart bled for him. 

Did you blame Bruce? You didn’t know. All you knew was that one night your son was alive, and the next he was taken from you. And that grief stayed no matter how hard you tried. How could you go back to living your life as normal? The manor felt too small and too big at the same time. Everywhere you looked littered memories of both your sons at the manor. 

You were home alone when the knocking came, incessant and hard. You tried to flatten down your hair as you made your way through the house, opening the front door to a boy no older than thirteen. “Mrs. Wayne, is Bruce home?” He asked matter of factly. You took him in, in a way he looked like Bruce, dark hair, blue eyes, even holding folders and manilla envelopes in his hands.

“Are you here all alone? Where are your parents?” You ushered the boy inside, worried someone would just take him. 

“Mrs. Wayne, I really need to talk to Bruce. Please, my name is Tim. You know my parents Jack and Janet and my stepmother Dana Drake,” he continued on. 

“And what do you need to talk to him about?” Your eyebrows furrowed together as you looked at Tim. He was determined, you would give him that. 

He paused for a second, as if trying to decide whether to tell you or not was the right move. Then “I know Bruce Wayne is Batman.” 

You didn’t know how it could happen, but your world came crashing down around you a second time. If this child knew Bruce was Batman, who else could possibly know? Your eyes grew big and your breathing became shallow. “Sit down Tim, honey, I’ll be right back.” 

You ushered him to one of the many sitting rooms in the house then quickly left, making sure the door clicked shut before you pulled out your phone. “Bruce you need to come home right now,” you rushed out as soon as he picked up. 

“Are you hurt? What’s wrong, tell me everything.” You could hear the worry in his voice, the stress that had been eating at him the past year of being Batman and CEO. 

“I’m okay, I just… Just come home and you’ll understand.” 

“I’ll be home in twenty, just wait for me.” Bruce always kept his word, no matter what it was. So in twenty minutes he was walking through the manor doors, laying his eyes on you pacing back and forth. 

“Bruce, there’s boy in there and he knows.” You looked up at your husband as he reached you, pulling you into him. 

He looked you up and down, making sure you were safe before responding. “Know what?” 

“You’re Batman and I have proof.” You both turned as the doors to the sitting room burst open and out walked Tim, manilla folders in hand. The young boy proceeded to take out pieces of paper, and prove exactly what you both knew. 

Bruce’s face hardened with every page Tim laid across the coffee table. 

Photographs.

Circled patterns.

Newspaper clippings.

Robin.

Batman.

Dick Grayson.

Jason Todd.

You watched Bruce change in real time as the realization settled in. Not panic. Worse. Calculation. “How long have you known?” Bruce asked quietly.

Tim swallowed once but held his ground. “A long time.”

“You told anyone?”

“No.”

Bruce stepped forward then, towering over the boy in a way that made your stomach twist. Tim looked so young standing in the middle of the hallway clutching folders to his chest. “You need to leave,” Bruce said.

“Bruce—”

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “This conversation is over.”

But Tim didn’t move. Instead, something flashed across the boy’s face. Frustration. Grief. Desperation. “You’re doing it wrong.”

The room went still. Bruce’s expression darkened dangerously. “Excuse me?”

“You need Robin.”

The words hit like a gunshot. Your breath caught. For the first time since Jason died, someone had said it aloud. Not Jason’s name, not directly, but close enough that the grief suddenly felt alive again, clawing its way through the room.

Bruce looked furious. “No one needs Robin.”

“Yes they do,” Tim shot back before fear could stop him. “Batman does.”

“Tim—” you started carefully.

“You’re angry all the time now,” Tim continued, looking directly at Bruce. “You’re reckless. Violent. You don’t care what happens to you anymore.”

Bruce took another step toward him. “You know nothing about this.”

“I know Robin made you better.”

That one landed. You saw it happen. Not because Bruce showed emotion openly, but because for half a second he looked tired. Truly tired. Like the weight of the last year suddenly pressed down harder beneath the boy’s words.

Tim’s voice softened then. “I’m not trying to replace him.”

Silence.

Painful silence.

Because that was the fear neither of you had said aloud yet. Not replacement. But forgetting. And maybe that was why your chest hurt so badly looking at this child standing in the middle of your home trying to save a man who didn’t want saving.

Bruce finally exhaled through his nose. “You need to go home.”

Tim’s shoulders fell slightly, but he nodded. You expected him to leave after that. Instead, he hesitated at the doorway. Then quietly— “Jason would’ve wanted Batman to keep going.”

Bruce went completely still. And Tim left before either of you could answer. The front doors shut behind Tim with a heavy thud that seemed to echo through the entire manor. Silence followed. The kind that only existed in Wayne Manor now. Not peaceful silence.

Empty silence.

You stood frozen in the sitting room staring at the papers Tim had left scattered across the coffee table. Photographs. Timelines. Handwriting cramped into margins. Patrol patterns. Newspaper clippings. A child had put this together. You slowly looked toward Bruce. “He’s thirteen.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Which is exactly why he should never come back here again.” But even as he said it, his eyes lingered on the files. On the accuracy. On the details only someone obsessively observant would notice. You saw the moment Bruce realized the boy wasn’t bluffing. Which somehow made everything worse.

“He’s just a kid,” you whispered again.

Bruce finally tore his gaze away from the papers. “A kid who’s been tracking Batman for months.”

“And whose fault is that?” The question came sharper than intended. Bruce’s expression darkened immediately. Not angry. Wounded. Because you both knew what you meant. Robin had inspired children long before Jason. That had always been the point. Hope. Color. Someone young enough for Gotham’s children to see themselves in. But now all you could think about was a gravestone.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose and began gathering the papers. “I’ll handle it.” You hated those words lately. 

I’ll handle it.

As if handling things had ever stopped Gotham from taking and taking and taking. “Bruce—”

“He’s not getting involved.”

Your eyes dropped briefly to the photograph in his hands. Batman caught mid-swing across Gotham’s skyline. Beside it, another photo. Jason. Robin laughing at something blurry outside frame. Your chest tightened so violently you had to look away. Bruce noticed. He always noticed. The fight left him almost instantly. His shoulders sagged slightly as he crossed the room toward you. “I know,” he said quietly, one hand settling against your arm. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not entirely. Because Bruce’s grief had become movement. Patrols. Broken bones. Endless nights. Yours had become stillness. Rooms left untouched. Laundry you couldn’t bring yourself to move. A bedroom frozen in time upstairs. You closed your eyes briefly as Bruce pulled you against him. The cave had taken so much from him over the years, but this—

This had hollowed him out. And maybe that was why the next few weeks felt so strange. Because Tim Drake kept showing up anyway. Not constantly. Not enough to be called normal. Just enough to become unsettling. The first time after the manor, Alfred mentioned it over breakfast. “Master Timothy stopped by yesterday afternoon.”

Bruce barely looked up from the newspaper. “And?”

“He left a file regarding the Maroni shipment routes.”

Bruce stilled slightly. You frowned. “What do you mean left?”

Alfred’s mouth twitched faintly. “He handed it to me and said Batman was overlooking the east docks due to a pattern disruption caused by the flood barriers.”

A pause. “…Then he asked if you were eating enough vegetables.”

You blinked. Bruce looked offended. “What?”

“He seemed concerned, sir.”

You almost laughed. Almost. Instead something strange twisted painfully in your chest because for one fleeting second the conversation felt normal. Domestic. Ridiculous in the way things used to feel when the boys were younger. Then Jason’s absence hit all over again. Bruce must’ve seen it happen on your face because his expression softened immediately. But neither of you said his name. You rarely did anymore.

The second time you saw Tim yourself. Rain hammered against the manor windows in heavy sheets as you descended the stairs late one evening unable to sleep. Again. The lights in the kitchen were on. For one impossible, horrible moment your heart leapt into your throat. Because Jason used to sit in there late at night stealing cereal straight from the box when he thought Alfred wouldn’t notice.

You stepped into the doorway—

Jason sat barefoot on the kitchen counter in an oversized Gotham Knights shirt, one leg swinging idly while cereal balanced in his lap. His dark hair stuck up unevenly from sleep and there was milk on the sleeve of his shirt because he never ate like a normal person.

“Alfred’s gonna kill you,” you  whispered, trying not to laugh.

Jason grinned immediately. Reckless. Bright. Alive. “Only if I get caught.”

“You’re sitting in the middle of the kitchen.”

“That’s where they least expect me.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing toward him while rain tapped softly against the windows. Jason shoveled another spoonful into his mouth before holding the box out toward you lazily. “You want some?”

“No, I want you to stop eating sugar at two in the morning.”

“That sounds fake.” You laughed quietly despite yourself and reached up automatically, smoothing down the mess of hair sticking up near the back of his head. Jason leaned into it without thinking. Always so easy with affection. “You know,” he said around another mouthful of cereal, “when I move out one day, you’re gonna miss me.”

Your chest tightened sharply at the memory. “I already do,” you had whispered. And Jason, your beautiful boy, just smiled like he had forever. Then lightning flashed beyond the windows. The kitchen shifted.

And suddenly—

suddenly it wasn’t Jason sitting in the kitchen anymore.

Not Jason.

Tim.

The boy sat perched awkwardly on one of the barstools in full school uniform, damp hair curling slightly from the rain. A backpack rested at his feet beside three thick folders and what looked like calculus homework. He looked up immediately, startled. “Oh.”

You blinked at him. “Tim?”

“I knocked,” he said quickly. “Alfred let me in.” Of course he did. Because Alfred had always had a weakness for lost children. Tim looked awkward suddenly beneath your stare. Too young. God, he looked too young sitting in your kitchen at nearly ten o’clock at night.

“What are you doing here?”

Tim hesitated. Then carefully slid one of the folders across the counter toward you. “Batman missed another weapons exchange.”

Your stomach sank. “You’ve been tracking him?”

“I’ve been tracking Gotham,” Tim corrected quietly. The distinction mattered to him. You could tell. 

You stared at the folder but didn’t open it. “Tim…”

“He’s getting worse.”

Your throat tightened. Not because you disagreed. Because hearing it from a child made it unbearable. Tim’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his notebook before he spoke again, quieter this time. “He almost got shot three nights ago.”

Fear sliced through you instantly. “He what?”

Tim looked surprised by your reaction before answering quickly. “He was distracted. The angle was wrong. Nightwing intervened before—”

You closed your eyes briefly. Bruce had told you patrol went fine that night. Of course he had. A headache pulsed behind your eyes as you leaned against the counter. Across from you, Tim shifted awkwardly again like he regretted saying anything at all. Then, after a small pause—

“Mrs. Wayne?”

You looked up. Tim pointed hesitantly toward the cabinet above the fridge. “Your cereal’s expired.”

The absurdity of it hit so suddenly you actually laughed. A real laugh. Short and startled and rusty from disuse. Tim blinked. You stared at him in mild horror because you genuinely couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed since Jason died. And somehow, somehow, this strange little boy sitting in your kitchen surrounded by crime files and homework had done it accidentally.

Tim looked just as startled by the sound as you did. Like he hadn’t expected it either. The laugh faded quickly, but the warmth of it lingered faintly in your chest, strange and unfamiliar after so many months of numbness. “You can’t come to Wayne Manor at ten o’clock at night to critique my cereal,” you informed him.

Tim ducked his head slightly, though you caught the ghost of embarrassment at the corner of his mouth. “Technically it was nine fifty-two.”

“Oh, even worse.” That earned the smallest huff of laughter from him before the kitchen settled quiet again beneath the steady sound of rain. Up close, he looked exhausted. Not dramatic exhaustion. Kid exhaustion. Heavy backpack. Wrinkled uniform. Ink smudged against the side of his hand. Eyes too tired for someone his age.

Your gaze dropped to the open homework beside him. “You came here after school?”

“And debate club.”

“Debate club,” you repeated faintly.

Tim nodded once. “And then I stopped by the east side precinct because they logged the wrong truck descriptions in the Narrows case files.”

Of course he did. You stared at him for a long moment before finally asking, “Tim… where are your parents?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “At a charity event in Metropolis tonight,” he answered after a second. “They travel a lot.”

Something about the way he said it felt rehearsed. Automatic. You knew that tone. Children who spent too much time alone learned how to explain it away neatly. Before you could say anything else, the sound of tires crunching over gravel echoed faintly outside. Tim straightened instantly.

Batman.

No.

Bruce.

You watched the transformation happen in real time. The awkward kid with homework and wet sleeves suddenly sharpened into something intensely alert. The back entrance opened moments later. Bruce stepped inside still dressed in black slacks and a button-down from some gala fundraiser earlier that evening, though his tie had already been loosened. He stopped cold the second he saw Tim sitting in the kitchen. “…What is he doing here?”

Tim immediately stood. You crossed your arms before Bruce could continue. “He brought food criticism and a folder.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed toward the folder instantly. Tim pushed it toward him carefully. “Falcone’s moving operations through the flooded subway tunnels now. They’re using relief trucks for transport because checkpoints wave them through faster.”

Bruce opened the file. Silence. Then another page. Another. You watched his expression tighten almost imperceptibly the further he read. Because it was good. Annoyingly good. Finally Bruce looked up slowly. “Where did you get this?”

Tim hesitated only briefly. “Public records. Traffic cameras. Shipping manifests. Police scanners.”

“You hacked police scanners?”

“They’re not very secure.”

“Tim.”

“What?” he asked defensively. “I was right.”

Bruce looked exhausted suddenly. Not angry. Just deeply, deeply tired. You recognized that look too. The realization that a problem wasn’t going away. Tim shifted awkwardly under the silence before reaching for his backpack. “I should go.”

“You walked here in the rain?” you asked immediately.

“I took the train.”

“At this hour?”

Tim blinked like the question itself confused him. Bruce noticed it too. You saw the exact moment concern flickered briefly beneath Bruce’s irritation. Because no matter how capable Tim acted, he was still thirteen years old taking trains across Gotham alone at night carrying crime evidence in his backpack. Absolutely insane behavior. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll drive you home.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

Tim opened his mouth like he wanted to argue further before apparently deciding against it. You moved before really thinking about it, crossing toward the pantry and grabbing one of Alfred’s wrapped blueberry muffins from earlier that morning. Tim looked confused when you handed it to him. “You’re growing,” you said simply. “Eat something.”

For a second he just stared at the muffin. Such a small thing. But something in his expression shifted unexpectedly. Not dramatic. Just subtle surprise. Like people didn’t usually notice whether he’d eaten. “…Thanks,” he said quietly.

Your chest ached again. Because suddenly you could picture Jason at thirteen so vividly it hurt. All long limbs and endless hunger and pretending he wasn’t tired. The memory came so fast and sharp you nearly lost your breath. Tim must’ve noticed something change on your face because he immediately looked guilty. As if he’d done something wrong by standing there. That hurt worst of all.

Bruce gently touched your arm as he passed. Grounding. Checking in. You swallowed hard and forced a small smile toward Tim. “Get home safe, okay?”

Tim nodded once, clutching the muffin awkwardly in one hand and his backpack strap in the other. Then he followed Bruce out into the rain. And for the first time in over a year, the manor didn’t feel quite so empty after someone left it.

The cave felt different after that. Bruce noticed it first. Not because anything physically changed. But because Tim had somehow inserted himself into the rhythm of things without permission. A file left on the batcomputer. A handwritten note correcting patrol overlap in the Bowery. Three newspaper clippings Alfred found tucked beneath the windshield of the batmobile.

Bruce hated it. Mostly because the kid was right too often. “You’re encouraging him,” Bruce muttered one evening as he stalked across the cave removing his gloves.

You looked up from where you sat on the medical table folding fresh bandages. “I gave him a muffin, Bruce. Not a grappling hook.”

“He keeps showing up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Bruce shot you a look. You sighed softly, setting the bandages aside. “He’s a child.”

“A child tracking organized crime.”

“A lonely child tracking organized crime.” Bruce’s jaw tightened immediately because he knew exactly what you meant. You leaned back slightly against the table. “When’s the last time someone told him no and actually stayed around afterward?”

Silence.

That answer told you enough.

Bruce looked away first, gaze falling toward the batcomputer screens glowing across the cave. “He shouldn’t be involved in this.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the wording. Shouldn’t be involved. Jason shouldn’t have been involved either. The thought passed silently between you both. Neither brave enough to say it aloud. 

Finally Bruce spoke again, quieter this time. “He reminds me too much of—” He stopped himself.

Jason.

The name still lived like a wound in the manor. You crossed the cave slowly until you stood in front of him. “That’s not Tim’s fault.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”

A week later you found Tim asleep in the library. Again. At this point you were beginning to suspect the child existed there between dimensions whenever he wasn’t actively attending school. Rain pattered softly against the windows as you stepped quietly into the room carrying tea you couldn’t sleep long enough to drink. And for one impossible, aching moment—

Jason sat sprawled sideways across the armchair near the fireplace with a book hanging dangerously from loose fingers while one leg dangled over the armrest. The firelight painted warm gold across his sleeping face while dark curls fell messily into closed eyes. Your heart lurched painfully.  “Just resting my eyes, Ma.”

You remembered another rainy night years ago when you’d found him exactly like this after patrol. Jason had stubbornly insisted he was “doing research” for Bruce before promptly falling asleep thirty pages into a crime novel. You’d crossed the room quietly back then too, smiling helplessly while lifting the book from his lap. Jason stirred immediately. “M’not asleep.”

“You’re snoring.”

“You’re lying.”

“You drooled on the page.”

“That’s called immersion.”

You remembered laughing softly as you pulled the blanket from the nearby couch and draped it carefully over him.

Jason cracked one eye open just enough to peer up at you sleepily. “You’re nice.”

“You say that like it’s surprising.”

“Most people tell me to go to bed.”

“You should go to bed.”

“Yeah, but you say it all mom-like.” Your chest tightened violently at the memory. You remembered brushing hair back from his forehead while he smiled up at you lazy and warm and so heartbreakingly alive.

“Love you, Ma.”

Then lightning flashed beyond the library windows. The illusion shattered. And suddenly it wasn’t Jason in the chair anymore.

Not Jason.

Tim.

Tim sat curled awkwardly in the armchair near the fireplace, head tipped against one hand while an enormous hardcover book rested open across his lap.

He’d fallen asleep reading.

Your heart clenched.

Jason used to do that too. Not the same way. Jason sprawled. Tim folded into himself. But still, the sight struck something deep and bruised inside you.

You approached carefully. His backpack sat beside the chair half-unzipped, papers sticking out haphazardly alongside school textbooks and loose photographs of Gotham street layouts. You frowned. The kid practically lived out of that bag. A blanket rested folded over the back of the couch nearby. Alfred’s doing, undoubtedly. You gently lifted the book from Tim’s lap to keep it from falling. 

His eyes snapped open instantly. Wide awake in under a second. Not normal. Your stomach sank. “Sorry,” he said immediately, sitting upright so quickly the chair creaked beneath him.

There was that word again. Sorry.

For existing.

For taking up space.

“It’s alright,” you said softly. “You fell asleep.”

Tim blinked rapidly a few times, clearly trying to reorient himself. “I didn’t mean to. What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Tim’s expression immediately shifted to alarm. “Oh.”

“You didn’t realize?”

“I lost track.” Of course he did. You looked more carefully at the papers spilling from his bag. Patrol maps. Crime statistics. School assignments. And underneath all of it, a photograph. You recognized Jack and Janet Drake instantly. Tim noticed your gaze and moved faster than you expected, shoving the picture deeper into the bag. 

Too fast.

Protective.

Something twisted painfully in your chest. “You miss them,” you said quietly. Tim froze. Not visibly. But enough. The room suddenly felt very still.

“They travel a lot,” he answered automatically. Not what you asked.

You sat carefully on the couch across from him. “That isn’t what I said.”

Tim stared down at his hands. He looked younger tonight somehow. Not Gotham’s brilliant little detective. Just a boy. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice quieter than usual. “Sometimes.”

Sometimes.

Your throat burned. Children should not have to ration how much they missed their parents. Before you could answer, Alfred appeared silently in the doorway carrying another blanket. “Master Timothy,” he said gently, “if you intended to stay another evening, I once again must insist you stop attempting to survive solely on coffee.”

Tim looked embarrassed immediately. “Sorry.”

Alfred sighed. “Young sir, one day I shall free you from that word if it kills me.”

To your surprise, Tim smiled faintly. Small. Quick. Gone almost instantly. But real. And as Alfred draped the blanket over the back of Tim’s chair, you felt something dangerous shift quietly inside your chest. Not replacement. Never that. But the terrifying beginning of care.

The first time Tim came into the cave willingly, it was an accident. At least, that was what Bruce insisted afterward. You knew better. The grandfather clock had barely finished sliding shut behind Bruce before another voice echoed faintly from the staircase above. “…I know that opens the cave.”

Bruce stopped dead. Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned his head. Tim stood halfway down the stairs in pajama pants, a Gotham Knights t-shirt, and socks with tiny coffee cups patterned across them. You blinked once. Bruce looked like he was contemplating whether he could legally launch himself into the sun. Tim looked between both of you carefully. “In my defense, Alfred said you were downstairs.”

“You’re not supposed to know where downstairs is,” Bruce said flatly.

Tim winced slightly. “Right.”

“You followed me?”

“You disappeared behind a clock, Bruce.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It kind of answers the question.” You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Bruce looked deeply betrayed by this entire interaction. Tim, unfortunately, continued. “I also already knew there was a cave under the manor.”

Bruce stared at him. “…You knew there was a cave.”

Tim nodded once. “Statistically speaking it made the most sense.”

“Statistically.”

“There’s a subterranean foundation discrepancy beneath the east wing and unusual energy consumption beneath the property line and—”

“Stop talking.”

Tim immediately stopped. Silence. Then— “You’re wearing coffee socks,” you said suddenly.

Tim blinked, looking down. “…Yeah?”

Bruce looked at you like this was not the pressing issue. You ignored him entirely. “They’re cute.”

Tim looked startled. Actually startled. Like compliments physically confused him. “…Thanks.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose so hard you thought he might leave a bruise. “This is not happening.”

It did happen. Not officially. Never officially. But after that night Tim stopped hovering at the edges of things quite so much.

Bruce would descend into the cave and find updated case notes already waiting. Tim would “accidentally” point out structural flaws in abandoned buildings before patrol. Sometimes he and Alfred sat upstairs arguing over chess openings while Bruce pretended not to notice how late the hour had gotten. And somehow, slowly, the manor began sounding alive again.

Not fully.

Never fully.

Jason’s absence still existed in every hallway. But now there were other sounds too. Footsteps running down stairs. The library fireplace crackling late at night because Tim forgot the time while reading. Alfred complaining about someone leaving chemistry textbooks on the dining table. Once, you even heard Bruce and Tim arguing in the study over whether the Gray Ghost could beat Sherlock Holmes in a deduction contest. Bruce was smiling.

Smiling.

The realization nearly stopped you in the hallway. Not a big smile. Just small. Brief. But real enough that your chest tightened painfully. Because you hadn’t seen that expression in so long. And suddenly guilt crashed into you almost immediately afterward. The feeling came hard and ugly.

Like betrayal.

You shouldn’t be relieved by this. You shouldn’t feel warmth hearing another child in these halls. You shouldn’t—

“Mrs. Wayne?”

You startled violently. Tim stood at the opposite end of the hallway holding two books against his chest. Concern flickered briefly across his face. “You okay?”

For one horrible moment, one truly horrible moment, your brain supplied the wrong voice. 

Jason.

The resemblance wasn’t physical. It was something worse.

The cadence.

The concern.

The way both boys always asked like they already knew the answer. Grief hit you so suddenly your eyes burned. Tim immediately looked alarmed. “Did I do something wrong?”

And there it was again. That instinctive guilt. That terrified little flinch like care itself was dangerous. You swallowed hard. “No, honey.”

Honey.

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Tim froze.

So did you.

The hallway suddenly felt unbearably quiet. Tim looked down almost immediately afterward, fingers tightening slightly around the books in his arms. Something fragile passed across his expression. Not discomfort. Something softer. Like he wanted to hear it again. Your chest cracked clean open. Because suddenly it became impossible not to see it: This child had attached himself to Gotham’s darkest corners because nobody had really been holding onto him. And maybe, maybe some part of him had started holding onto you too.

Tim cleared his throat awkwardly after a moment. “I, uh… Alfred made cookies.”

You laughed softly despite yourself, wiping quickly beneath your eyes before he could notice. “Did he now?”

Tim nodded once. “He said if I didn’t stop surviving on caffeine he was going to start putting vegetables in my pancakes.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“He said it like one.”

You smiled again. A real one this time. And Tim visibly relaxed at the sight of it. Tiny. Nearly imperceptible. But enough. Enough that later that night, lying awake beside Bruce while rain tapped softly against the manor windows, you whispered quietly into the darkness—

“I’m scared.”

Bruce shifted beside you immediately. “Of what?”

Your throat tightened. “Loving another child this much.”

The silence afterward felt enormous. Then Bruce’s hand found yours beneath the blankets, fingers threading together carefully like he was afraid you might disappear too. “I know,” he whispered back. And somehow that hurt almost as much as it helped.

Winter settled over Gotham slowly. The manor always felt colder during winter. Not physically. Alfred would’ve fought God himself before allowing Wayne Manor to become drafty. But emotionally. The kind of cold that settled into old grief and stayed there. The first Christmas after Jason’s death had been unbearable. Decorations untouched. The tree left half-finished because neither you nor Bruce could stomach opening the box labeled handmade ornaments. Dick had visited briefly. Alfred tried his best. Bruce disappeared into patrol for almost sixteen hours straight.

This year wasn’t much easier. Just… quieter. Different. You stood in the library one evening staring blankly at the half-decorated tree Alfred had insisted on putting up. White lights glowed softly against the darkened room while snow drifted beyond the tall windows. For several long moments you simply stood there holding one ornament in your hand. A small robin made from clay. Jason made it when he was eleven. The wings were uneven.

You remembered him getting frustrated because Dick’s ornament looked “professionally manufactured,” which led to Bruce secretly helping Jason remake it in the cave at two in the morning covered in paint. Your vision blurred instantly. God. You missed him.

The grief never got smaller. People lied about that. You just learned how to survive around it. The library door creaked softly behind you. You quickly wiped beneath your eyes before turning. Tim froze immediately upon seeing your face. “Oh,” he said quietly. Not awkward. Not startled. Just soft. Like he understood immediately.

You hated how quickly he understood grief now. “I’m okay,” you lied automatically.

Tim looked unconvinced but thankfully didn’t push. Instead his gaze drifted toward the ornament still clutched in your hand. “That was Jason’s?”

Your fingers tightened instinctively around it. “Yeah.”

Tim nodded slowly. Not curious. Not prying. Just acknowledging him. Jason. A real person. Not a wound everyone tiptoed around.

Something in your chest loosened unexpectedly. Most people avoided talking about him now. Even well-meaning people. Like speaking Jason’s name aloud might shatter you completely. But Tim never did that. Tim talked about him carefully sometimes. Like someone keeping a light on. “He liked Christmas,” Tim said after a moment.

You blinked slightly. “You remember that?”

A faint smile crossed Tim’s face. “He got into a fight with a mall Santa when we were kids.”

Despite yourself, a startled laugh escaped you. “Oh my God.”

“He said the guy was overcharging parents for pictures.”

“That sounds exactly like him.”

Tim smiled a little wider at that, gaze lowering briefly toward the floor. “He bought me hot chocolate afterward because I cried.”

Your heart physically ached. You hadn’t even known they’d met before. Of course they had. Tim had been watching them all for years. Watching Robin. Watching Batman. Watching your family. The realization should’ve felt invasive. Instead it just felt sad.

Tim shifted awkwardly after the silence stretched too long. “Sorry. I just thought maybe…”

“No,” you interrupted gently. “Thank you.”

His expression softened slightly in relief. Then he glanced toward the tree. “Alfred says Bruce put the lights on wrong.”

“That’s because Bruce thinks aesthetics are a government conspiracy.”

Tim snorted unexpectedly. Actually snorted. You stared at him in mock offense. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just saying, the left side is kind of uneven.”

“Timothy Drake.”

He grinned. And there it was again. Not Jason. Never Jason. But life. Warmth. Noise in rooms that had been silent too long. You looked at him standing there in an oversized sweater with a candy cane hanging half out of his pocket and suddenly the thought came uninvited and terrifying:

He should be here. Not as Robin. Not as Batman’s partner. Just, here. Fed properly. Safe. Loved. The intensity of the feeling startled you enough that you looked away immediately. Tim noticed. Of course he did. “You okay?” Always asking that. Always watching everyone else so carefully while nobody watched him.

Your gaze caught then on the dark circles beneath his eyes. The tension hidden in his shoulders. The way he still instinctively apologized anytime he occupied space too long. And suddenly you wondered, when was the last time someone had looked at him and asked if he was okay?

The thought hollowed your chest out. Before you could answer, the library doors opened again. Bruce stepped inside still wearing a long dark coat from patrol preparations, snow dusting faintly across his shoulders. His eyes moved immediately between both of you. Assessing. Reading. Always reading. “What’s going on?”

“I was told you hung the lights up wrong” you said instantly.

Tim gasped. “Traitor.”

Bruce looked deeply offended. “The lights are symmetrical.”

“They’re symmetrical if you tilt your head,” you shot back. Tim laughed again. And Bruce—

Bruce froze for half a second at the sound. Because laughter had become rare enough in this house that hearing it still surprised all of you. You watched something soften in Bruce’s face almost immediately afterward. Exhaustion still lingered there constantly now. Grief too. But beneath it, something gentler. Something healing. Tim noticed it too. You could tell.

And suddenly, standing there beneath the glow of Christmas lights and old grief and new love growing terrifyingly quietly between the cracks, you realized none of you were surviving alone anymore.

Bruce set the patrol bag down near the library doors, snow melting slowly from the shoulders of his coat as silence settled warmly around the three of you. Not uncomfortable silence. The kind families slipped into naturally. That realization startled you enough that you looked away first. Tim shifted beside the tree, absentmindedly straightening one of the crooked ornaments. “I still think the lights are uneven.”

Bruce looked personally attacked. “You’ve been here ten minutes and already started undermining me.”

“Statistically speaking—”

“Don’t say statistically.”

Tim grinned. God. That grin was dangerous. Not because it looked like Jason’s. It didn’t. Jason grinned like a challenge. Tim smiled like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. And somehow that hurt worse.

Bruce moved further into the room, finally shrugging his coat off fully before glancing toward the half-decorated tree. “Did Alfred finish the downstairs?”

“He threatened to fight me with a garland when I tried helping,” you answered.

Bruce nodded solemnly. “Reasonable.”

“I heard that, Master Bruce,” Alfred called from somewhere down the hall.

Tim startled slightly before laughing under his breath. Bruce looked unbearably smug about it. For a little while the three of you decorated quietly together. Not intentionally. It just… happened. Tim untangled lights while sitting cross-legged on the rug near the fireplace. Bruce fixed hooks that kept slipping from branches. You handled ornaments mostly because Bruce’s decorating skills truly were catastrophic.

The manor glowed softly around all of you. Warm gold lights. Snow beyond the windows. Fire crackling low nearby. For the first time in over a year, Wayne Manor felt lived in again. Not healed. Never healed. But alive. Then Tim reached into one of the ornament boxes and froze slightly. Your stomach tightened immediately when you saw what he’d picked up. Robin ornaments. Three of them.

Dick’s was oldest,  bright colors and lopsided stitching from elementary school. Jason’s sat beside it. Red and green paint smudged together unevenly across wooden wings. And tucked near the bottom, an unfinished third ornament. Blank.

Your breath caught. Bruce went very still across the room. Tim looked between both of you immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No,” you interrupted softly.

Tim carefully turned the unfinished ornament over in his hands. “Whose was this supposed to be?” The question settled heavily into the room.

Bruce answered first. “Jason’s second one.” Your chest ached instantly. You remembered now. Jason had complained the first ornament looked “ugly as hell,” which led to him demanding a replacement the next year.

He never got to finish it. The memory hollowed you out so suddenly you had to sit down on the edge of the couch. Tim noticed immediately. Of course he did. He set the ornament down carefully like it might break. Then quietly, “We could finish it.”

The words startled both you and Bruce. Tim immediately looked nervous afterward, shoulders drawing inward slightly. “Or not. Sorry. I just thought—”

“No,” Bruce said suddenly. Tim stopped. Bruce stared at the unfinished ornament for a long moment before speaking again, voice rougher now. “No,” he repeated more quietly. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Silence settled again. Different this time. Tender. Painful. You watched Tim carefully pick the ornament back up before moving toward the coffee table where scattered paint supplies still sat from earlier decorating attempts. Bruce slowly sat beside you on the couch. Close enough that your shoulders touched. Neither of you spoke while Tim worked.

The boy became intensely focused almost immediately, brow furrowing slightly as he painted careful red lines along the wings. You felt Bruce watching him too. Not Batman assessing a recruit. Not even really Bruce Wayne evaluating another child in his orbit. Just watching. The way parents watched children doing something quietly important.

Tim glanced up after a minute. “What?”

Bruce blinked once like he’d forgotten he was staring. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re painting seriously.”

“It’s called concentration.”

Bruce hummed. “That’s not how Jason painted.”

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. Tim looked curious. “How did Jason paint?”

“Like the brush personally insulted him,” you answered softly.

Tim snorted. Bruce actually laughed under his breath. And suddenly, suddenly the grief in the room shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But lighter somehow. Like Jason wasn’t just the sharp edge of loss tonight. Tonight he felt present too. Loved. Remembered. Tim finished the ornament nearly twenty minutes later before standing carefully to hang it near the center of the tree.

Not replacing Jason’s first ornament. Beside it. Your throat tightened violently at the sight. Beside it. Not instead of. Bruce noticed too. You saw it in the way his expression softened almost painfully as Tim stepped back to inspect the placement. “It’s still uneven,” Tim declared.

Bruce looked outraged. “You did that one.”

“And now I’m part of the problem.”

You laughed again. So did Bruce. And beneath the warm glow of the Christmas lights, with snow falling quietly outside and Tim standing in the middle of your home holding paint-stained fingers awkwardly away from his sweater, you realized something terrifying. You were already beginning to love him.

It started with bruises. Not major ones at first. Just small things. A split lip hidden beneath excuses about gym class. Bruised knuckles. A limp Tim tried very hard not to have. You noticed because mothers noticed things. Even when children desperately wished they wouldn’t. “Hold still.”

Tim sighed dramatically from where he sat on the bathroom counter while you dabbed antiseptic against the cut near his eyebrow. “It’s barely bleeding.”

“That’s usually how cuts work.”

“It looked worse earlier.”

“That is not comforting.”

Tim tried not to smile. Tried and failed. The manor bathroom glowed softly in the late evening light while rain tapped against the windows outside. Somewhere downstairs Alfred argued with Bruce about replacing the grandfather clock hinges. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. Meanwhile you were tending to injuries on another child connected to Batman. The thought still terrified you. “You’re getting sloppier,” you said quietly.

Tim’s expression shifted instantly. Guarded. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times in the last hour.”

“Because I am.”

You set the antiseptic down a little harder than intended. “Tim.”

He finally looked at you then. And suddenly you saw it clearly, the exhaustion. The stubbornness. The determination buried beneath fear. He looked thirteen and forty years old simultaneously. “You’re following him at night, aren’t you?”

Silence.

That was answer enough. Your stomach dropped. “Timothy.”

“He needs help.”

The words came out immediately. Fierce. Certain. Like he’d been carrying them around too long. “He’s getting worse again,” Tim continued before you could interrupt. “Crime Alley escalations are up thirty percent, his response times are slower when he’s alone, and he keeps taking hits he should dodge because he’s distracted.”

Your chest tightened. Because you knew. God, you knew. Bruce had been better lately. More present. Sleeping occasionally. Smiling sometimes. But underneath it all the grief still lived inside him like something starving. And Batman…

Batman had become crueler after Jason died.

More violent. More reckless. Tim looked down at his bruised hands. “Robin made him better.”

The sentence landed softly. Painfully. Because part of you believed it too. That had always been the horrible truth. Robin wasn’t just a partner. Robin tethered Bruce to humanity.

To hope.

To family.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the tub opposite him. “You are a child.”

“I know.”

“You could get hurt.”

Tim gave you a look then. Small. Careful. The kind that said, that isn’t the point. And suddenly you realized something devastating: Tim had already accepted the possibility of getting hurt. Because in his mind, Bruce falling apart would be worse. Your throat tightened painfully. Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Bruce.

Tim straightened immediately. Not fearful. Alert. The bathroom door opened a second later and Bruce stopped cold at the sight before him. Tim on the counter. Bruised. You holding antiseptic. Bruce’s expression darkened instantly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tim answered too quickly.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Tim.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re limping.”

Tim looked genuinely annoyed Bruce noticed. Of course he noticed. Bruce crossed the room immediately, crouching slightly in front of Tim before carefully tilting his chin toward the light. You watched the exact moment Bruce cataloged every injury. Training bruises. Roof-running bruises. Fighting bruises. Batman bruises. A terrible silence settled over the room. Then Bruce spoke very quietly. “You followed me again.” Not a question. 

Tim exhaled once through his nose. “You were outnumbered.”

“I handled it.”

“You got stabbed.”

“A graze.”

“You needed backup.”

Bruce stood abruptly then, frustration flashing across his face. “You are not Robin.” The room went still.

Tim’s jaw tightened immediately. “I know that.”

“Then stop acting like you are.”

“You need to stop acting like you’re invincible!” The words exploded out before Tim could stop them.

Silence crashed down afterward. Bruce froze. So did you. Tim looked horrified instantly, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But it was too late now. The truth sat there between all of you. Raw and ugly. Because everyone knew exactly who he was. Robin. Jason. The ghost haunting every room in this house.

Bruce’s face shuttered immediately. Pain hidden beneath anger so quickly most people would’ve missed it. Not you. Never you. Tim swallowed hard once before speaking again, quieter now. “I’m not trying to replace him.”

Bruce looked away instantly. And suddenly you couldn’t stand it anymore. The grief. The fear. The way both of them were destroying themselves in opposite directions. “Bruce.” He didn’t answer. You stood slowly, crossing the room until you reached him. “Look at him.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Bruce.”

Finally his eyes lifted. And there was the horrible truth of it, Tim standing there bruised and exhausted and determined beyond reason looked exactly like every child Gotham had ever failed.

Exactly like Dick. Exactly like Jason.

Exactly like Bruce himself once.

Your voice softened painfully. “He’s already in this whether we want him to be or not.”

Tim looked between both of you carefully, barely breathing now. Bruce stared at the floor for a very long moment. Then finally, quietly. Defeated. Terrified. “…I know.”

Bruce avoided the subject for six days. Which, in Wayne terms, was practically an emotional crisis. Tim still came to the manor. Bruce still allowed it. But something had shifted after the bathroom conversation. The air felt tighter somehow. More fragile. You caught Bruce watching Tim constantly now. Not casually. Assessing. Calculating. The way Batman observed rooftops before deciding whether they’d hold his weight. 

And Tim noticed too. Of course he did. Which only made him more careful. Less obvious. Like if he acted normal enough Bruce would somehow forget he’d been running across Gotham rooftops alone. It didn’t work. You found Bruce in the cave late one night staring at surveillance footage instead of working. Tim moved across one of the monitors frame by frame. Civilian clothes. Red hoodie. Breath foging in winter air as he tailed Batman from three rooftops back. Your stomach sank. “He’s good,” Bruce said quietly.

Not pride. Something worse. Fear.

You stepped closer beside him. “You sound upset about that.”

Bruce leaned heavily against the console. “He’s thirteen.”

“So was Dick.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened instantly. “So was Jason,” he answered.

Silence settled hard between you both. Onscreen, Tim made a jump across two buildings and landed cleanly despite the ice coating the ledge. Bruce looked physically ill watching it. “He could’ve slipped there.”

“But he didn’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

You looked at the screen for a long moment before speaking softly. “You know what scares me?” Bruce glanced toward you tiredly. “I think he’d follow you even if you told him not to.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because he knew you were right. That was the real problem. Tim Drake had already chosen this. The only question left was whether Bruce would let him do it alone.

The confrontation finally happened in the cave. Loudly. You heard it halfway down the staircase. “…absolutely not.” Bruce.

Tim answered immediately after. “You can’t stop me.”

“Oh, I absolutely can.”

“You can try.”

You descended the remaining steps quickly only to find Tim standing near the batcomputer in full furious teenager mode while Bruce looked approximately two seconds away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Dick sat awkwardly off to the side eating cereal directly from the box like he deeply regretted being present for any of this. “Hi,” he said weakly when he noticed you.

You ignored him completely. “What happened?”

“Tim broke into the cave,” Bruce answered flatly.

“I used the front entrance.”

“The front entrance is a grandfather clock.”

“It was unlocked.” Bruce looked ready to pass away. Tim crossed his arms stubbornly. “You left the computer open.”

“You hacked the batcomputer.”

“I improved the batcomputer.”

Dick actually snorted into the cereal box. Bruce whipped toward him. “You are not helping.”

“I know,” Dick said immediately. “I’m staying neutral.”

“You’re eating cereal at two in the morning.”

“That is neutral for me.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Meanwhile Tim reached into his backpack and dropped several printed photographs across the console dramatically. “I mapped Black Mask’s routes.”

Bruce stared at him. Tim pointed emphatically toward the papers. “You missed three distribution points because your patrol radius is too centralized now.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the photographs. And damn it—

damn it—

Tim was right again.

Dick noticed too. You could tell by the way his expression shifted from amusement into reluctant concern. Tim stepped closer before Bruce could argue further. “You need someone watching your blind spots.”

“No,” Bruce answered immediately. “I need you staying off rooftops.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You do not get to decide that.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to!” Silence. Tim’s breathing had gone uneven now. Frustration spilling over into something more emotional beneath the surface. “You think I’m just gonna sit at home while you run yourself into the ground?” Tim demanded. “You think I can watch Gotham get worse and do nothing?”

“You are a child.”

“So was Dick! So was Jason!”

The second Jason’s name entered the room everything stopped. Tim looked horrified instantly. Dick’s posture stiffened. Bruce went completely still. Your heart physically hurt watching it. Because Tim hadn’t weaponized the name. That made it worse. It had slipped out accidentally. Truthfully. Bruce turned away sharply. Not angry.

Wounded.

And suddenly Tim looked very young standing there beside the Batcomputer clutching photographs in trembling hands. Dick slowly set the cereal box down. “…B,” he started carefully.

“No.”

Bruce’s voice cracked slightly around the word. Everyone froze. Bruce closed his eyes briefly before speaking again, quieter now. “I buried one child already.”

The cave fell silent. Tim’s expression crumpled for half a second before he forced it back under control. Too fast. Too practiced. You saw it anyway. God. He looked heartbroken. Not because Bruce yelled. Because Bruce was scared to love him. The realization shattered something inside your chest. Tim swallowed once before speaking very quietly. “I’m not asking you to.”

Bruce looked up sharply. Tim’s voice shook now despite how hard he tried to steady it. “I’m asking you to let me help.” And there it was. Not ego. Not recklessness. Not some childish fantasy about superheroes. A lonely boy trying desperately to keep another family from breaking apart.

Dick looked wrecked listening to it. You probably did too. Bruce stared at Tim for a very long moment before finally whispering “That’s what terrifies me.”

The cave became quieter after that night. Not less tense. Just… settled. Like something unspoken had finally shifted into place. Tim started coming by almost every evening now. Still not officially. Bruce had not said the word Robin once. But everyone could feel it looming there between them. Inevitable.

The training began subtly. That was the worst part. Not with a dramatic declaration or a new suit. Just corrections. Tiny ones at first. “Your footing’s wrong.”

“You’re telegraphing your right hook.”

“Grappel higher next time unless you want a dislocated shoulder.”

Tim absorbed everything frighteningly fast. Too fast. Bruce noticed. You noticed. Dick definitely noticed. “That’s deeply concerning,” Dick muttered one evening while watching Tim dismantle and reassemble one of Bruce’s spare grappling hooksin under four minutes.

Tim didn’t even look up. “I sorted the screws by size beforehand.”

“That does not make it better.”

“It made it faster.”

Dick looked toward you helplessly. “See? This is what I mean. He’s like if Batman got put through an AP honors program.”

Tim smiled faintly without looking up. Bruce absolutely failed to hide his own tiny smile behind the computer screen. And there it was again. Those small moments. Tiny fractures in the grief. You lived for them now. Which terrified you. Because loving Tim still felt dangerous. Like standing too close to the edge of something fragile.

The first patrol happened accidentally. At least that was the official story. You woke sometime after two in the morning to an empty space beside you. Your stomach dropped instantly. Bruce. You sat upright immediately, heart already racing before you even reached the cave. Voices echoed upward from below. “…you are not ready for field engagement.” Bruce.

Then Tim: “You literally took Dick out after like three weeks.”

“That was different.”

“You say that every time.”

You reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Tim standing in partial gear. Not Robin gear. Not yet. But close enough to make your chest tighten painfully. Black domino mask pushed up into his hair. Protective padding. Utility belt hanging slightly crooked around too-small hips. God. He looked like a child pretending to be brave. Bruce turned immediately when he noticed you. Guilt flashed across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it. Not you. Never you. “You said no fieldwork,” you said quietly.

Tim immediately looked horrified. “This isn’t fieldwork.”

Dick, sitting nearby sharpening escrima sticks, muttered under his breath, “Oh, we’re lying now.”

Bruce shot him a glare. Tim straightened slightly. “It’s just observation.”

“That’s worse,” you answered instantly.

Tim opened his mouth. Closed it again. Bruce stepped toward you carefully. “The docks are low risk.”

“There is no such thing as low risk in Gotham.”

Bruce didn’t argue. That scared you more than if he had. Your eyes drifted back toward Tim. He looked so young standing there trying desperately not to appear nervous. And then suddenly—

Jason stood in the cave at thirteen in half-fastened Robin gear, red tunic wrinkled because he never zipped it properly and green gloves shoved halfway into his belt instead of actually worn. His curls were still damp from showering too quickly after patrol training while Bruce argued with him near the batmobile. “You’re not ready,” Bruce snapped.

“I took down two armed guys!”

“You got hit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re thirteen.”

Jason rolled his eyes dramatically. “So was Dick.”

Bruce looked one second away from tearing the cape off him entirely. “That is not the argument you think it is.”

Jason grinned then. God. That grin. Reckless and warm and so alive it hurt to remember. “I can handle myself.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Then trust me enough to teach me!”

The cave echoed with it. Jason’s voice. Jason’s laughter. Jason pacing beside the Batmobile while Bruce tried desperately to hide how terrified he really was. You remembered stepping in between them back then, placing a hand gently against Jason’s shoulder while his energy practically vibrated beneath your fingertips.“Jason honey.” 

Jason immediately looked toward you. Still frustrated. Still stubborn. But softer instantly around the edges whenever he looked at you. “I’m serious,” he insisted quietly. “I can do this.”

You remembered brushing damp curls back from his forehead beneath the cave lights while trying not to let your fear show.

Because even then, even then, you’d known loving Robin meant living terrified. “You be careful,” you whispered shakily.

Jason smiled immediately. Bright enough to rival sunlight. “I always am.” The memory shattered apart violently. And suddenly, suddenly it wasn’t Jason standing there anymore.

Not Jason.

Tim.

You must’ve gone pale because Tim’s expression changed instantly. “I don’t have to go.” The immediate willingness to give it up hurt almost worse. Not because he didn’t want it. Because he cared that you were upset. Your throat tightened violently. Bruce noticed too. The silence stretched painfully between all three of you before Dick finally stood from the corner with a dramatic sigh. “Well,” he announced. “This feels psychologically damaging for everyone involved.”

“Nobody asked you,” Bruce muttered.

“I’m the eldest sibling. Emotional commentary is legally my job.”

Tim snorted softly. You laughed despite yourself. And somehow that tiny sound eased the tension just enough for you to breathe again. Dick crossed toward Tim then, adjusting the kid’s utility belt properly with practiced ease. “You’re wearing this too low.”

Tim frowned down at it. “It felt fine.”

“You looked like a tactical preschooler.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Bruce watched them quietly. You watched Bruce. And suddenly the realization hit you all over again: this wasn’t replacing Jason. Nothing ever could. This was something new. Different shape. Different child. Different grief. But family anyway. Your chest ached with it.

Bruce finally spoke after a long silence. “One hour.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“One hour,” Bruce repeated. “Observation only. You stay behind me, you follow instructions immediately, and if I say we leave, we leave.”

Hope flashed across Tim’s face so quickly it was almost painful to witness. Not excitement. Relief. Like he’d been waiting for permission to belong somewhere. “Okay,” he answered immediately. Too quickly. Too earnestly. God.

Bruce pointed a finger toward him. “This is not permanent.”

Dick coughed loudly. “That’s what you said about me.”

“Dick.”

“And Jason.” Silence crashed down instantly afterward. Dick looked horrified with himself.Tim froze. Bruce’s face shuttered completely. Your heart cracked cleanly down the middle. Because Jason’s name still did that. Still turned rooms into graveyards. Dick swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

Bruce looked away first. Tim shifted awkwardly like he wanted to disappear entirely. And suddenly you couldn’t bear it anymore. You crossed the cave before fear could stop you and reached up carefully, fixing the edge of Tim’s crooked collar beneath the armor. The gesture startled him completely still. “Be careful,” you whispered.

Tim looked up at you like the words physically mattered. Like nobody had said them to him in a very long time. Then softly, “I will.” And God help you, you believed he meant it.

The batmobile roared out into the stormy Gotham night while Dick lingered behind awkwardly beside you, arms folded loosely across his chest. Neither of you spoke at first. The silence felt too full. Too dangerous. Finally Dick exhaled softly through his nose. “You okay?”

No.

God, no.

You watched the cave entrance long after the car disappeared. “I don’t know.”

Dick nodded slowly like he understood that answer better than any other. Because he probably did. More than anyone. He’d been the first Robin. The first child Bruce let into this life. The first one to survive it. And the first one to watch it kill someone they loved. “You know,” Dick said quietly after a while, “B’s terrified right now.”

A humorless laugh escaped you. “That makes two of us.”

Dick glanced toward the cave exit again. “No, I mean genuinely terrified.” He hesitated briefly. “I haven’t seen him like this since…” Jason. Neither of you said it. You rarely had to.

Dick leaned back against the console beside him, expression growing softer. “He keeps checking Tim’s training files over and over.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Training files?”

“He made combat assessments.”

Of course he did. Batman prepared for everything. Dick’s mouth twitched faintly. “Tim scored stupidly high, by the way. Like offensively high.”

Despite yourself, you smiled a little. Then it faded again almost immediately. “He’s still just a little boy.”

Dick’s expression softened painfully. “Yeah.” That single word held so much grief behind it your chest ached instantly. Because Dick knew exactly what you meant. You sat down slowly at the batcomputer station Bruce usually occupied, staring blankly at the glowing monitors. Tim’s handwriting still covered half the nearby notes. Messy calculations. Crime maps. Tiny corrections scribbled in margins.

A child’s handwriting.

You swallowed hard. Dick noticed your gaze. “He really loves this family.” The words startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Dick shrugged one shoulder slightly. “He always has.” Your throat tightened. “He used to talk about you guys like you were…” Dick laughed quietly under his breath. “I don’t know. Mythical or something.”

The image hurt unbearably. Little Tim Drake watching Robin from afar. Watching your family. Admiring them. Never knowing one day he’d become part of it. Dick’s voice softened more after a moment. “Jason liked him.”

You blinked. Dick smiled faintly at the memory. “Tim followed us around at galas sometimes when he was little. Jason thought it was hilarious.” A lump formed instantly in your throat. “He noticed Tim crying once because some reporters shoved him around trying to get pictures of Bruce.” Dick huffed softly through his nose. “Jay threatened a grown man with a breadstick.”

You laughed through the ache in your chest. “That sounds about right.”

“He gave Tim one of the fancy chocolate mints from Alfred’s jacket pocket afterward like he’d solved world hunger.” The laugh broke halfway into something more fragile. God. You missed him. Dick crossed the room slowly then, leaning against the console beside you. “You know what the weird part is?”

“What?”

“He doesn’t remind me of Jason as much as everyone thinks.”

You frowned slightly. Dick looked down at the monitors thoughtfully. “Tim’s quieter. More careful. Jason burned hot.” A sad smile touched his face. “Tim’s more like… someone trying to keep a fire from going out.”

Your chest physically hurt hearing that. Because it was true. Tim wasn’t charging toward Robin because he wanted glory. He was trying desperately to hold Bruce together. To hold all of you together. Dick’s voice lowered after a moment. “That kid walked into a grieving family and decided somehow it was his responsibility to save everyone in it.”

Tears burned behind your eyes instantly. Because hadn’t he? In his own strange lonely way, Tim had been stitching life back into this house piece by piece since the moment he arrived. The grandfather clock creaked suddenly overhead. Both of you looked up instinctively. Then footsteps descended quickly. Your heart jumped painfully into your throat, until Tim appeared breathless at the bottom of the stairs.

Still in gear. Still alive.

Bruce followed immediately behind him looking exhausted already. Tim pulled the domino mask up into his hair the second he saw you. “It was fine.”

You stood so fast your chair nearly tipped backward. Tim startled slightly as you crossed the cave toward him. “Fine?” you repeated faintly. “You were gone nearly three hours.”

Tim blinked. “It was only two and a half.”

“Oh, good. Wonderful. That fixes everything.”

Dick snorted loudly somewhere behind you. Bruce looked suspiciously like he agreed with you but lacked the courage to say so aloud. Tim shifted awkwardly beneath your stare before finally mumbling, “We got caught in a hostage situation.”

Your soul nearly left your body. “You what?”

“It was handled,” Bruce answered immediately.

You whipped toward him. “Handled?”

Tim, somehow sensing Bruce was about to make this worse, rushed forward first. “No one got hurt,” he promised quickly. “Bruce got the civilians out and I stayed back like he said.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “Mostly.”

Tim looked offended. “I followed instructions.”

“You improvised twice.”

“It worked.”

“You jumped off a fire escape.”

“There was a landing pad.”

“There was a dumpster.”

Tim hesitated. “…A structurally sound dumpster.”

Dick was openly crying laughing now. You stared at Tim in horror. Tim stared back nervously. Then very quietly, “…I also kind of kicked a guy.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Dick nearly collapsed against the computer. And despite the terror still clawing at your chest, despite everything, you laughed. You couldn’t help it. Tim looked utterly shocked by the sound. Bruce did too. The cave filled with it softly for only a moment before emotion caught up too quickly afterward. Because suddenly all you could think was: He came home. This child walked into danger tonight, and he came home.

The laughter faded slowly. Not awkwardly. Warmly. Like the cave itself didn’t quite know what to do with the sound anymore after so long without it. Tim still looked startled by your reaction. Like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to laugh at all. That realization hurt more than it should have. Bruce moved first, stepping toward the medical station with that familiar exhausted stiffness that immediately made your stomach tighten. “Injuries?” you asked instantly.

Bruce answered too quickly. “Nothing serious.”

Tim answered at the exact same time. “He got stabbed a little.”

You closed your eyes briefly. Bruce looked deeply betrayed. “A little?”

“It was technically more than a scratch.”

Dick made a strangled noise somewhere behind you. “You cannot describe stab wounds with fractions.”

“It barely hit anything important.”

“That sentence should never exist,” you informed all of them.

Bruce sighed heavily as you practically shoved him toward the medical chair. “It’s superficial.”

“You said that last time and needed six stitches.”

“That was different.”

“It was the same knife.”

Dick actually wheezed laughing now. Tim looked suspiciously pleased with himself for exposing Bruce. And suddenly, suddenly the cave felt young again. Chaotic. Alive. Like family.

The realization hit so hard it almost hurt. Bruce sat reluctantly while you pulled gloves on with more force than necessary. Tim hovered nearby awkwardly still dressed in partial gear, adrenaline clearly beginning to wear off now that they were home. You noticed the exhaustion immediately. The slight slump in his shoulders. The way he favored one leg. The tiny tremor in his hands now that the danger had passed. Your chest tightened. “Sit,” you ordered softly, pointing toward the neighboring chair.

Tim blinked. “I’m not injured.”

“You jumped into a dumpster from a fire escape.”

“It was tactical.”

“It was garbage.”

Dick completely lost it again.

Tim looked mildly offended. “It cushioned impact.”

Bruce muttered under his breath, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I’m horrified.”

You carefully peeled Bruce’s torn suit fabric back just enough to expose the wound. Not deep. Thank God. Still enough to make anger spike hot beneath your ribs. Tim noticed your expression immediately. Again. Always watching everyone else first. His voice quieted slightly. “He protected the hostages.” You looked up sharply. Tim stood very still beside the medical table now. No joking. No nervous rambling. Just certainty. “The guy had a trigger,” Tim continued softly. “Bruce moved before I even saw it.”

Bruce looked away instantly. Like praise physically embarrassed him. Your throat tightened painfully. Because this, this was why Robin always happened. Not recklessness. Not adventure. Faith. Children looking at Batman and seeing someone worth following into the dark. And Bruce looking back at them like they were the last fragile pieces of hope he had left.

Dick eventually wandered upstairs in search of food after declaring the cave “emotionally exhausting,” leaving the three of you alone in the quieter aftermath. Tim sat nearby now while you finished bandaging Bruce’s side. He looked exhausted. Not physically anymore. Emotionally. Like the night had finally caught up to him.

Bruce noticed too. “You should be home.”

Tim looked down at his gloves. “Probably.” But he didn’t move. Because none of you really meant home. Not in the emotional sense. The manor had already started becoming that before anyone consciously acknowledged it.

Bruce’s gaze softened fractionally. “Your parents are expecting you.”

Something unreadable flickered briefly across Tim’s face. Gone too quickly to fully catch. “Yeah,” he answered quietly. But something about the word sounded hollow.

You felt it immediately. So did Bruce. A strange silence settled afterward. Then Tim suddenly looked toward you both, expression tightening slightly like he was debating whether to say something. Finally, “When Robin died…”

The cave went still. Not Jason.

Robin.

The title made it somehow more painful. Tim swallowed hard once before continuing quietly. “Batman stopped looking at people.”

Bruce froze. You stopped wrapping the bandage entirely. Tim stared down at his gloves while speaking now. “Not really. But kind of.” His voice grew quieter. “Like everyone was already gone before they left.” Your chest physically hurt hearing it. Because that was true too. Bruce had survived Jason’s death by shutting pieces of himself off one by one. Tim finally looked up then.

At Bruce.

“You looked at people again tonight.”

Silence crashed down hard enough to suffocate. Bruce stared at him like the words had physically struck him. And maybe they had. Because suddenly all you could see was this brilliant grieving child who had spent months carefully carrying your family’s pain around like it mattered just as much as his own.

Trying to save Batman. Trying to save Gotham. Trying to save all of you.

Without asking for anything back. Your eyes burned instantly. Bruce looked wrecked beside you. Tim immediately noticed. Of course he did. And just like always, the second he realized someone else might be hurting because of him, he tried to retreat. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted. The word came rough. Immediate. Tim stopped. Bruce looked at him for a very long moment before quietly saying, “Don’t apologize for caring.”

The entire cave fell silent afterward. Because maybe nobody had ever told Tim that before. Robin became real quietly. No grand unveiling. No dramatic speech. No official declaration from Batman standing beneath Gotham lightning. Just small inevitabilities piling together until one night Bruce finally said, “Suit’s in the locker.”

Tim froze. You did too. The cave fell completely silent except for the low hum of the computers nearby. Bruce didn’t look up from the batcomputer while speaking. “It still needs adjustments.”

Tim stared at him like he’d misheard. “The cape’s reinforced too heavily on the left side,” Bruce continued, voice carefully neutral. “And the utility belt sits too low.”

Tim still hadn’t moved. Your heart physically hurt looking at him. Because underneath all the intelligence and stubbornness and determination, he was still just a kid hearing the words he’d wanted for months. Bruce finally looked over his shoulder. “Well?”

Tim blinked rapidly once. “You mean…”

Bruce sighed heavily through his nose. “Yes.”

That was all it took. Tim moved so fast toward the locker you barely managed to jump out of the way. Bruce muttered something about concussions beneath his breath. You laughed softly before you could stop yourself. Tim looked radiant. Not because of the suit. Because he looked wanted. Included. Chosen.

The realization nearly undid you. Tim opened the locker carefully like he expected the entire thing to disappear if he moved too quickly. The Robin suit rested inside. Red. Green. Yellow. Smaller than Jason’s had been. Different design too. More armored. More practical. Tailored specifically for Tim.

Your throat tightened instantly. Because Bruce had made this already. Before tonight. Before the conversation. Which meant some part of him had known for a while now. Tim reached toward the suit almost reverently before hesitating. His voice came quieter suddenly. “Are you sure?”

The question shattered something softly inside your chest. Not arrogance. Not entitlement. Tim looked genuinely afraid the answer might still become no. Bruce stood slowly from the computer. For a long moment he simply looked at the suit too. At Robin. At the history wrapped into those colors. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rougher than usual. “No,” he admitted honestly. Tim looked down immediately. Then Bruce crossed the cave toward him. “Which means I’m taking this seriously.”

Tim looked back up slowly. Bruce stopped in front of him. “You listen during patrols. You follow orders immediately. You do not try to prove yourself through reckless behavior. You train harder than anyone else in this cave because Gotham will not forgive mistakes.”

Tim nodded instantly. “Okay.”

“And if I tell you to run,” Bruce continued quietly, “you run.”

The cave fell still again. Because suddenly this wasn’t about rules anymore. This was about Jason. About death. About fear. About Bruce standing in front of another child asking him not to die. Tim understood it too. You could tell by the way his expression softened. “…Okay,” he answered again. Softer this time. More careful. Bruce looked at him for one long moment before resting a hand briefly against the back of Tim’s neck. Tiny gesture. Gone almost immediately. But intimate enough to make your chest ache.

Tim laughed quietly beneath his breath. Then looked toward you. And suddenly all the emotion crashed into you at once. Robin. Another Robin. Another child in bright colors standing in the middle of the cave looking impossibly young and impossibly hopeful. Fear wrapped tight around your ribs. But beneath it, something else too.

Love.

Terrifying, relentless love.

Tim shifted slightly beneath your stare. “You okay?” Always that question. Always everyone else first. Your vision blurred unexpectedly. Tim noticed instantly and immediately looked panicked. “Wait, did I do something wrong?”

God, there it was again. That instinctive fear of being too much. Too loud. Too present. Too difficult to love. You crossed the cave before he could spiral further and fixed the edge of the cape sitting crooked over his shoulder. The fabric was still stiff and new beneath your fingers. Robin fabric. Your throat burned painfully. Then softly, so softly you barely trusted your own voice, “You look handsome, sweetheart.”

Tim froze. Completely froze. Bruce looked away sharply like the expression on his face hurt too much to let anyone see. And Tim, Tim looked at you like no one had ever called him that before. Tim stared at you for a second too long. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him and he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Sweetheart.

Such a small thing. You’d said it before accidentally. Honey. Kid. Sweetheart.

But this time felt different somehow. Because now he stood there in Robin colors. Now he belonged to the mantle. To Bruce. To this family. And maybe some part of him had been waiting to hear whether he belonged to you too. Tim ducked his head almost immediately afterward, suddenly very interested in adjusting one of the gloves Bruce had clearly fitted too tightly on purpose.

Tim eventually disappeared into the changing room to finish adjusting the suit while Dick continued emotionally spiraling beside the batcomputer.

“He’s so little,” Dick whispered dramatically, coming back down to the cave and catching sight of Tim in the suit. 

“You were smaller,” Bruce replied.

“That’s not comforting.”

Bruce looked deeply unimpressed. “You pixie-dusted criminals.”

“And it was iconic.”

You shook your head softly, smiling despite yourself as the two of them bickered. God. This felt familiar. Not the same. Never the same. But warm in places the manor had stayed cold too long. Then the changing room door slid open again. And the room went quiet. Tim stepped back out fully suited.

Robin.

Red tunic reinforced with black armor beneath. Green gloves. Yellow cape falling behind him. Domino mask shadowing sharp intelligent eyes. The suit fit him differently than it fit Dick or Jason. Less reckless than Jason. Less theatrical than Dick. Sharper somehow. Intentional.

You watched Bruce straighten almost unconsciously at the sight. Not Batman. A father seeing his child become something important. Tim shifted awkwardly beneath the silence. “Is it bad?”

Dick looked personally offended. “Bad? Are you insane? You look terrifyingly competent.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s Gotham. Competence is hot.”

“Richard,” Bruce sighed.

“What? It’s true.”

Tim smiled despite himself before looking toward Bruce instead. And there it was again. That searching look. Seeking approval. Bruce crossed the cave slowly toward him, gaze immediately catching on all the tiny things: the glove alignment, the looseness of the cape clasps, the boots. “You adjusted the gloveswrong,” Bruce said automatically.

Tim immediately looked down. “Oh.” Bruce reached forward before he could overthink it further, re-tightening the straps carefully around Tim’s wrists. The gesture was so instinctively parental it stole the breath from your lungs. Tim went very still while Bruce worked. Not tense. Just… quiet. Like he was memorizing the moment.

Bruce finally stepped back once finished, eyes lingering briefly on the Robin emblem across Tim’s chest. Pain flashed across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it. Not you. Never you. Jason. The memory of another Robin standing here. Another child Bruce promised himself he’d protect. Your chest ached violently for him. For all of you.

Tim must’ve noticed the shift too because his voice softened carefully. “I can still change stuff if you want.”

Bruce looked up immediately. “No.” Firm. Instant. Tim blinked. Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose before speaking again, quieter now. “No,” he repeated. “The suit’s fine.”

Something warm flickered across Tim’s expression. Relief. Dick abruptly clapped his hands together loudly. “Well! Before everyone starts crying again, I think this calls for food.”

Bruce looked exhausted already. “How is that always your solution?”

Dick looked genuinely confused. “How is it not yours?”

“You ate three hours ago.”

“And now I require pancakes now.” Tim snorted softly. Bruce actually smiled. Tiny. Crooked. Real. You watched Tim notice it immediately. The kid looked at Bruce’s smiles the way starving people looked at meals. Like each one mattered. Dick threw an arm around Tim’s shoulders before the poor kid could emotionally combust any further. “Come on, replacement sibling.”

Tim looked scandalized. “That is not what I am.”

Dick’s expression softened instantly beneath the joke. “I know.” The sincerity in those two words quieted the room again. Because Dick knew too. This wasn’t replacement. This was grief making room for another person anyway. Tim looked down briefly before muttering, “…Okay.”

Dick squeezed his shoulder once before dragging him toward the stairs in search of Alfred and pancakes. Tim glanced back once halfway up the staircase. Toward you. Toward Bruce. Toward the cave.

Toward home.

And your heart broke all over again realizing he already thought of it that way.

The pancakes became a tradition after that. Not intentionally. Nobody sat down and decided: Robin training now includes midnight breakfast. It just… happened. Patrols ended late. Adrenaline kept everyone awake. Alfred refused to let “growing vigilantes” survive exclusively on caffeine and spite. So somewhere between bruises and case reports and exhausted laughter at three in the morning, the family rebuilt itself quietly around pancakes.

Tim fit into it disturbingly well. Too well. You noticed it most in the mornings after patrol nights. Bruce would pretend to read financial reports while secretly monitoring Tim’s posture for injuries across the breakfast table. Tim would leave notes correcting Gotham traffic patterns beside Bruce’s coffee. Dick would complain dramatically about being “emotionally neglected” if nobody greeted him within thirty seconds. And Alfred looked lighter.

Older grief still lingered around all of you, but the manor no longer felt like a mausoleum pretending to be a home. Now it felt lived in again. One snowy evening you found Tim asleep at the dining room table. Textbooks sprawled everywhere. Half-finished calculus homework beneath one hand. Robin gloves discarded beside a cold mug of coffee Alfred would absolutely lecture him about later. Your chest softened instantly. God. He looked young asleep.

All the sharpness disappeared when he rested. No hyper-awareness. No detective instincts. No trying so hard to prove himself useful. Just a child. You moved quietly through the room, gently lifting the textbook threatening to slide off the table. Tim stirred immediately anyway. Always such a light sleeper. His eyes opened halfway before panic flashed across his face. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

Tim pushed upright too quickly, immediately reaching for his notes. “I didn’t finish the chemistry review—”

“Tim.”

He stopped instantly. You softened your voice. “Honey, breathe.” Tim blinked once like he’d forgotten how. The exhaustion in his face hit you harder tonight for some reason. Dark circles. Too-pale skin. Tension still locked into his shoulders even half asleep. You sat carefully beside him at the table. “When’s the last time you slept properly?”

“I sleep.”

“That was not an answer.”

Tim looked down at the scattered homework. “There’s just a lot right now.” School. Robin. Batman. Expectations. Grief. You heard all the unspoken things anyway. Your gaze drifted toward the window where snow fell softly beyond the glass. “Jason used to do this too.”

Tim looked up carefully. “Stay awake too long,” you clarified quietly. “Push himself until he crashed.”

A sad little smile crossed Tim’s face. “Did it work?”

You huffed softly through your nose. “Not even slightly.”

That earned the faintest laugh from him. Then silence settled again. Gentle this time. Your eyes caught on the Robin gloves beside his books. Tim noticed immediately and instinctively reached for them. Protective. Your chest tightened. “You love it,” you said softly.

Tim stilled. Not because he wanted to deny it. Because he was afraid admitting it might somehow make you sad. “…Yeah,” he admitted carefully. The honesty in his voice hurt and healed something inside you simultaneously.

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

Tim looked down at the gloves in his lap, fingers tracing absently over the worn seams already forming near the knuckles. “I know it’s scary for you,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened instantly. Because of course he noticed that too. “Tim—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted softly. “I know.”

You stared at him. At this brilliant, observant, painfully gentle child who spent so much time carrying everyone else’s emotions alongside his own. And suddenly the realization hit again: Nobody took care of Tim Drake emotionally because Tim Drake never demanded it. He just quietly adapted around everyone else. Your chest physically ached with love. Dangerous love. The kind that made fear feel permanent. You reached forward before you could second guess yourself, brushing a piece of dark hair back from his forehead the way you used to do with Jason after nightmares.

Tim froze. Not alarmed. Just startled. Like touch still surprised him sometimes. “You don’t always have to hold everything together,” you whispered. Something shifted across Tim’s face then. Tiny. Fragile.

For one brief terrifying moment he looked like he might cry. But Tim swallowed it back immediately. Of course he did. Instead he leaned, just slightly, into your hand before seeming to realize he’d done it. Then instantly looked embarrassed afterward. Your heart shattered quietly. Because that unconscious little movement told you more than words ever could. This child was touch-starved. Loved from a distance his entire life. Raised by absence and expectations and empty penthouses. And now here he was in your dining room trying so hard to deserve being cared for.

Before either of you could say anything else, heavy footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway. Bruce. Tim straightened automatically. Not fear. Instinct. Bruce appeared moments later already loosening his tie from some Wayne Enterprises gala, exhaustion visible in every line of his posture. His eyes immediately landed on Tim. Then on you. Then on the untouched homework.

Bruce sighed softly. “He fell asleep again?”

Tim looked mildly offended. “I was resting my eyes.”

“You were drooling on chemistry.”

“That’s slander.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly. Then his gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he looked at Tim sitting there wrapped in oversized Wayne Manor sweaters and Robin exhaustion. And suddenly the image felt so heartbreakingly normal. Bruce crossing the room to check homework. Tim arguing sleepily at the table. You sitting beside him late at night. Family.

Real family.

Not replacement. Not healing perfectly. Just people loving each other despite grief anyway.

Spring came slowly to Gotham. The snow melted into cold rain. The rain melted into fog. And somewhere in between, Robin became part of Gotham’s heartbeat again. People started whispering about him. Not publicly at first. Just quietly. Batman’s got the kid back. You hated how much relief those words brought you. Robin changed Bruce. Not perfectly. Not magically. But enough.

Batman stopped coming home half-dead every night. Stopped throwing himself into fights like he wanted Gotham to break him apart. Started sleeping more than three hours occasionally. Even Alfred smiled more. And Tim thrived under the mantle in ways that terrified you. He moved through the cave now with familiarity instead of hesitation. His books permanently migrated between the dining room, library, and batcomputer. Half the manor’s clocks somehow became synchronized because Tim “couldn’t focus with inconsistent timing.” Dick claimed that was the most concerning thing about him. Bruce secretly agreed.

The family settled into rhythms around him naturally. Which was exactly why you didn’t notice the signs right away. Not the real ones. At first it was easy to dismiss. Tim staying later after patrol. Sleeping at the manor more often. Forgetting to mention when his parents returned from trips. Then came the phone calls.

Short. Tense. Quietly frustrated.

You overheard one accidentally while passing the study late one afternoon. “No, I understand,” Tim said softly into the phone. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

A pause. Another. Then quieter, “No, I know the meeting’s important.”

Something in your chest tightened immediately. You kept walking before he noticed you listening. But afterward you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next sign came two weeks later. Bruce was away handling a League-related issue with Clark while Dick had dragged Alfred into a war over “expired cereal propaganda.”

Which left just you and Tim in the manor that evening. You found him in the library again. Always the library. Rain tapped softly against the windows while Tim sat curled into the corner armchair with homework balanced across one knee and a phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. “…No, it’s fine,” he was saying quietly.

Your footsteps must’ve alerted him because he immediately straightened. Too quickly. “Okay,” he said into the phone after a moment. “Love you too.”

Then the call ended. Tim stared at the dark screen for a second longer before setting the phone down carefully. 

Your chest ached instantly. “That sounded short.”

Tim startled slightly before trying to smile. “Oh. Yeah.”

You sat slowly on the couch nearby. “Everything okay?”

“Mmhm.” Too quick. Too automatic. The same way Bruce answered when he was bleeding internally. You watched Tim return to his homework without actually reading any of it. His pencil hovered unmoving over the page. Then quietly, “They forgot my birthday last year.”

The confession came so suddenly and softly you almost thought you imagined it. Tim looked horrified immediately afterward. Like he regretted saying it aloud. Your heart broke cleanly in half. “Tim…”

“It’s stupid,” he interrupted quickly. “They were in Singapore and the time zones got mixed up and—”

“Sweetheart.”

He stopped talking instantly. The room fell quiet except for the rain. Tim stared down at his homework too hard. “I know they love me.” The sentence hurt worst of all because of how desperately he wanted it to be true enough.

You swallowed hard. “But they’re not really there.” Tim didn’t answer. Which was the answer. God, suddenly you saw it so clearly. The reason Tim attached himself so fiercely to Batman and Robin and Wayne Manor wasn’t obsession. It was longing. He’d been standing outside windows his whole life looking for somewhere warm enough to stay. Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes.

Tim noticed immediately and looked alarmed. “Wait—I didn’t mean to make you sad.” There it was again. Always protecting everyone else first. Even now. Especially now. You crossed the room before he could retreat further and sat carefully on the arm of his chair. Tim looked up at you uncertainly.

“You know what Jason used to do on birthdays?” you asked softly. Tim blinked slightly. “He’d demand Alfred make pancakes for dinner because he said birthday rules overruled breakfast laws.”

A tiny laugh escaped Tim despite himself. You smiled gently. “One year he made Bruce wear a party hat for six straight hours.”

“That sounds impossible.”

“Oh, Bruce hated every second.”

Tim laughed again. Then quieter, “I think I would’ve liked him.” The ache in your chest became unbearable. Because Jason would’ve loved him too. You reached forward carefully, brushing your thumb beneath one of the dark circles under Tim’s eyes before you could stop yourself. Tim went very still. “You deserve people who show up for you,” you whispered.

And suddenly Tim looked very young. Not Robin. Not Gotham’s brilliant detective. Just a little boy trying very hard not to look hurt. Your heart cracked open completely at the sight. Because for the first time, you realized Tim wasn’t just lonely. He was used to being lonely.

After that night, you started noticing everything. Not just the obvious things. The quieter ones. The things children stopped expecting anyone to notice after enough disappointment. Tim never asked if his parents were coming home anymore. He checked schedules instead. Flight itineraries. Business articles. Assistant updates. As if preparing himself ahead of time somehow softened the hurt. It didn’t. You could tell. 

One Friday evening you found him sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cave still in partial Robin gear with the batcomputer glowing across his face. It was late. Too late for a thirteen-year-old to still be awake after patrol and school. Bruce had gone upstairs nearly an hour ago after Alfred threatened him with “forced unconsciousness” if he opened one more case file. Tim stayed behind anyway. Of course he did.

You leaned quietly against the cave railing. “You know normal children play video games after school.”

Tim didn’t look up from the screen. “I do play video games.”

“You hacked three government servers last week.”

“There were mini games.”

You snorted softly. Tim smiled faintly before rubbing tiredly at one eye. The movement made your chest tighten immediately. Exhausted. Again. “How long have you been down here?”

Tim shrugged one shoulder. “Not long.” Lie.

You descended the stairs slowly. “Tim.”

“I’m just finishing patrol logs.”

“You finished those an hour ago.”

Tim finally looked up then. Caught. His expression shifted immediately afterward into something careful. “I didn’t want to wake anybody up upstairs.”

Your heart physically hurt. “You wouldn’t.”

“I know.”

But the hesitation before it told you he didn’t fully believe that. You sat beside him quietly. “You can take up space here, you know.”

Tim stared at the glowing computer screen for a moment too long. Then softly, “I’m trying not to mess it up.”

The confession shattered you. You turned toward him fully. “Mess what up?”

Tim looked down immediately. “This.” The cave. The family. Bruce. You. Everything. His voice stayed painfully calm while speaking, which somehow made it worse. “You guys were finally starting to feel okay again and I just…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be too much.”

There it was. The truth underneath everything. Tim loved carefully. Like affection could expire if he needed too much from it. Your eyes burned instantly. “Sweetheart,” you whispered.

Tim looked embarrassed the second tears welled in your eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No.” The word came sharper than intended. You softened immediately afterward. “No, honey.” Tim froze slightly at the endearment. You reached for his hands before he could retreat emotionally again. Cold fingers. Callused now from training and grappling lines and too many nights pretending he was older than he was. “You could never ruin this family,” you said quietly.

Tim looked down hard at your joined hands. Like he couldn’t quite bear to look directly at you while hearing it. Your throat tightened painfully. “You know what the difference between you and Jason is?” you asked softly.

Tim immediately looked horrified. “Mrs. Wayne—”

“No, listen to me.”

He went silent. You smiled sadly. “Jason ran into love headfirst.” Your chest ached instantly at the memory. “That boy loved loudly. Fearlessly. Like he never thought it could disappear.”

Tim’s expression softened. “But you…” You brushed your thumb carefully across his knuckles. “You love like you’re waiting for permission.”

Silence. Tim stopped breathing for a second. And suddenly he looked so heartbreakingly young sitting there beneath the cave lights with tears he clearly didn’t want anyone seeing. Your own vision blurred completely now. Because you realized something unbearable all at once: No one had ever taught Tim he could simply belong somewhere without earning it first. Not through usefulness. Not through brilliance. Not through saving Batman. Just because he was Tim.

Before either of you could speak again, footsteps echoed softly down the staircase. Bruce. He stopped halfway down when he saw the two of you sitting together. Tim instantly tried pulling his hands away. You tightened your grip before he could. Bruce noticed that immediately. His gaze moved slowly between your face, Tim’s expression, and the exhaustion written all over the child in front of you.

And suddenly Bruce understood too. You saw the realization hit him in real time. Not Robin. Not Batman’s partner. A lonely little boy. Bruce descended the rest of the stairs quietly. Tim wiped quickly beneath one eye before Bruce could fully reach them, clearly mortified at being caught emotional. Bruce’s face softened in that painful restrained way he had whenever something hurt too much to show openly.

Without a word, he reached down and rested a hand gently against the back of Tim’s head. Not correction. Not guidance. Comfort. Tim went completely still beneath it. Your chest cracked wide open. Because the look on Tim’s face was not the expression of a child used to being comforted. It was the expression of a child trying desperately not to need it too much.

Tim didn’t move. Not away from Bruce. Not toward him either. He just sat there very still beneath Bruce’s hand like he was afraid too much movement might break the moment apart. Your throat burned painfully. Bruce seemed to realize it too. Because usually Bruce’s comfort was brief. Subtle. A hand on a shoulder. A quiet word. But this time, this time his hand stayed.

Steady against the back of Tim’s head while the cave settled into silence around all three of you. Tim stared hard at the floor for a few more seconds before finally whispering, “I’m okay.”

And there it was again. That automatic reflex. Bruce’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “You don’t have to say that every time,” he said quietly.

Tim blinked. Like the thought genuinely surprised him. Your chest ached so violently you almost couldn’t breathe through it. Bruce slowly lowered himself into the chair across from Tim, exhaustion dragging at every line in his posture now. For a while nobody spoke. The batcomputer hummed softly nearby. Rain tapped faintly somewhere high above the cave. Tim’s hands remained curled tightly in yours.

Then Bruce finally asked, “When’s the last time your parents were home for more than a week?”

Tim looked startled by the question. Not defensive. Just… unprepared. He thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

The answer hollowed the entire room out. Bruce looked devastated hearing it. Tim noticed immediately and hurried to fix it. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “They’re important people. They travel a lot because of work and charity stuff and—”

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice stopped him gently. Not angry. Not sharp. Just enough to make Tim fall quiet. Bruce leaned back slightly in the chair, studying him with that terrible Batman perception that saw too much once it locked onto something. And now that Bruce finally saw it, really saw it, you knew he wouldn’t be able to unsee it again.

The loneliness. The overachievement. The desperate usefulness. All the ways Tim tried to earn love before asking for it. Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. “You know what Alfred said to me after Dick moved in?”

Tim shook his head slightly. Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly at the memory. “He told me children are not meant to raise themselves.”

Silence. Tim looked down immediately afterward. Because the sentence hit too close. Bruce’s gaze softened more. “I didn’t understand what he meant at the time.”

Your eyes burned instantly. Because Bruce did understand now. Painfully. You watched Tim’s throat move slightly as he swallowed hard against emotion he clearly didn’t want anyone seeing. Then quietly, “I’m not trying to make anyone take care of me.”

Oh.

Oh, that one hurt.

Your grip tightened instinctively around his hands. “Sweetheart,” you whispered shakily.

Bruce looked wrecked. Because no child should ever have to say that sentence. Not like an apology. Tim looked embarrassed immediately afterward, like he regretted speaking at all. “I just mean—” He tried to laugh weakly. “I’m fine on my own mostly.”

Bruce stood abruptly. Not angry. Unable to sit still with grief anymore. He crossed the cave slowly before stopping directly in front of Tim. Then, very carefully, Bruce crouched. Eye level. Your heart nearly shattered right there. Because Bruce only did that when speaking to frightened children. Tim looked stunned too. Bruce rested his forearms against his knees, voice rougher now than either of you had heard in a long time. “Tim,” he said quietly, “you should never have had to be.”

The cave went completely silent. Tim’s expression broke. Not dramatically. That was the heartbreaking part. No sobbing. No collapse. Just a thirteen-year-old boy finally looking exactly as young and tired as he actually was. Tears welled instantly in his eyes despite how hard he tried holding them back.

Your own vision blurred completely now. Because suddenly all you could see was: a child forgotten in empty penthouses, a boy teaching himself how to survive quietly, Robin trying to save Batman because nobody had saved him first

Tim ducked his head sharply, mortified by the tears. Bruce moved without hesitation then. One hand against the back of Tim’s neck. The other pulling him carefully forward. Tim froze for half a second before folding completely. Like exhaustion finally won. Your breath caught painfully as Tim buried his face against Bruce’s shoulder trying so hard not to cry loudly. Bruce held him immediately. Firm. Protective. Certain. And suddenly—

suddenly you realized this wasn’t just about Tim needing a family anymore. Bruce needed this too. Needed another chance to protect a child before grief swallowed both of them whole. Tim shook silently between you for several long moments while Bruce simply held him there in the middle of the cave. No shame. No embarrassment. No expectations. Just love. And for the first time since Jason died, you realized none of you were surviving separately anymore.

Part 4

Taglist: @calzone-d @planetevermore @erwinr25

[itsangelic]

Scream 3

PAIRINGS: yan!plan batfam x neglected!billy loomis!reader | WC: 5.1k

SUMMARY: being the product of bruce's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?

WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didn’t want to come across like that or actually didn’t feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.

A/N: this kinda took a while so im sorry about that but ive been busy with school and my internship… on a positive note though, i have summer holidays now so i’ll have more free time !!! so expect updates to come faster lol. also to put it here officially if you didn’t see my post, louis isn't going to be the love interest. i thought about it, and while they’re fond of each other, i see them more as platonic… they’re more than best friends but less than lovers imo. a relationship as a thin as a veil if you may. this chapter is also a little shorter and more lazily written icl.

pt2 -> pt3 (here) -> pt4

it’s been three days since dick or bruce last saw your face in the flesh. three whole days of passing like a you're invisible through the manor’s drafty corridors, leaving nothing behind but maybe an empty bowl in the sink after youve eaten something.

the manor, to say straightforwardly, has been weird as fuck. it’s like those russian roulettes, where you always wait for someone to get the first shot before hell breaks loose. but nobody has acted on any of it yet - they’re just watching from the sidelines, letting the silence stack up until it’s thick enough to choke on and you want to choke them for it.

you don't give them the satisfaction of a confrontation either. it's better to simply slip through the cracks, have your bare feet memorize the exact spots on the hardwood that don't make a sound so they'll stay outta your way.

it is not exactly a hard job to take notice of how damn on the edge everyones has been around you lately.

you wouldn’t even have bothered to take much notice of it if you didn’t notice how it was more intense than usual - an undercurrent that makes the hair on your arms stand up. it leads you to believe that maybe dick saw that fucking spot on the denim jacket (curse that complete idiot louis for wearing it twice. how fucking braindead can someone get?)

the timing is too perfect. with the teacher murdered being an instructor from your own school, the pieces are lying right there on the table. you don't know for sure if they actually suspect you one hundred percent yet - they haven't brought down the iron gates or cornered you in the study or however else they treat their cartoon villains - but something is definitely off.

currently, you're sitting at the corner table in the academy cafeteria. the air in here is.. down right disgusting. smelling like greasy tater tots, old sweat, and the cheap floor bleach the janitors use to sweep the halls that leave that nasty sting in your nose. the cafeteria is a total fucking madhouse because every single kid is buzzing about gerald hayes - how maybe it is some mob hit ‘cause the teacher got on their bad side.

hah, as if.

you slowly pick at a turkey sandwich while louis vibrates right next to you on his plastic chair. chloe and maya are huddled close across the table, whispering under their breaths, looking like they might literally piss themselves if a locker slams too loud down the hall.

you look at chloe’s white knuckles clutching her glass and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. it’s pathetic. these people have spent their entire lives being and feeling protected, completely blind to how easy it is to break the world in half. their pathetic reactions are only to be expected but it should be a crime how simple minded people can be. as if the damn killer would strike someone he like he did gerald hayes in broad fucking daylight. use those two brain cells you got, won’t you?

and then, much to your (mis)fortune, seth slides into the booth. the school’s resident unhinged horror movie geek - even more so than you at times you reckon.

"you guys are literally fucking blind," seth rants, leaning so far across the table his navy school tie dips straight into chloe's ranch dressing. he’s waving his hands around wildly, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. "this isn't some generic gotham mob hit. the maronis don't slit a guy's throat and sit him like a goddamned mannequin. this is.. this is more slasher movie style. whoever is doing this is following the absolute rules of the genre."

seth mulls, his face twisting with this frantic, breathless sort of excitement. there's a loud, annoying weight to the chatter that surrounds him, but your mind is already drifting somewhere else.

you don't know why so suddenly contrast to your just recent emotions, amusement begins to stir up within you. likely due to the hilarity of it - how could these kids be so dull-witted and completely clueless, in not only in guessing what went down - but to fumble the pieces back together so clumsily?

seth’s fingers are digging through the rumors, little schoolboy is trying to play detective so eagerly. doesn’t he know the best way to survive a horror movie is to not fucking engage? if you're gonna play with blood, shouldn't you be a little more meticulous?

idiot. that's the only word you can think of.

idiot. idiot. idiot.

and an idiot who thinks himself better than the rest of his lot at that.

you think about the instructor's death, the very thing they were all trying to figure out so desperately.

gerald hayes’ death lacked the weight of tragedy. it was less like losing a life than brushing away a fly that had spent more time circling the room than your own space - a minor nuisance, largely more someone else’s problem, but one whose disappearance still made the air feel cleaner. it's absence barely registered, save for the quiet satisfaction that it would trouble no one again.

gerald hayes died and the world just kept turning. the sky didn't fall, the police didn't magically appear at your doorstep.

"seth, shut the fuck up, you're being so extra," chloe groans, wiping her tie with a napkin.

"no, listen to me!" seth barks, pointing a carrot stick directly at your face and then at louis. "think about it! it’s always the quiet ones. the best friend, the creepy brother, whatever. look at you two! you guys never eat dinner at home, you're out past midnight like, i dunno - every single night, and you literally look like the suspects from a nineties thriller. not only that, you both are even worse horror movie geeks than i am! if i vanish next, the principal is checking you two first, cause im onto you both."

louis lets out a loud, high-pitched, completely unhinged wheeze, his shoulders bouncing as he stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. "no way! seth thinks we are in a movie or something. tell him he is crazy."

you roll your shoulders, your head shaking once. you aren't about to give this little shit the satisfaction of even a flinch. the softest parts of this city are always the ones that get run over first, and seth is as soft as they come. you’re loathe to speak the truth out loud. not now; not when the manor is crawling with its own paranoid bats.

or maybe you’re the paranoid one?

"movies don't create psychos," you drawl as you curb a corner of your sandwich wrapper with your index finger. "movies make psychos more creative."

seth freezes, blinking at you stupidly . the table goes quiet for a split second, and louis giggles louder in the background, leaning forward with a massive, unhinged grin on his face.

"maybe you need to stop living in your damn fantasies seth," you mutter, a small smile touching your lips as you lean back against your seat. "you sound like a total amateur."

louis nods aggressively, flicking a tater tot across the table. "honestly, seth is a compleeetee idiot. you dunno whatchu talkin’ about."

you give louis a side eye with a raised brow - its not like louis knows either what the hell he's talking about half the damn time either.

louis keeps wearing his smile, giving you a thumbs up. ignoring him, you look out the cafeteria window, watching the grey rain beat against the glass.

while it’s pathetic and sad how idiotic they are, it’s a good thing for you. they are all looking in the wrong direction or sound too damn high to actually have anyone take worthy notice of their words - like how it is with seth.

by the time the final bell rings, the schoolyard is a total wash of rain, turning the gravel into a muddy slop.

fucking great.

louis managed to somehow get himself thrown into after-school detention for throwing a wet paper towel at the chalkboard, so you’re entirely on your own for the walk to the gates.

of course, you didn’t bother bringing an umbrella for whatever reason, one you regret now.

so instead shove your hands deep into your pockets, yank your hoodie you had kept in your locker up over your ears, and try to blend into the sea of people rushing for the buses.

then she steps right into your path.

a big, bright red umbrella cuts off your line of sight, the metal ribbing almost catching the edge of your hood. you stop dead, your jaw popping as you look up.

it's valerie.

you’ve heard of her, obviously. everyone at the academy knows the lead reporter for the school paper - mostly because she’s notoriously bossy, incredibly rude, and completely stuck up - or so they say. apparently, she treats the high school journalism column like some sort of crazed witch hunt.

she’s got a heavy vintage leather satchel slung over her shoulder, her hazel eyes narrow as she looks at you.

you think you can see some sort of wilderness in her eyes. spoiled and beautiful and easily bored.

"well, well, well if it isn't gotham’s favorite billionaire trust fund," valerie says, her voice fast, dripping with a wit that instantly reminds you of some old-school television reporter. she looks you up and down, a slight judging expression at your messed up appearance thanks to the rain - a look you almost grow offended by.

“god… wayne, you look miserable. tell me, do you always walk through a downpour brooding like the sky pissed on you or is the brooding look just a lifestyle choice? i don't think the girls are into that stuff, kinda stuff from yesterday if you ask me."

you force up a sarcastic smile - hahaha. how really fucking funny.

instead of replying immediately, you look down at the little red light blinking on her recorder. "i'm walking to my car, valerie. move the umbrella."

"not a chance. i need a quote, pretty boy, and you're the only one who isn't currently sobbing in the guidance counselor's office, running from the rain or-" she looks to your right side, the one where louis usually always walks next to you “-stuck in detention.”

she tilts the red canopy just enough to keep the rain off your face, her words hitting without a single break - god how much can she talk?

"let's talk about timing, shall we? because gerald hayes was found dead on a shipping crate early in the morning after heading out at midnight, and from what the office staff tells me, he officially, or well, wanted to, put a failing grade on louis vance’s permanent record a few days before he mysteriously died. and louis... well, louis didn't exactly look like he was going to take that lying down, did he?"

you keep your hands in your pockets, letting your head tilt to the side. "louis is an idiot. he gets mad at video games. he doesn't care about essays."

"right, of course not," valerie scoffs, her eyes dancing with a mocking light. "which brings me to my next question-“ your face palms, another one? “-because according to a very reliable source at the plaza theater, you and your little partner-in-crime were spotted walking out of the back exit quite late at night. right the same times hayes was nearing the docks, actually. which is a pretty incredible coincidence, don't you think? unless you two just really, really needed to do some late night thing like checking out the concessions near the harbor?”

your chest goes tight for a split second, your heart actually beating.

how the fuck does she even know that? nobody was supposed to be looking at the plaza’s side doors. fuck, you frequent that theater so much because the damn theater manager is a drunk who doesn't even check the ticket stubs, let alone the security cameras! your mind instantly starts tracking the variables.

surprisingly, this girl isn't an idiot. she’s actually smart. she’s the first person you've met in this entire goddamned school who isn't stumbling over her own feet.

you don't back down - you take a step forward, deliberately invading her space, leaning in under the red fabric until your face is just inches from hers. the smell of her wet hair and the plastic umbrella hits your nose.

you look straight at ber, your voice smooth and confident, completely dismissing everything she just threw at you.

"you're real cute when you're playing detective, valerie," you drawl, a small smirk spreading across your lips. "but you're barking up the wrong tree. louis and i were watching a late-night horror movie, nothing odd ‘bout that is there? you want a real scoop? hayes wasn't the type to look at the big picture. you should check his desk. people who focus too much on people pleasing and small mistakes usually miss the glare coming off the water."

it’s a sorta a lie, of course.

hayes died exactly because of a high school grudge, his throat opened up because he dared to threaten louis’s future (not that you think his future was actually threatened but louis insisted that it was - his parents surely would’ve saved his ass if it came hard to hard). but the hint you drop is subtle, buried in abstract nonsense about the glare on the water, a quiet nod to pier four, and the people pleasing (considering the dumb fuck did go to down there at midnight just to please his fucking superiors) that would make absolutely zero sense to an outsider.

valerie freezes. her breath catches right in the middle of her throat, her eyes widening just a fraction as she stares at you.

she’s very curious you can tell - almost completely intrigued, even?

however… valerie is valerie and she stays right there instead of leaving, her fingers tightening on the grip of her satchel.

"the glare on the water, people pleasing?" she mutters, her flustered expression showing for a fraction of a second before her usual stuck up one returns. she tries to keep her voice steady, but the rhythm is broken. "that sounds incredibly specific for someone who claims they were only inside a dark theater, wayne. what is that supposed to mean?"

"believe whatever you want," you whisper, your face going neutral again as you take a step back out into the downpour, letting the cold water hit your face.

"somethings are better left undiscovered, you don’t wanna get caught in something you can’t escape from." you turn on your heel and walk toward the parking lot, leaving her standing under her red umbrella.

the town car ride back is quiet, the steady slap of the windshield wipers the only thing filling the space while you sit in the back seat, staring at the rain.

your mind keeps looping back to the gates. to valerie. that odd, odd girl. she’s dangerous, not because she has a badge or a cape, but because she actually has a brain. most people are idiots, a thing you keep repeatedly getting reminded of, but she’s looking for the cracks, and you’re going to have to make sure she finds only what you want her to see.

the car rolls to a stop under the manor's grand stone portico. you swing the heavy door open, barely offering alfred a nod before you cross the threshold, expecting the usual. the familiar hollowness of a massive house that doesn't care if you're breathing or not.

you step into the grand sitting room and freeze, your hands freezing inside your pockets. the entire fucking circus is just… waiting for you. it’s completely uncanny, like walking into a room full of wax figures that someone forgot to turn off. bruce is a massive by the fireplace, staring down into the embers. dick is hovering on the edge of the leather sofa, spinning his keys. tim is leaning against the grand piano, his arms crossed tight with an uncomfortable to expression, while stephanie is sitting rigidly in an armchair, pretending to read a book that you know for a fact she hasn't turned the page of in a while because it stills the first damn page.

even cassandra is there, blending into the dark wood of the doorframe and damian right next o her.

they are all trying way too hard to look casual. it’s fucking terrifying.

the second your boots click against the floor, dick forces this massive, bright smile onto his face. it doesn't reach his eyes. "hey! you're home," he says, his voice bouncing a little too loud off the high ceiling. "how was the rest of your day at school?"

you don't answer, because what the fuck? your jaw pops in the dead silence, your eyes doing a sweep of the room. what the fuck is this?

they actually do know something, don’t they? fuck. did tim actually find an anomaly? did they run your data? you thought you covered every single track, you thought the watchtower encryption loop you built was flawless, but looking at them now, the paranoia settles deep into your ribs like grease.

"we were actually just talking," tim speaks up, his voice hesitant, completely lacking that professional edge he usually carries. he clears his throat, shifting his weight against the piano. "thought maybe we could all go out for a family dinner tonight. just us. we haven't really done that in… well, ever."

"yeah!" stephanie chips in a little too quickly, her laugh sounding thin and brittle as she shuts her book. "there’s that little italian place downtown. the one with the red checkered tablecloths you used to love when you were a kid. remember?" you stopped going there after jason died - its a place you frequented with him. how the hell does she know about that anyways? from dick? you doubt jason would tell her.

talking about him, next to dick, jason is sitting with his boots dragged back, his jaw locked tight as he stares at you through his messy bangs. he looks completely miserable, like he was dragged into this room by his throat - aka he looks like he always does. dick notices your stare glances at him, then back at you, the smile widening. "we even convinced jason to join us! the whole family. what do you say?"

jason doesn't say a word, but damian does. "this is a pathetic waste of tactical time," he sneers from the corner, his small frame rigid as he glares at his own shoes. "we should just take him already and go." so much for consent, wow.

cassandra’s eyes stay wide, bottomless, tracking the subtle hitch in your chest. "he is cold," she whispers softly, "it was raining heavily outside, it must still be on him."

dick takes a closer look at your clothes at her statement, eyes slightly widening. “oh… you're right cass-“

you blur their conversation out.

looking at the whole pathetic lineup, a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust rolls through your stomach. a family dinner. they spent years treating you like an invisible in their billionaire playground - someone odd and to keep away from, and now that a teacher from your school gets his throat slit, they suddenly want to play happy family? it’s hella weird. it’s a setup. they’re trying to soften you up, trying to gauge your reaction, checking to see if you've done some shit. if you’re still good so their savior complex doesn’t get hurt.

you reach down, yanking the sleeves of your oversized grey sweatshirt completely down until they cover your knuckles and you look right past dick’s bright smile, your eyes locking onto bruce’s gaze as the old man takes a slow step forward, clearly trying to find the words to "check in" on his blood son.

"i'm not hungry," you say. dick’s smile falters instantly, his jaw tightening. you take a step toward the grand staircase, turning your back on the whole uncanny display. "save the savior complex for the streets, bruce. it doesn't work on me."

the click of your boots against the first few steps is the only sound in the hall. you don't look back, you don't want to see their tight, anxious faces or whatever version of family guilt they're trying to push onto you today.

but the floorboards behind you suddenly groan.

"wait, just hold on a second," dick’s voice barks out, his light, athletic footsteps rushing across the rug. he’s chasing you up the stairs, his hand reaching out in the dim light of the landing like he’s trying to catch a ghost before it slips through his fingers. "we're just trying to talk to you. you don't have to always slam the door on us, okay? we just want to know how you're doing."

fuck that. you don't slow down, not even a slight pause to give him a witty comeback or look at his desperate, older-brother face. you just want to get the fuck outta here - your heart thudding against your ribs as you bolt down the corridor of the second floor. your room is right at the end, a door that represents the only somewhat safe square inch in this circus.

dick stops at the bottom of the second flight. you can hear his chest heaving, his sneakers squeaking on the wood as he realizes you aren't turning around. his arms drop back to his sides, completely blown off by the coldness you left in your wake.

you slide inside your bedroom, yank the door shut, and turn the heavy metal key until it locks with a sharp, echoing click.

…

dick comes back down the stairs slowly, his sneakers making a defeated drag against the bottom step. his chest is still heaving slightly, his face completely pale under the warm chandelier light. he rubs the back of his neck, his fingers twisting into his collar as he looks at the rest of the family, his hands still trembling just a fraction.

"he didn't even look back..," dick mutters, his voice dropping, completely stripped of that brightness he had earlier. he drops back onto the edge of the leather sofa, staring blankly at the rug. "he just... he bolted straight into his room and locked it. wouldn't even let me finish a sentence."

"because your strategy is entirely incompetent, grayson," damian sneers from his corner, his small arms crossed tightly over his crest as he glares at the wall. "forcing a pathetic performance of domestic tranquility upon an obvious tactical threat is a waste of resources. we should have subdued him and run an analysis on his garments hours ago."

"shut the fuck up, damian," jason barks out near the piano, his voice raw, an ugly, defensive snap cutting through the quiet. he’s still standing with his jaw locked, his eyes tracking the stairwell where you just disappeared.

he hates himself for letting bruce drag him into this little trap, hates himself for sitting here like a prop while they all look at you like you’re some wild animal. "he’s not a target. he’s seventeen. you don't talk about him like he’s some rogue we're trying to put in arkham."

"jason, nobody is trying to put him in arkham," tim speaks up, his voice anxious as he shifts his weight against the grand piano. "but when the shoe fits it fits. we can't just ignore that. if he's the one doing this... if he's the slasher, he's killing completely innocent people right under our noses. we have to find out the truth."

"but what if we're wrong?" stephanie asks, her hand clenching the edge of her book. she looks between dick and bruce. "god, did you see his face? he looked at us like he literally detests our guts. if he’s innocent, and we’re here running digital wiretaps on his room because a teacher from his school died, we are completely destroying whatever tiny bit of trust he had left in this family. he already thinks we hate him!”

cassandra looks at stephanie, moving over to place a comforting hand onto her shoulder. "he must be anxious because he knows the eyes are on him. he’s simply not used to it.”

stephanie gives cassandra a thankful glance in return.

bruce doesn't say a word. he stays entirely still by the fireplace, the orange embers casting shadows across the lines of his face.

he really thought keeping you away from the masks would protect you. he thought if you didn't know the horrors of the loop, you could stay pure, stay normal. instead, he just left you alone in the dark until you mutated into something he can't even read anymore. can't recognize.

..or maybe he never recognized you in the first place. never knew you at all.

"bruce?" dick prompts, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels as he looks up, pleading for an answer, pleading for someone to tell him his little brother isn't a monster. "since he obviously doesn’t want to spend time… do we just confront him directly?”

bruce slowly lifts his head, his dark eyes looking eighty years old under the warm lamplight. his jaw is locking into a hard, stubborn line.

"no," bruce rumbles, his deep voice putting an iron curtain over the entire sitting room. "we do not confront him. not without definitive proof."

"bruce, there's enough clues to make him a su—" tim starts. "i said no, tim," bruce cuts him off, his tone dropping into an authoritative register.

"just focus on the weapons shipment tonight. dick, you monitor his terminal logs. tim, watch his phone location. if he leaves this house tonight, i want to know the exact second his boots hit the gravel and where he goes. clear the room."

the room is completely dark, the only light coming from the sickly grey twilight bleeding through the rain-streaked window panes. you lean your back against the solid wood, letting out a breath through your nose.

they definitely know something. fuck. they’ve been a hundred percent digging but you don’t know what they know. no way they would act this fucking weird otherwise.

family dinner your ass.

your old man could not love, but maybe he believed he could, and you guess that must be enough for someone like him, because perhaps half this godforsaken world feels the exact same way. he believed he loved you, sure, to comfort his own miserable, regretful heart, but you could tell him face-to-face how fucking untrue that was. you could sit him down and list for him the exact number of times his heroic little crusade had placed you squarely within the jaws of death before you were even old enough to shave. you could list for him every single time he had completely failed to be a father to you, his motherless kid, while he was too busy running wayne enterprises and becoming a grand man of this world.

he loved, he loved; he loved himself. it is perhaps the way of all men, especially the ones who wear capes in the dark and try to play fucking hero.

a sudden buzz in your front pocket cuts through the bitter noise in your head. you pull your phone out, it’s a text from louis.

louis: boss man look out the window right fucking now look down

you let out a breath through your nose, your jaw popping as you walk over to the massive glass window. you look down into the rain-drenched courtyard below - the storm is absolutely hammering the laurels, the heavy green leaves shaking violently under the downpour.

and right there, tucked neatly into the wet dirt of the hedge near the iron gate, you spot him.

louis is crouching in the bushes, soaking wet, his clothes clinging to his skin like a second layer of plastic. his dark hair matted completely flat against his skull and the idiot is grinning this absolutely dumb, wide-eyed smile up at you through the freezing rain, trying so damn hard to keep his eyes open against the fat drops pelting his face. the second he sees your silhouette against the glass, he aggressively throws up a massive double thumbs-up, maybe trying to signal that he is okay? you don’t even know.

all you can see is that he's blinking like crazy as the water pools in his eyelashes.

you stand there for a second, staring down at his soaking wet, moronic ass, and you sigh once more. you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, rubbing the bridge of your nose as you look down at the blinding screen in your hand. he is a total lunatic, a complete loose wire, but he’s the only thing in this whole city that keeps you from going entirely brain-dead.

you: loose that smile you absolute fucking idiot and wipe your face

you: whats with everyone acting weird as fuck today??

you: the whole fucking clown show just tried to trap me in the living room offering me DINNER, trying to act like a real family. it was literally horrifying wtf

louis: no shot LMAOOOO 💀

louis: someone save poor boss man from family bonding boohoo 😿😿😿😿

you: stfu dick joke lit chased me up the stairs

you: i blew em off but it’s hella weird. yk why

louis: shii we are 🧑‍🍳 cooked👩‍🍳 boss man

louis: what’s the play??

you glance back out the window. louis is still down there, staring at his phone, his stupid smile flattening out into a slight, pouty twitch in his jaw - even in the middle of a panic, he’s still clearly annoyed that you ditched him when he got detention and is most likely going to whine about how you spoke to that reporter chick when going back to the manor instead of staying with him.

a soft, amused chuff comes through your nose and text him back.

you: get out of the dirt. i'm slipping out the back

you: were spending the night at your place. we need to talk.

louis: bet. car is around the corner. don't get caught by the big bad bat 🤫

you leave him on seen and slide the phone into your pocket, getting everything you need and taking an umbrella with you this time -

it's time to hatch up a plan.

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[itsangelic]

Scream

PAIRINGS: yandere plan!batfam x neglected! billy loomis!reader | WC: 15k

SUMMARY: being the product of bruce wayne's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?

WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didn’t want to come across like that or actually didn’t feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.

A/N: this is my first attempt at a series and also the final thing in my drafts 🥹✌️ if this does well i’ll update regularly because i think i got a pretty good feeling about where i want this to go. honestly, this could be labeled a yan!batfam x serial killer!reader too but i took inspiration off of billy loomis’ character for the reader. i also think you could lowkey label this as soft yandere?? idk how bad i want them to be yet. also this isn’t entirely canon accurate because i aged some characters up or down to make sense of my au timeline - so some things might seem messy. also so sorry for not including duke thomas, i really have NO idea how tf to include him 💔 also this is a lot of backstory up to the present timeline, so it might be boring.

pt 1 (here) –> pt 2

rain in gotham doesn't clean shit. it just makes the garbage look wet.

talking about shit, the whole city feels like a giant toilet that forgot how to flush. you learn that fast when crime alley is your entire world since small on.

it’s a miserable fuckin’ place, honestly - and if you had the choice, you'd have ditched the damn place ages ago.

just rows of rotting buildings with mold on the walls, overflowing dumpsters, and alleys that smell like piss and the faint scent of blood. most people would look at a kid crouching in the dirt by a rusted-out car and feel sorry for ‘em, but you? you don't give a shit.

it's not because you're putting effort into being particularly cruel or unfeeling or anything, you don't know anything else, and honestly, you don't want to. the chaos makes sense, and you enjoy things that make sense - chaos in crime alley has rules. if you’re small, you hide. if you’re stupid, you get your teeth kicked in. simple.

maybe that’s the root of it. you always needed everything to make sense and for you to know it. rigidly, obsessively and instinctively. it’s how you survived up till now, from the cruel corners of your tiny apartment (the ones you scraped your knuckles on learning how to sneak out), to every backroom of every deli and dive where you cut your teeth arguing with men twice your age.

you know the language of tells, the eye-flicks, the swallow-hitches, the pulse jumps in someone’s throat. you knows the exact pressure to apply to make someone fold without pushing them so hard they break. you don’t win games by accident. nothing feels safe unless you understood it intimately, unless you held the rules in your hands.

anyways, the other street rats you run with are mostly just noise around your ears. a bunch of loud, desperate dumbshits constantly crying about being hungry or cold, acting like the world owes them something - like everyone here wasn't just as hungry or even hungrier.

they run in packs, stealing food from corner stands and getting cornered by shopkeepers with bats because they're barely making a living too. no one is above beating a kid here.

you tag along because being entirely alone makes you a target, but you aren't really there. you’re just a shadow with floppy hair, sitting on a broken crate, watching them fumble through life like idiots. they think you're just another helpless kid - which in a sense, you are, but you also consider yourself a whole lot smarter than ‘em.

needless to say, this was a godless place. hell, maybe. a place where if you speak or act out of line, you get beaten.

maybe satan was thrown out of the heavens because he dared speak up against god, too. like a slave and his master. like a rebel and a dictator. like words that spark resistance.

and god threw him out to be silenced. people say that god only puts you through what you can handle but you think thats bullshit - and like satan you're left to grovel and beg, take me back, take me back, i don't like it here, take me back. maybe god likes the fight, the blood.

when you were even younger than now, you once looked up at the storming heavens and begged for god to take you back. the sky cackled, loud and earthshaking. the storm continued and so did you. in that moment, you empathized with satan. felt his body wrap around your legs before crawling up your body and around your neck. he whispered to you - what was once evil will always be so.

maybe that was the day you stop expecting salvation from anyone or anything - because god was never there anyways.

certainly not with you.

and certainly not when the hallway of that four-walled box of an apartment flickered overhead and your mother’s heels echoed through the corridor. you spend half your life cataloguing the exact rhythm of them, if the click-clack is slow and heavy, she’s exhausted and might just pass out on the mattress. if it’s fast and sharp? well, fuck. hold your breath and count to ten.

your dearest mother… she’s a total nutcase, but she’s your nutcase. you love her with everything you’ve got, even when the madness gets heavy enough to choke you.

one night she’ll crawl into your makeshift bed of blankets, smelling like gin and heavy perfume that makes you scrunch up your nose, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she pushes your hair back.

she’ll stare at you with those wet, glittering eyes, looking completely heartbroken because some older asshole broke your nose over some stupid shit.

"mom’s so sorry for bringing you into such a cruel world, my dear," she’ll murmur, her voice shaking while she rocks you against her chest.

"it hurts my heart to see my son in so much pain everyday. there is no one that deserves a normal life more than you do."

and then, right when the warmth starts to feel real, her grip tightens until it’s suffocating. her face goes totally blank with an icy sort of sorrow, the kind of look that makes your spine run cold and your posture more straight. "i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born."

it’s a lot to process. a normal kid’s brain would probably fry under that kind of pressure, but yours just absorbs it. you don't overthink it. she’s right, anyway. the world is an awful, bleeding joke.

(you're really not special. maybe you deluded yourself into thinking you're fine by you're fucked up childhood, but you're not. you're still just a kid).

the only person who ever manages to pull you out of that headspace is jason. jason peter todd. he’s a couple of years older. despite having a sick mom and a dad who vanished into thin air, the guy is weirdly bright. happy-go-lucky, almost. he’s the kind of kid who finds a water-damaged book in a dumpster and acts like he just struck gold, grinning from ear to ear while he reads out the big words to anyone who will listen. he's always looking out for the younger kids, sharing whatever stale crackers he manages to scrounge up. but… he also is always picking fights he has no business winning,

he still got a lot of heart and love left in him.

"hey, stop daydreaming, kid, catch!"

jason tosses a half-eaten loaf of bread at your chest, wiping car grease onto his torn jeans. you both are sitting under the flickering yellow glow of a broken street lamp, the damp air sticking to your skin. jason thinks you’re just a quiet, sensitive kid who needs a friend. he thinks your silence means you're just overwhelmed by how rough the alley can get.

"eat up," he says, giving your shoulder a playful shove, his tone warm and completely lacking the bitter edge that poisons everyone else around here. "we gotta keep our strength up. things are gonna get better, you'll see. we just gotta stick together."

you just take a bite of the dry bread, your eyes dropping down as you push your hair out of your face. you don't bother telling him the truth. you don't have the heart to tell him that his optimism is completely useless. you aren't scared of the thugs, or the dark, or the hunger. you aren't even scared of dying.

the only thing that actually messes with your head is the thought of going back upstairs, waiting in the dark to see which version of your mother is going to open the door tonight.

your chest hurts like a bitch.

every single breath feels like a piece of glass rubbing against your ribs and tearing them open. your mouth tastes like copper, the blood kind.

you knew better than to listen to those idiots. you knew tryin' to swipe that wallet down by the docks was a goddamn suicide mission, but did they listen? hell no!

the second the guy noticed, the whole world turned into a blur of flying fists, wet-blood stained concrete, and heavy work boots.

the other street rats scattered like goddamn cockroaches, but you? you weren't fast enough because you were too damn little. you took the brunt of it. now your nose is leaking and the edges of your eyes are getting all fuzzy.

you drag yourself up the rotting stairwell, leaning your forehead against the greasy wood paneling every three steps just so you don't pass out.

the hallway smells like boiled cabbage and damp mold. the usual shit... your fingers are shaking so bad you can barely twist the brass doorknob, your palms slick with sweat and grime.

you brace yourself, tensing up your shoulders for whatever mood is waiting on the other side.

the lock clicks. the apartment is pitch black, completely dead. the only sound is the pipes rattling inside the walls.

the place is empty. thank christ. for once in your life, the quiet feels like a goddamn miracle. you stumble over to your corner, collapsing face-first onto the pile of threadbare blankets that serves as your bed. your face throbs right in time with your heartbeat.

you just lie there, staring holes into the water stains on the ceiling, listening to the distant, muffled sirens echoing from the streets. honestly? you don't give a fuck. nothing really matters when your body hurts this bad.

then, the clicking starts.

it’s late as hell. footsteps in the hall are fast and the door bangs open, hitting the drywall with a loud crack and letting in the gross yellow light from the hall.

it's just another chaotic night in a long line of 'em. people are shouting, voices you recognize and some you don't, all of 'em angry and loud.

you curl into a tighter ball, pulling the smelly blanket right over your ears. just let it pass. it always passes. ma always says patience is a virtue - one she don't got.

eventually, the shouting stops. the door slams shut again. the silence that follows feels somewhat unnatural, like it's physical. you stay under that blanket for a long time, just listening to your own breathing.

breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.

you're ten years old and you've already learned that the world doesn't owe you a damn thing. fools who try to be too helpful wind up dead.

there are a million things worse than being left in the dark, and you don't have any plans of running outside. you just stay in your corner, pull the blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and wait for the sun to come up so you can figure out where to go next.

…

hours later and your chest is still pounding like a drum, each throb of your broken nose reminding you how much of a fuck-up today was. you’re still waiting for the morning, just staring at the peeling wallpaper in the dark, when the floorboards in the hallway groan.

squeeek!

the click of her heels hits the linoleum.

her footsteps are erratic and fast.

fuck.

the door doesn't just open; it flies back and hits the wall with a hollow crack that rattles the picture frames. she stumbles in, smelling like a bottle of gin and rain, but she’s not alone.

there’s a guy right behind her. a regular from the docks you’ve seen a few times, some greasy bastard who always looked at her like he wanted to either buy her or break her in half. tonight, he looks like he chose the second option. his coat is dripping wet, his eyes wide and bulging like a rabid dog's.

"You think i’m an idiot, don't you?" he roars, his voice so loud it makes the floorboards vibrate. "I saw you! I gave you everything!"

your mother is laughing, but it’s that rough, desperate laugh she gets when she’s cornered. "get out! just get out of my house, frank. you don't own me. you paid for an hour you crazy bastard, not my life. you’re nothing to me."

"i loved you!" he screams, his voice cracking, completely unhinged. "we were supposed to be real! you lied to me!"

"real?" she spits, her voice suddenly dropping into that cold, mocking octave that always makes your spine turn to ice. "nothing in this shithole is real, you pathetic man. now get your hands off me."

you curl tighter into your corner, pulling the blanket up to your nose. your heart is beating right against your bruised ribs. you don't believe in god - you believe that if he is real, he's one world heavyweight cunt - and yet, you pray.

just let him leave. please just let the bastard leave.

but of course, god would never listen to you. children full of sin don't deserve heaven, don't you know that?

frank lunges. a chair flips over, wood splintering against the floor. there is a frantic, messy scuffle by the kitchen counter, the sound of silverware rattling, a sharp gasp from your mom, and then a heavy, wet thud that seems to suck the oxygen right out of the room.

the shouting stops instantly. the apartment goes completely silent.

the only sound left is the man’s ragged breathing. he takes two steps back, his muddy boots dragging on the rug. you peek out from the edge of the blanket. your mother is on the floor, and the life is already draining out of her. frank is staring at his own hands, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. he drops the kitchen knife; it lands with a dull, metallic clatter.

"no, no, no," he mutters, pulling at his hair, stepping away from her. "you made me do it. you shouldn't have laughed at me. it’s your fault. it’s your own fault."

you don't look at him anymore. your eyes slide over to your mom.

her eyes are wide open, staring straight at the water stains on the ceiling. her mouth is slightly parted, like she was about to say one last mean thing but forgot the words.

you wait for the panic to hit you. you wait for the tears, the screaming, the total breakdown that a normal ten-year-old kid is supposed to have.

but there is absolutely nothing. just a massive, echoing crater in your chest.

you stare at her face, and weirdly, you just think about what she said a while ago. the thing that stuck with you - even if you never acknowledged it - the most.

i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born.

well, look at that. she got her wish, sort of. she’s out of the game now. the world finally delivered the punchline she always warned you about, and the joke isn't even funny.

the fear you usually carry around just evaporates, leaving behind a freezing, crystal-clear coldness. she was right. the world is just an awful place, and life is a punishment. seeing her like this doesn't make you sad. it just makes you realize that the rules are completely gone. death isn't a big deal. it’s just the end.

frank is still pacing, hyperventilating, his back turned to your corner as he whines like a kicked dog.

he’s completely lost it, totally blind to the rest of the room. to him, you’re just a pile of dirty laundry in the shadows. an afterthought. a nobody.

your eyes drop to the floor. the kitchen knife is sitting right there, reflecting the yellow light from the hallway.

you don't think about it. you don't analyze the math of the moment or worry about getting caught.

you slide out from under the blanket, your bare feet making no sound on the cold floorboards - your hand grips the handle. it’s heavy and warm and the knife is still wet with blood.

frank is still mumbling to the wall, his hands over his face. "what am i gonna do, what am i gonna do..."

you close the distance in three silent strides. you don't hesitate. you don't yell and with every single ounce of strength in your small, ten-year-old body, you strike.

his eyes bulge as he falls backward, gasping for air that won't come. he thrashes for a moment, his boots kicking against the floorboards, until his movements grow sluggish, then entirely still.

you wait for the guilt to ruin you. you wait to feel sick or start crying.

you keep waiting for something to happen.

for god to finally strike you dead, for your mom to sit up and scream at you, for someone to tell you that killing people is a bad thing to do.

and yet nothing happens.

frank and your mother just stay dead.

instead, a strange, intoxicating warmth blooms right in your chest. it’s the first time in your entire life you feel completely in control.

frank is dead, your mom is dead, and the apartment is finally, beautifully quiet.

you push your hair back, look at the aftermath on the floor, and realize you don't feel a thing. you walk back to your corner, pull the dirty blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and close your eyes to wait for the morning.

two weeks is a long goddamn time for bodies to sit.

the smell started around day four, just a weird, sweet tang in your nose that wouldn't go away no matter how many blankets you buried your face under. by day ten, the air in the apartment was thick and smelled rotten. like trying to breathe through wet wool. flies started showing up, buzzing against the grease-stained window panes, completely ignoring you while they did their thing on the living room floor.

you got used to stepping around the mess. you had to, if you wanted to get to the sink for a glass of tap water. frank’s boots were still sticking out past the edge of the kitchen counter, stiff and dusty. your mom just looked smaller every day, like the alley was slowly shrinking her down to nothing. noticeably, something was eating away at their bodies too - but you didn’t want to check.

the neighbors have been pounding on the door since last tuesday, screaming about the stench through the wood. "hey! something fucking died in there! fix it!" they'd yell, their voices muffled and angry. but nobody ever actually called the cops. nobody kicked the door down. it’s crime alley. people complain, but nobody truly gives a shit. someone could rot down to the bone in this building and the landlord would probably only care if the rent check was late.

lying in your corner, listening to some old lady down the hall complain to her kid about the "rat smell," you can't help but laugh a little bit. it's funny, really. if you dropped dead right now on this mattress, you’d rot right along with 'em. nobody would come looking for you. nobody would even notice you were gone until the maggots started falling through the ceiling of the apartment downstairs.

the thought doesn't even make you sad. it makes sense in a way, the world doesn't care about street rats. nobody does.

but things are getting tight. the canned peaches ran out three days ago, the crackers, although very stale, are completely gone, and your stomach is starting to feel like a hollow fist punching you from the inside.

you tried swiping a loaf of bread from the corner market yesterday, but your ribs still ache too bad from that beating by the docks. you’re too slow right now. if you try to steal again, you’re gonna get caught, and you really don't feel like taking another boot to the face.

and while you also always have been so good at leaving well enough alone - picking which strain from the purest to the filthiest. which rat’d squeal and which would be ‘merciful’, giving a poor kid like you some scraps - you can't, and don't want to, take the chances of asking the wrong person for help either.

hard comes hard. you have to move.

you slide off the mattress, your bare feet sticking slightly to the floorboards. you don't even look at the middle of the room anymore - you just grab your old, torn backpack from behind the door and throw in a couple of oversized t-shirts, a spare pair of socks, and the small pocket knife you found in frank’s coat last week. that’s it. your entire life fits into a canvas bag that’s missing one strap.

you pause by the door, your hand hovering over the brass knob. you don't look back at your mom but there’s no point. she’s dead and you're alive, you can't afford to dwell.

you try not to think of it, you try to think of the fact that you knew this would have happened sooner or later.

that she's at peace now - better off blissfully dead than living like hell.

better yet, don't think at all.

you open the door, slip out into the dim hallway, and let the lock click shut behind you for the last time.

the air out here is barely better, but at least it isn't full of flies. you slouch your shoulders, push your floppy, ungroomed hair out of your eyes, and start the long walk down the stairs.

the nearest orphanage is about twelve blocks away, right past the edge of the theater district. it’s gonna be full of loud, crying losers, but they have soup.

and right now, soup sounds like a goddamn luxury.

the orphanage is one massive building.

you walk inside, looking around before you spot a lady at the front desk and make your way over to her.

the lady at the front desk looks at you like you’re something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. your clothes are covered in grease and dust, and your hair is a greasy, floppy, un groomed mess falling into your eyes, but you don’t give a shit.

you drop your one-strapped backpack onto the floor and stand there, staring at her with those completely blank eyes.

"name?" she asks, her voice annoyed.

you give her your name which makes you think of your mom - your mom only ever used your name when she was pissed and couldn’t be bothered for endearing nicknames or harsh insults.

the lady writes it down, grumbling under her breath about another mouth to feed, and then she points a fat finger toward the main recreation room. "go sit down, lunch is in ten minutes."

that's it? no questions about why you look like shit or where you've been or where you’ve come from?

actually, it should’ve been expected, you shake your head. of course they don't ask where you come from, shit-ass orphanage. they don't give a single fuck if you just watched someone die or walked out of a house full of flies. you're just another piece of garbage to shove into a corner until you turn eighteen and be deported off into the army or some crap.

and this looks like shit too.

the main room is chaos. it's full of loud kids running around, crying over broken toys, or just staring at the walls like zombies. the second you walk in and sit down at a long wooden table, a few kids begin to eye you though.

it’s weird. you’re ten years old, your nose is still a little crooked from getting broken a few weeks ago, and you haven't taken a real shower in forever, but for some reason, these kids start flocking to you.

within five minutes, three of the younger ones are sitting right next to you, and a couple of guys your age are leaning against the table, trying to get your attention.

maybe it’s the way you carry yourself. you don't look scared like the new kids usually do. you look like you already know how the world ends and you look tough because you look roughened up and you’re still standing - to a bunch of terrified orphans, that makes you look like a leader.

at least it did in crime alley.

you play along. hell, why not? it’s a game, and you’re pretty damn good at games.

"hey," one of the older boys says, nudging your shoulder. "where'd you come from? the alley?"

"yeah," you say, letting a small, easy smile slip onto your face. you lean back, slouching your shoulders just right, turning on that casual charm. "down by the docks. things got a little too loud down there."

"did your parents dump you?" a little girl asks, her eyes wide and pathetic.

you look right at her, your smile staying perfectly warm even though you couldn’t careless about her. "something like that. but hey, we're here now, right? we got a roof over our heads."

they eat it up. they think you're cool. they think you're strong. when the plastic bowls of mystery gray soup get shoved onto the table, you don't hesitate.

you inhale the stuff, even though it tastes like dishwater, because your stomach is practically eating itself. between spoonfuls, you keep talking to them, nodding at their dumb stories, making them laugh, and letting them feel safe around you.

you're right in the middle of laughing at some kid’s stupid joke when a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder.

it’s the front-desk lady, and she looks pissed. she doesn't care that you're eating and she doesn't care that the younger kids are finally quiet because of you.

"up," she barks, pulling you out of your seat by your collar so hard your spoon clatters against the plastic bowl. "now."

the other kids go silent, watching you get dragged away. you don't struggle and you let your boots drag on the floor as she whisks you down a narrow, hallway that smells heavily of rubbing alcohol.

she shoves you into a tiny room with a metal chair and a counter full of medical supplies.

there's a doctor there, looking incredibly bored.

“sit," the lady orders, pushing you into the chair.

"standard intake procedure for unidentified street kids. we need a blood sample and a cheek swab for the database. look at the wall and don't move."

what kind of bullshit are they spouting? you do as you told while not bothering to voice your question aloud. its not like they would explain why anyway, or if they would ask if you're okay with this.

they grab your arm, wipe it with a cold cotton ball, and stick a needle right into your vein. you flinch slightly, more out of instinct than anything, and watch the dark red blood fill the plastic vial, thinking about how easy it is to get blood out of a body, and how much harder it is to clean it up when it's all over the kitchen floor.

they shove a cotton swab into your mouth, rub it against your cheek, and then the lady shoves your backpack into your hands and points to the door. "go to room 4B. don't touch anything."

you walk out, pushing your hair out of your eyes.

stupid bitches.

the next morning is weirdly quiet. you’re actually sleeping in a real bed for once, not just a thin mattress on the floor with spring wires poking into your back.

the blankets are scratchy, but they’re clean. you’re right in the middle of a dreamless, heavy sleep when the door to the small room flies open.

"wake up! up, right now, please, hurry."

huh? you open your eyes the tiniest bit. the voice is the one from the front-desk lady from yesterday, but her voice sounds like… totally wrong.

she’s not barking at you. in-fact, she sounds frantic, almost shaky, and her face is pale as a sheet. you open your eyes fully now, blinking against the bright morning light, and push your hair out of your face.

before you can even slide your feet out of the covers, she’s already pulling a pair of clean jeans and a new shirt out of a closet alongside an oversized jacket, laying them on the edge of the bed like you’re some kind of king.

"put these on quickly," she says, her hands trembling a little as she smooths down the fabric. she’s smiling, but it’s a fake, terrifying smile that looks like it hurts her face. "we need you looking your best. can i get you some breakfast? some juice? just let me know what you need, sweetie."

ew.. sweetie. what a joke. yesterday you were a piece of garbage, and today she’s acting like she wants to kiss your damn feet. it’s scarily polite and it makes you want to hurl. you'd rather she be a bitch again because at least that feels natural.

"what the fuck is going on?" you ask, your voice rough from sleep. you don't care about being rude to her.

she doesn't even scold you for swearing. she just gasps and clasps her hands together. "oh, you are just the luckiest boy in the world. the database flagged your test from yesterday, we found your father. he’s on his way to come get you right now."

you sit up, your brow furrowing. "my father?"

"yes!" she beams, leaning in close. "bruce wayne. you’re a wayne!"

the name rings a faint bell. you’ve heard people talk about him down in crime alley, usually when they’re reading gossip magazines or watching the news through a store window.

bruce wayne. the billionaire? the guy who owns half the city and spends his nights running around with supermodels, getting wasted, and wasting money? the total fuckboy bruce wayne?

honestly… it figures. a guy like that is the perfect match for your mother. a rich asshole who hits it once and forgets the girl even existed. it makes complete sense that you’re the byproduct of some sloppy one-night stand between a stripper and a billionaire who couldn't keep his pants zipped.

you stand up and grab the clean shirt, slipping it over your head. you don't feel excited, neither do you feel happy.

you pull the jeans up. well, at the very least, the bastard is rich.

that’s a win in your book. crime alley taught you that money is the only thing that actually matters in this world. money means food. money means power. as for what kind of man he is? you don't give a shit. if he’s a mean drunk, if he likes to throw punches when he’s angry, you can handle it. you’ve been beaten by the best thugs the docks had to offer. you can handle abuse in your sleep. if you have to trade a few bruises for a warm room and three meals a day, that’s a goddamn bargain.

you shove your feet into your dirty boots, push your floppy hair out of your eyes, and look at the front-desk lady. she’s still hovering by the door like a nervous dog.

"is he here yet?" you ask flatly.

"his butler is downstairs checking the paperwork," she whispers, looking like she’s about to faint. "mr. wayne will be here any minute."

minutes pass until you drag your dirty boots down the creaky stairs, the front-desk lady practically hovering over your shoulder like she thinks you're gonna bolt.

you aren't gonna run. why the fuck would you? there's a free meal ticket waiting at the bottom of these steps, and you're not an idiot.

standing in the lobby is an old guy in a suit so sharply worn to the tee it looks like it could cut glass. he sticks out like a sore thumb against the water-stained walls and the gross linoleum.

the second your boots hit the final step, he turns around. his face is completely calm, but his eyes slide over your crooked nose and your messy, floppy hair with a quick, tracking glance.

"good morning, young man," the old guy says. his voice is smooth, british, and weirdly formal.

"my name is alfred pennyworth. i am the butler for the wayne estate. we are here to bring you home."

he doesn't look disgusted by your dirty jacket. he doesn't treat you like a street rat.

he’s just politely holding open the heavy front door, gesturing for you to step outside into the gray morning.

you nod, slouching your shoulders as you walk past him.

you shrug then, whatever. as long as the food is real, actual, edible food you can call yourself whatever you want, old man.

parked right at the curb is a black car that costs more than every single apartment block in crime alley combined. not that you would actually know its costs - it just looks shiny and shiny things are expensive.

leaning against the side of it is the man himself.

bruce wayne.

he looks exactly like the pictures, but bigger in person. expensive coat, broad shoulders, and dark hair that looks perfectly styled even with the wind blowing. but the second his eyes lock onto you, the smooth billionaire mask slips. just for a second, his face goes tight, a genuine flash of shock hitting his features as he stares at you.

you know exactly what he’s seeing.

he’s looking at the undeniable proof of some sloppy night he forgot about ten years ago. tough luck, dad. tough luck.

bruce takes a slow step forward, his eyes scanning down your skinny frame, taking in the bruised knuckles and the way you favor your left side because of your cracked ribs.

he looks like a detective trying to piece together a crime scene, inspecting every single flaw on your body. it makes your skin crawl a little bit, but you keep your face completely blank. you give him a dead-eyed stare right back.

yeah, take a good look, asshole. you puckle up your lips, you’re his problem now.

"hey," bruce says. his voice is deeper than you expected, a bit rough around the edges, but he’s clearly forcing it to sound soft. kind, even. it’s a terrible actor job, honestly. you can hear the strain in his throat as he tries to play the nice dad.

"i'm bruce. i know this is... a lot. but you're safe now. let's get you out of the cold." he reaches a massive hand out, like he wants to touch your shoulder, but he hesitates. he pulls it back when you don't move an inch.

you look past him at the leather seats of the car, your mind turning over the options. he's trying to be nice, which is weird. usually, guys who look like him like to use their fists when they're stressed out.

maybe the abuse doesn't start until you're behind closed doors? public appearances and allat. maybe he's just worried about the press seeing him act like a dick. either way, you don't give a shit. you can play whatever game he wants as long as he provides for you. it would be hella cool if the the bedroom has a heater, you dislike the cold. which rich guy doesn’t have a heater?

“sure," you say flatly, your voice cracking a little. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes and slide into the back seat without waiting for him to invite you again. the leather is warm, it smells like money.

bruce stands outside for a second, looking at the closed car door with a conflicted expression, before he sighs and climbs into the front. alfred shuts the door with a soft click, and the car smoothly glides away from the curb, leaving the shit orphanage behind in the mist.

it wasn't good while it lasted. you hope to see them again never.

the car ride is quiet.

awkwardly quiet, and you know its because of you.

bruce gives you those slow, dragging glances that feel like someone rifling through your pockets without asking. usually you'd be basking in having such effect on someone, but right now? now you aren’t basking in it; you’re just… supremely fuckin’ uncomfortable. your jaw pops you you stare holes into the glass window.

alfred is up front, his eyes fixed entirely on the road, his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. he isn't saying a damn word, but you can see his eyes occasionally darting to the rearview mirror, checking on you.

bruce is sitting right next to you. he keeps shifting in his leather seat, his big frame looking way too massive for the space. he’s staring out the window, then looking at his hands, completely out of his depth.

you lean back, slouching down, watching him through the hair falling into your eyes.

come on, rich boy. say something.

finally, he clears his throat. the sound is loud in the small car.

"so," bruce starts, his voice dropping into that forced, gentle tone again. "the orphanage said you turned yourself in two days ago. where... where were you living before that?"

you look right at him. you let your shoulders drop, putting on a small, tired look.

time to play the part, if you can get some pity points it’ll be easier later on. "an apartment. down on forty-second. near the docks."

bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing. "with your mother?"

"yeah," you say flatly. you look down at your bruised knuckles, tracing a scab with your thumb. "she died about two weeks ago. some guy from the docks killed her in the kitchen."

you hear alfred’s breath hitch in the front seat. the car swerves just a tiny bit before the old guy corrects it. bruce doesn’t have a massive physical reaction but his jaw goes completely tight, the color draining from his cheeks.

"i'm... i'm so sorry," bruce mutters, his voice cracking a little. he looks completely horrified. "did... did the police come? did someone help you?"

"no," you say. you look up, staring right into his eyes with a blank, wide-eyed expression. you make sure to sound completely casual about it, like you’re talking about the weather. "it's crime alley, nobody calls the cops for that stuff. i just stayed in the room with the bodies until the food ran out and the smell got too bad. then i left."

christ, the silence that hits the car after that is heavier than a lead brick.

bruce looks like he’s about to vomit. his eyes are wide, fixed on your face, full of a deep, crushing guilt. you can practically see his brain doing the math - realizing his biological son was sitting in a dark, rotting room with two dead bodies for a week and a half while he was throwing galas and playing billionaire in the upper districts.

he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. he just looks completely done for.

perfect, pity points acquired. you drop your gaze back to your lap, hiding a tiny smirk behind your hair. he feels like absolute shit now. good. a guilty father is a compliant father. he won't be throwing any punches at you if he's too busy drowning in his own regrets.

bruce doesn't ask another question for the rest of the ride. he just stares out his window, his fist clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

the city blocks start to change. the dirty bricks and neon signs of the lower districts give way to massive stone gates and long, winding roads lined with actual trees.

you’ve never seen this many trees in your life - so neatly lined up at least… holy shit.

the car finally rolls up a massive driveway and comes to a smooth halt. you look out the window, and your jaw almost hits the leather seat.

the place is fucking huge. it looks like a goddamn castle out of a movie, all dark gray stone, pointed roofs, and towering windows that look cold and empty. it’s absolutely massive, sitting on top of a hill like it owns the whole damn world. it’s terrifyingly quiet out here. no shouting, no sirens, no glass shattering. just the wind howling through the grass.

you slide out of the car the second alfred opens the door, your old canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. you stand on the gravel, staring up at the giant stone mansion.

well. it’s definitely better than a walk-up apartment full of flies. it’s big, it’s cold, and it looks like a fortress. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes, taking the view in. no matter how tough you pretend to be, you're still a kid.

…

the front door of wayne manor is too big. everything here is too big, and there are smells so unfamiliar it makes your nose itch.

you stand in the foyer, your cheap shoes leaving damp gray smears on marble that probably costs more than all your organs combined if you were to sell them on the black market.

bruce is right behind you, he hasn't touched you once since the orphanage, just kept this careful, awkward distance like he’s afraid you’ll snap if he breathes too hard.

then come the footsteps. quick, light, bouncing off the high walls. a kid slides around the grand staircase, skidding a little on the rug.

dick grayson. he’s fourteen, wearing a bright red sweater that looks way too expensive, his dark hair messy but still perfect? how the hell does he do that?

he stops dead when he sees you. his eyes go wide, then narrow just a fraction. "bruce," dick says, his voice cracking just a bit before he catches it. he drops his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual. "alfred said you were back. is this... him?"

you don't say a word, because what is there to say? so you just stare. you let your gaze drag over his clean clothes, his unblemished skin, his easy posture. rich kid. lucky kid. he got the big house and the billionaire dad first, even though he isn’t even a biological child.

dick shifts his weight under your stare. his smirk thins. he isn't trying to be a dick - no pun intended - but you’ve got a vibe that.. doesn’t exactly scream natural. you’re off-putting. creepy, even.

"i'm dick," he says, taking a step forward. he offers a hand, trying to be the bigger person. "nice to meet you."

your jaw pops as you look at his open palm. hell no. you don't take it. you tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your oversized coat, staring holes into his chest until he slowly lowers his arm, his fingers curling into a fist. a little flush of heat hits dick's ears.

"right," dick mutters, flipping his hair back with a sharp jerk of his head. "cool. guess you don't talk much."

he’s already annoyed with you it seems. you turn your back on him, looking up at the massive crystal chandelier above you instead, counting the glass droplets just to have something to do.

bruce clears his throat behind you, the sound deep and awkward. "dick, show him to his room. alfred is finishing dinner."

"sure," dick says, his voice tight now. he turns toward the stairs, not waiting to see if you're following. "this way, kid."

…

the stairs are wider than your whole kitchen back on park row.

your boots make this dull, pathetic thud against the runner, and every single step feels like a personal insult to your history and everywhere else you've walked before in your life.

dick’s leading the way, his shoulders straight, chest puffed.

dick. christ. who the fuck names their kid dick? or at the very least, gives them the nickname ‘dick’? that's just sad. you’d get your teeth kicked in before breakfast in crime alley with a name like that, but here the guy walks around like it’s something to be proud of.

alfred had given you the breakdown in the car before you even crossed the gates. mr. wayne’s ward, the old man had called him, real polite and proper like a butler should be.

a ward. right. because adopting some random circus orphan before you even check if your playboy late-night fucks got you any biological kids first makes total fucking sense. bruce’s carelessness is truly an undefeated champion. he’s got his own blood running around the slums for ten years, but he’s too busy playing savior to a kid named after a dick joke.

it makes your teeth ache.

dick stops outside the door, spinning around on his heel. he isn't glaring or anything; he’s actually trying to smile, but it’s twitchy around the edges. his eyes are a little bloodshot, like he’s been up all night - maybe arguing with bruce? you figure considering how tense he has been since you both walked away.

seems like paradise ain't so perfect after all.

he tosses a set of silver keys in the air and you catch them with an easy, fluid grace that looks almost practiced.

"here," dick says, offering a lazy shrug as he leans his shoulder against the opposite wall. his voice is naturally light, bouncy, like nothing in the world can actually touch him. "it's the biggest room on this wing. bruce said you can rewrite the whole layout if you want. swap the bed, paint the walls black, whatever floats your boat. alfred spent all yesterday scrubbing it down."

the air between you is thick, sour with something that feels a lot like old grease. dick’s eyes drag down to your shoes again, that little twitch in his jaw showing he’s trying real hard not to say something smart.

totally clean-cut, got the whole world by the balls and he knows it. and he’s looking at you like you’re a stain on his shiny new floor.

fuck him. fuck this whole house.

at your silence, dick keeps talking. "tough crowd," dick mutters, flipping his dark hair out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head. he sighs, his shoulders dropping a fraction, the carefree act slipping just enough to show how tired he actually is.

"look, i know this place is weird. it’s huge, it’s quiet, and bruce has the emotional range of a brick. but alfred’s great. and i’m... well, i’m usually a lot more fun than this. we’re just having a week."

he lets out a dry, breathy laugh, waiting for you to hit the conversational ball back. nothing. you keep looking through him, your eyes totally unblinking, tracking the tiny twitch under his left eye.

it’s a creepy fucking stare, and you know it, its why you do it.

dick’s smile completely dies this time. he shifts his weight, looking down the long, empty hallway behind him like he wishes he was anywhere else.

"right. cool. the silent treatment," dick says, his tone snapping back into that quick, defensive rhythm. he takes two steps backward, his sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. "i'll be downstairs if you decide you want to use your vocal cords. try not to get lost."

…

dick isn't used to this. the kids weird as hell. it didn't help that he had to come in during a time where his relationship with bruce was rocky - what if he gets replaced? "whatever," dick mutters to himself, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels. he takes a step back, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floorboards. "be a freak then. see if i care."

he turns on his heel and bolts down the hallway, his footsteps way too loud, way too fast. a clean break.

…

you watch him go until he rounds the corner, the house falling back into that silence.

three years in this giant stone mausoleum (you're thirteen now), and you still can’t stand the way it fucking smells.

it’s too quiet, crime alley ways had all sorts of sounds so you could exactly detect who and what was where and when.

here, you spend your days creeping around the corridors, your new, expensive boots clicking on the floorboards, waiting for something to snap.

your relationship with dick is a total mess. he’s seventeen now, and he treats you like some kind of project he keeps failing to fix.

one day he’s barging into your room to drag you downstairs for video games, laughing and tripping over his own feet, trying so hard to be the fun older brother. the next day he’s a moody bastard (or you're the one who makes him moody), snapping at you for something you've said or didn’t say, his eyes dark and exhausted.

you assume it’s a love-hate thing for him. for you? it’s eh… tolerance. you let him talk, but you never let him in. you can’t afford to be soft.

besides, he’s barely even here anymore. as the years drag on, dick starts disappearing for days. weeks, even. his room stays empty, the bed perfectly made, while you sit at the massive dining table with bruce, the silence between you two so heavy it feels like concrete. sometimes you eat all alone, too.

bruce is a whole different brand of exhausting. the guy tries, he really does. he tries his hardest to be kind, to listen to whatever you want, but he’s so damn awkward about it. he can never just look you in the eye and talk like a normal parent. there’s always this thick wall between you two, this weird vibe like he’s hiding a massive secret he’s terrified you’ll find out.

so, he avoids you. he buys you things to distract you, dumps a new gadget on your desk, and pulls away before things get too in depth. because he’s always so wrapped up running wayne enterprises, every single conversation you have gets cut short anyway. “i have a meeting,” or “we’ll talk later.” always the same shit.

your actual caretaker is alfred. but you don't do the whole cozy family thing with him either. it’s strict, formal, like a proper master and servant setup. it felt incredibly weird at first, when the old man started calling you young master, but after three years, you’ve mostly gotten used to the sound of it. he fixes your clothes, cooks your food, and keeps his distance.

then you find out what bruce was actually hiding.

it’s three in the morning, and you’re downing a glass of sink water in the dark kitchen. you hear a noise near the grandfather clock in the study - a low, mechanical click. you creep over, your bare feet making no sound on the rugs. you slip into the shadows behind a curtain just in time to see the wall slide open.

out steps dick. except he isn’t wearing his stupid high school varsity jacket. he’s covered in what seems to be an armor-suit, a bright yellow cape trailing behind him, and a green mask painted over his eyes.

he looks like some freak from a comic book. he pulls the mask off, his face bruised and streaked with sweat, cursing under his breath as he limps toward the stairs.

you stay perfectly still, your heart thudding a slow, rhythm against your ribs.

batman and robin.

so that's what bruce has been trying to hide so bad! it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots - it's not rocket science. bruce is the bat, and his circus ward is the bird.

you want to laugh with how ridiculous it is.

your old man is out there wearing a cape, pretending to be the protector of gotham, and yet crime alley is still a rotting cesspool.

he’s out there playing hero while your mother was dying in the dirt for a few crumpled dollars. what a joke. what a pathetic, sick joke.

you look down at your glass, then back up at dick's wide eyes. "you look ridiculous," you say, your voice flat but completely casual.

you take another sip of water, turn around, and walk back to your room without waiting for an answer.

the next morning, you get cornered by bruce in his study. the secret is dead out in the open by now, and dick was avoiding bruce's angry gaze. "teach me how to fight, and teach me how the computers work, i wanna know too.”

bruce looks at you for a long time, his jaw tight, his usual awkwardness freezing up.

he exchanges a tense, worried glance with dick. dick looks like he wants to say something, wants to object, but he keeps his mouth shut in the end. the guilt wins out with bruce - it always does. he agrees.

luckily, they don't keep you in the dark anymore.

they bring you down through the grandfather clock, right into the damp, cold belly of the batcave. it’s full of high-tech monitors, a giant mechanical penny, and weapons lines.

you get your training right where they do their secret work.

you make alfred oversee your form, and on the rare nights dick is actually home, you force him onto the sparring mats in the cave.

those sessions are intense. dick tries to keep it light, tossing out his usual remarks, but you play dirty - you grew up in crime alley after all.

you go for the win. you use the dirty, underhanded tricks you saw in back-alley brawls, shoving your elbow into his ribs and trying to sweep his legs out from under him.

"woah, kid, chill!" dick pants one night, blocking a wild swing to his jaw and pinning your arms behind your back on the black mats.

he’s trying to laugh, but his chest is heaving, and there’s a flicker of real wariness in his eyes. "it's just a spar. you're acting like you want to take my head off."

you twist your wrists, forcing him to let go, and take a step back. you wipe a smear of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, your expression entirely neutral. "you're just slow tonight, dickie," you tell him, your tone quiet and easygoing. "keep your guard up."

bruce watches from the massive supercomputer console, his dark eyes tracking your every move, his brow furrowed in what you assume to be in worry - but he doesn’t say anything.

dick lets out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking out his arms as he steps back onto the center of the mat. "you're getting good," he mutters.

"yeah," you say, a small smile touching your lips as you bounce slightly on your toes.

…

you think middle school is a damn joke, but bruce had sent you to one anyways.

a snobby, prep-school hellhole filled with legacy kids who look like they’ve never done a day of real work in their miserable lives, at that.

alfred drops you off every morning with the car and he picks you up right on the dot. it’s a routine. neat, clean, and totally predictable.

it's a good thing, that in school at least, you don’t even have to try. because you’ve got the wayne name stamped on your forehead and you’re naturally charismatic, the whole damn school flocks to you the second you walk through the doors.

it’s a joke. you know how to talk to people, how to flash a quick smile, but that's the most you do, really.

bruce and dick don’t have a single clue. they never check in on how you're doing at school, never show up to parent-teacher nights, too wrapped up in their own secret little crusade down in the dark to notice the kid sitting across from them at breakfast - alfred is the one doing all that stuff.

although out of what you assume is courtesy, bruce at least has the decency to ask.

and alfred always give the same old reply.

“the young master is doing well.”

alfred handles the report cards too, but that’s as far as the checking goes.

it’s funny how they can spot a sniper from three rooftops away but completely overlook what’s happening right under their noses.

because if they knew what you were up to in school, maybe bruce would finally break the nice guy act and lay a hand on you.

louie vance.

louis is someone you met in middle school, and louis is also a total trip.

he’s got this frantic, high-wire energy that makes most of the rich pricks nervous, but not you. surprisingly, he reminds you a lot of the kids back in crime alley.

he’s like a live wire, bouncing off the walls, always laughing at his own jokes, shifting his weight from foot to foot like his skin doesn't quite fit him right.

you think that there may be something wrong with him, but you don't ask him about it.

the two of you fall into the same friend group - a loud, nasty little crowd that likes to make life miserable for anyone who doesn't fit the mold.

a bully group? they don't bully people everyday, but it's enough to be considered bullying you think.

your minions do the heavy lifting, cornering some stuttering kid by the lockers or trash-talking someone until they cry in the cafeteria. very few there are the times it gets physical.

you don’t bother joining in on the actual text-book bullying, but you don’t do a single thing to stop it either. instead you sit back and watch while louis giggles beside you, his elbow digging into your ribs.

the two of you are less of a group and more of a duo anyway.

…

you don't enjoy middle school.

you don't like the kids here.

these kids are soft - sickeningly soft. they’ve grown up in high-rise penthouses all their lives, tucked safely away from the reality of the city beneath them.

they wear their pristine ugly uniforms, navy blazers with gold-threaded crests, pleated skirts, and ironed slacks without a single crease and they scream over minor inconveniences.

a cracked phone screen, a missed vacation, a B on an essay - as if their whole world is ending. they have no idea what an actual ending looks like - most of these suckers wouldn’t survive a day down in crime alley.

they don't know the sound of a lung collapsing or the heavy smell of blood pooling on the floor.

and they they flock to you like sheep looking for a shepherd, basically begging for a scrap of your attention just so they can feel important - you don't even think that it's because you're you - its the damn wayne name.

currently, you're posted up against a locker, watching a trio of freshmen scurry past, their eyes darting to your boots before they quickly look away, their posture stiffening with that familiar dread.

you know exactly what they’re thinking. they’re terrified of your group, terrified of the loud, cruel comments that your crowd spits out like venom. even though they’re just words.

you don't even have to say a word to make them sweat.

louis leans against the locker next to yours, his shoulder blades digging into the metal, his fingers restlessly snapping a rubber band against his wrist.

smack. smack. smack.

he’s staring at the exact same freshmen, a thin, crooked grin stretching his face until his cheeks bunch up.

fucking nutcase.

you let out a slow, quiet breath through your nose, your fingers curling around the straps of your backpack.

you don't hate these kids, hate takes too much effort. you just feel an immense, crushing boredom when you look at them and dislike.

most people, you find, are fucking idiots. they wander through these halls with their eyes wide open and see absolutely nothing.

a few months into the mind-numbing routine of eighth grade, the grandfather clock isn't the one opening wide - the front doors are.

you’re standing on the second-floor landing, looking down into the foyer through the marble balustrades.

bruce is there, looking as massive and awkward as ever, his heavy coat still damp from the drizzle.

but he isn’t alone…. tucked slightly behind him is a kid with scuffed sneakers, grease under his fingernails, and a jacket three sizes too big.

jason.

your throat goes dry. jason todd. the same jason who used to help you hotwire old sedans on park row just to see if the heaters worked.

the same jason who sat on the fire escape with you while the sirens wailed blocks away.

he looks a bit older now, considering he’s fifteen you think, but he still looks the same.

you stare down at him, your jaw popping in the silence.

jason looks up. his blue eyes go wide, blowing past any street-kid guard he had. he stops dead on the marble, his mouth falling open in a disbelief filled grin. "what the hell?" he blurts out, a genuine, breathless laugh pulling at his mouth. "no way. no damn' way!"

bruce looks between the two of you, his brow furrowing, his massive shoulders tensing up.

he didn't expect this. the great detective didn't calculate that his two stray dogs used to share the same alleyway. "you two... know each other?" bruce asks, his deep voice bouncing off the high ceiling, sounding genuinely lost.

"yeah!" jason says, his voice bouncing with this sudden, frantic energy as he points up at you. "yeah, we... we go back! we used to camp out by the old bakery! what's he doing here, bruce?"

"he lives here, jason," bruce says quietly. "he's my son."

you don't say a word. you just slide your hands into your pockets, letting your head tilt to the side as you walk down the grand stairs, your boots making that dull, heavy rhythm against the carpet. you give jason a loose, normal nod. "hey, jay."

"hey!" jason shoots back, practically vibrating. he’s still staring at you like you’re some kind of miracle. and maybe you are to him. a piece of home in another kind of shit hole.

dick isn’t even around to see the mess. he packed up his bags a while ago and split for blüdhaven, throwing away the red sweater for something called nightwing. a clean break away from the big bat.

you thought maybe, just maybe, with the golden boy gone, the dinner table wouldn't feel so goddamned loud.

but then you find the real punchline.

it doesn’t take long to see the red vest and the green boots sitting on the steel table in the belly of the cave.

bruce didn't just bring jason here to feed him, he offered him the mantle.

robin.

the father who neglects you, the guy who barely has three minutes to ask about your school before cutting you off for a board meeting, went out and adopted another stray - and then he gave him the keys to the kingdom.

it's not that you wanted to be robin, but you've been sweating on those sparring mats for three years. you've been cracking his encryption codes just to prove you could.

and he gives the suit to the kid who was stealing tires off the batmobile just yesterday?

bitter doesn't even cover it. it’s a sour taste in the back of your mouth, like chewing on pennies.

your own blood, and you're still the runner-up to whatever orphan bruce finds enticing that month.

but you don't make a scene, you don't throw a fit like dick used to do… and probably will once he finds out bruce gave another kid the robin mantle.

"you're up late," you say one night, leaning against the cold metal of the supercomputer console.

jason is sitting on the edge of the examination table, ice packed against his ribs. he looks small under the lights of the cave, but he’s still got that bright, eager look in his eyes - the happy little robin, thrilled to finally have a family, a bedroom, a real future.

jason shrugs, a grin instantly returning to his face despite the ice. "bruce wanted to go over the patrol logs again. said my footwork was getting better!" he looks at you through his messy bangs, his eyes entirely warm, entirely oblivious to the knot twisting in your stomach. "look, man. about the... the robin thing. i'm just so glad you're here. it’s like... we both made it out, y'know? we're a team."

"it's fine, jay," you cut him off gently, your voice completely flat, completely casual. you reach into your pocket and pull out an apple, taking a slow, crisp bite. "suit suits you. green’s your color."

jason lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes against the table, offering a cheerful elbow nudge to your arm. "bruce is tough, but man, he’s great. alfred’s making cookies tomorrow. you want in?"

"sure," you say, flashing him a quick, easy smile. "but hey, you're the hero now. go save the city."

you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, your face going totally dead the second your back is turned to him.

as you've said… most people are fucking idiots, but jason’s your friend.

you find yourself being able to tolerate it.

…

a whole year passes by, things shift, sliding into new grooves without anyone asking permission.

dick turns eighteen, fully detached in blüdhaven, a ghost who only shows up to fight with bruce and occasionally with you.

you were right about the circus boy - he absolutely hated seeing that green-and-red vest on someone else.

the first time dick slunk back to the manor and saw jason wearing it, he didn't even spare him a glance.

just blew past the kid like he was made of glass and something to look through.

the few times after that? he tried to be nicer, sure, but it was that heavy, exhausting kind of nice that feels like it’s being delivered from miles away.

and then there’s jason. sixteen now, legally adopted, and officially carrying the wayne name. bruce didn't waste any time with the paperwork for him.

suddenly, the alley kid is walking the expensive floors of gotham academy right beside you, wearing the same stiff navy blazer.

he tries to chill with you between classes, trailing after you like a lost puppy. it forces your hand - you have to pull away from the nasty little crowd by the lockers, distancing yourself just enough to keep the peace - louis trails after you just as much though.

so it's you, jason and louis.

you really, really don’t want to deal with an angry bruce snooping through your school files because jason reported back that you were running with degenerates.

so you play the part. you keep things smooth.

everything is seemingly going well.

until the summer night the world cracks wide open.

it’s past three in the morning when the mechanical click of the grandfather clock echoes up the stairs. you’re sitting at your desk in the dark, a circuit board split open under your fingers, waiting for him.

usually, this is the part where jason bursts in, still vibrating from the adrenaline of patrol, his voice a frantic whisper as he tells you about a chase over the rooftops or some crook he managed to trip. you usually listen, chewing on a snack, giving him a loose, lazy nod while he handles the excitement for the both of you.

but the footsteps sound wrong though. they aren't light - they aren't jasons.

they’re heavy, dragging, sounding like someone pulling a sack of wet salt across the hardwood.

and then, you hear the mechanical groan of the grandfather clock sliding open which means the batcave has been opened.

you don't stay in bed. you slip out from under the covers, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards without a sound. you don't even bother putting on shoes - instead following the trail of dried gray dust and dark drops left on the expensive rugs all the way until you reach the entrance of the batcave.

the elevator ride down into the belly of the cave is entirely silent, the iron cage rattling against the stone walls. when the gates slide open, the lights hit your eyes like a slap.

there’s no frantic typing on the batcomputer - no logs being checked like there usually would be after a patrol.

there is only bruce, still clad in the heavy, dirt-caked armor, slumped over the cold steel medical table. his cowl is tossed on the floor, looking like a dead bird.

he has his head buried in his massive, scarred hands, his shoulders shaking in a way you've never seen before. a billionaire, a protector, a bat - completely reduced to nothing.

and on the table is jason.

he looks even smaller under the harsh white lights. the yellow cape is gone, replaced by a clean white sheet that only covers him from the waist down. his chest is a disaster of purple and black bruises, skin torn away by whatever blast took him out. his face is still caked in dirt, his lips parted slightly, but nothing is coming out.

no breath, no sassy comments to your sleepy appearance - just dead weight.

you walk forward until you reach the edge of the metal table, and that’s when your breath catches. it hitches hard right in the middle of your throat, a spike that refuses to let you inhale.

because you look at him, and it’s right there. that sickeningly empty, totally numb feeling drops into your stomach like a lead weight, freezing you from the inside out.

it’s the exact same vibe - you recognize it instantly. that look and vibe your mother when she was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. or frank - that delusional piece of shit john you stabbed in the neck - when he slumped against the wall.

now jason has it too.

all dead people have this same specific, hollow vibe to them. like the soul didn't just leave, but the body itself became nothing more than a piece of discarded garbage.

he’s just a dead kid who died against a villain. there won't be any doings in his favor - maybe a few pitiful messages here and there. jason didn't die a hero. he died violent, young, and desperate.

you tell yourself right then that you knew jason would end up dead. the boy was always too soft, too nice.

he was too busy smiling about food that he never got to have in crime alley and that stupid, stupid yellow cape to realize what kind of city he was actually playing in.

you don't want to think of it anymore. you don't want to think about how jason had somehow become a brother to you, how you never wanted things to go this far.

you don't want to look at bruce breaking down next to the body, crumpling at his side like a pathetic, broken old man.

you want to think of how you will be better off now, you'll have the manor to yourself again. you want to try and remember that jason would have ended up like this sooner or later anyway.

jason had lived well, and now his time had ended.

best of all, it would be best if you just don’t think. you want to blank your mind completely. don’t remember. just leave it alone.

alfred is a few paces away, his back turned to the table. the old man is moving with stiffly, his hands trembling as he folds a long, dark piece of fabric - you think thats a burial shroud. a wooden casket sits on a low cart near the shadows, ready and waiting.

bruce finally lifts his head from his hands, his face looking entirely gray, hollowed out by a kind of grief that makes him look eighty years old. his bloodshot eyes find yours.

"i'm sorry," bruce chokes out, his deep voice cracking into a pathetic whisper that echoes off the damp stone walls. "i... i couldn't get there in time. i couldn't save him."

you don't say a single word to him. you don't offer a hug, and you don't shed a tear. you stare at the grainy profile of the laughing man with green hair plastered across the main supercomputer monitor. the joker.

"is he clean?" you ask, your voice entirely flat, completely devoid of any heat.

bruce blinks, looking lost. "what?"

"the guy who did it," you say, your eyes dropping back down to jason's cold, marble-like hand. "is he still breathing?"

bruce looks back down at his own knuckles, his jaw tightening into a hard, stubborn line even through his grief. "he's... he's in custody. the police have him."

custody. a cell. another asylum. you don't want to think about it. you don't want to think about the justice, or the rules, or the stupid heroes. you don't want to think about how many times joker has escaped from arkham - and how he will do so once again even after killing jason.

it’s better to not think at all.

"right," you mutter, your expression going completely neutral, completely blanked out. you don't look at bruce again, you don't look at jason. "let me know when the funeral is."

you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, leaving them alone in the white light. your face goes totally dead the second your back is turned to them. the itch in your knuckles is back, hotter than it’s ever been, but you force it down.

don't think. just leave.

the weeks after jason goes into the ground are just... grey.

everything is grey.

the manor feels like it’s underwater, the air thick and heavy and reeking and looking like grief. nobody talks to one another - bruce is more ghost than man, dick slinks back to blüdhaven without a word, and alfred tries to be the same as usual.

the funeral was exactly what you expected. small, miserable, and raining. of course it was fucking raining - seems like the sky was mourning poor jason too.

you stood a few paces back from the hole in the dirt, your boots sunk into the wet mud.

you watched them lower the wooden box into the earth.

jason was in there, someone you grew up alongside with. gone. just like that. just like your mother.

there’s were a few local authorities standing around under big black umbrellas - commissioner gordon was looking older than god, his coat had soaked through, he was coughing into his hand. then there was alfred, bruce, dick, and you.

on that day, you didn’t exchange a single word with any of them - not one. you stared at the dirt piling up over the wood.

dick’s shoulders were shaking under his coat, and bruce looks like a stone wall that’s about to cave in.

they’re so entirely caught up in their own grand, tragic sorrow that they don't even look your way. they don't ask how you feel - they just assume you're on the fine side because you aren't crying.

and you are fine.

you gave jason your final goodbye in the quietest part of your head.

see ya, jay.

then you turn around and walk back to the car alone.

a few months later, you meet the girl - barbara gordon.

she used to run around as batgirl before the joker put her in a wheelchair, and now she goes by oracle, doing all the tech work for bruce from behind a wall of monitors.

she wasn't at the funeral, and even though she’s been around since before jason even arrived, you just never crossed paths until now.

when she finally sees you down in the cave one afternoon, she barely pays you any mind. she just gives you this look - this tiny, pitiful little glance, the kind of look people give a three-legged dog on the street - before turning back to her screens.

you don't try interacting with her either. you don't need her pity. you don't need anyone's pity.

truth is, something inside your brain is hardening, turning into stone. you look at the news reports on the cave monitors, watching the red and blue lights flash over the latest crime scene in crime alley.

another body. another mother. another kid bleeding out in the dark while the bat is too busy brooding over a dead robin to actually fix anything and putting the same villains over and over into arkham asylum only to have them escape again and cause more deaths.

more and more you realize the world is just a meat grinder.

the strong eat the weak, and the people who try to be nice just end up six feet deep in the mud with rain pouring over their caskets.

your mom tried to be nice sometimes, and she got stuck. jason tried to be nice, and he got blown to pieces.

it’s a stupid game. the only way to not lose is to be the one holding the knife.

…

you sit at your desk at night, the room dark, the circuit boards laid out in front of you like a puzzle.

you look at your own knuckles, completely unbruised, completely clean.

it’s an insult to jason that you're still this clean. the itch isn't just a tick anymore - it's a demand. the city wants blood, the world takes whatever it wants, so why shouldn't you? if nobody is going to clean up the garbage, if the bat is just going to lock the monsters in a cell until they break out again, then the rules are broken. and when the rules are broken, you make your own.

…

the summer holidays finally hit, and the manor goes completely dead - bruce is out in the streets until dawn, and you’re out with louis.

the night air is hot, sticky, smelling like garbage as you two drift through the neon-lit cracks of the upper east side.

it’s late - past two in the morning - when you see them in the mouth of a damp alley. an old-looking bastard, heavy-set and greasy, pinning a woman against a brick wall. she’s whimpering, her fingers clawing at his chest, trying to push his massive weight off her, but the guy was too fat to be moved.

you stop. you look at them for a second and louis stops right beside you, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he waits for you to do something.

if you’d looked at louis, you'd see that small, manic grin he'd carry on his lips.

but you don’t.

you don't feel angry and you don't feel righteous. you just feel this sudden, immense weight in your chest - months, maybe even years of pent-up resentment toward this godforsaken world, all rushing to the surface at once. you think of your mom, you think of jason. and you think of bruce’s stupid cape.

you walk forward.

the man doesn't even hear you until your boot cracks against the side of his knee. he lets out a wet grunt, collapsing to the brick, and then you’re on him. you don't use the clean, disciplined forms bruce taught you in the cave.

you use raw, ugly, crime alley violence. you use your fists, your knees, your boots. you let it all out - every single punch feels like a personal repayment to gotham and the shit life she gave you.

you lose track of time, the wet thwack of your knuckles hitting meat echoing off the alley walls for what feels like hours until the man beneath you stops groaning. stops twitching and stops breathing.

you didn’t mean to kill the guy when you first walked towards him, it was on a whim.

and scarcely is it that you act on whims; scarcely do you have whims. you have always planned meticulously; obsessively, even.

when you finally stand up, wiping a smear of hot red from your cheek, the woman is long gone - she ran the second the bastard hit the ground.

louis is leaning against a rusted dumpster a few feet away. the flick of a zippo cuts through the dark, a tiny orange flame illuminating his face as he lights a cigarette. he takes a long, slow drag, blowing the smoke up toward the fire escapes, a laugh bubbling out of his throat.

"hahaha! that was intense, didn't think you to be the rageful type buddy," louis says, shaking his head as his shoulders bounce. "theatrical, even. we should probably clear out before anyone else arrives, don't you think?"

looking down at the ground and then back at louis, there isn't a sense of regret. instead, there is a strange, new feeling of being completely present and energized.

from that point on, these nocturnal activities become a regular occurrence.

it becomes a routine of tracking individuals who choose to haunt the city's shadows. there is a newfound sense of control in these moments, a feeling of finally being the one who dictates the outcome of a situation.

it had gotten to the point that to refine the approach, a new interest emerges in the aesthetics of classic horror cinema.

old slasher films and thrillers become a source of fascination for you. the focus isn't just on the action, but on the craft: the use of lighting, the way silence is used to build tension, and the psychological impact of the unknown.

they prove to be quite the good murder ideas for you and louis.

three years later and you’re seventeen, and honestly? any scrap of a moral compass you used to have has completely rotted away.

you and louis have been dropping bodies so regularly it’s basically a routine at this point. you don’t even care about only killing the "bad guys" anymore. the more blood you get on your hands, the more you realize how completely fucked everything is, so you just kill whoever you want, whenever the fuck you want, with louis right there laughing by your side as it should be.

the gcpd actually tried to put a task force on your tail for a second, but they’re incompetent idiots anyway.

and thanks to being the biological son of gotham’s greatest vigilante and richest man while being entirely, beautifully neglected, you know exactly how to dodge them.

you know the blind spots in the traffic cameras, the encryption codes, the exact way to scrub a crime scene.

bruce tried to track your work for a hot minute without knowing it was you, but it’s gotham - the guy had his hands full with the joker or the riddler or whatever other freak broke out of arkham that week.

you aren't the only killer running around these streets.

high school is a completely different game than middle school was. you aren't that quiet, off-putting kid staring holes into people from the corner anymore. you grew out of the edgy, silent-freak phase a long time ago.

you’re seventeen now. you're bigger, you look better, and you’ve learned exactly how to talk to people. you’ve got this effortless, casual charisma that makes people think you’re just a chill, popular rich kid. you’re the guy who gets invited to every party, the guy people want to sit next to in the cafeteria.

you still think most of them are absolute fucking idiots, of course. you just learned how to hide it behind a nice smile - the things a smile can get you is astonishing.

over the years, you’ve even had a few girlfriends. girls from the academy who liked the mystery or the name - but none of them ever mattered. they were boring. they’d cry over a bad grade or text you twenty times a day about some stupid drama, and you’d just get this crushing, immense boredom in your chest until you let the relationship fade out.

the only person who has actually stayed persistently by your side through all of it is louis.

louis is the only one who gets it. the only one who doesn't bore you to death.

you even entrusted him with your family’s big secret.

meanwhile, the manor has turned into some kind of twisted revolving door for traumatized orphans. new people came and went, each one more ridiculous than the last.

first was tim drake, dragged into the house just a few months after jason’s body went into the dirt.

you were frustrated about it - another shiny new replacement - but you didn't bother saying a word to bruce or the kid because they didn't talk to you either. he took the red robin mantle soon after anyways.

then there was stephanie brown, who played robin for a literal week before getting fired like an intern and taking on a new mantle.

then cassandra cain showed up working as batgirl. you don’t like her because you can't read her - the girl's unpredictable. (sometimes you wonder if that’s how people feel about you… but probably not).

and now? now you’ve got damian. your actual blood half-brother, the current and newest robin, and a total nightmare.

even dick had a whole personality change after jason died, hardening up and trying to get those damn anger issues in check, but you two still don't talk. it’s probably way too awkward for him because you're the only one who remembers his dumb teen-robin phase.

none of them are close to you. they don't try to be, and you sure don't try either.

most of them don't even live in the manor, thank goodness. the only one left is damian, and you absolutely loathe the kid. you’ve completely checked out of the family dynamic.

you stopped eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner with them months ago. you eat out of gas stations with louis or grab food in your room, and you barely ever step foot in the batcave unless you need to steal some highly specific piece of tech or data for your next hunt.

about a year ago, the rumors started bleeding out of the east end. some new freak wearing a leather jacket and a crimson mask, calling himself the red hood had it out for batman specifically.

he wasn't like the typical theatrical costumed weirdos bruce usually fights. this guy was putting bullets through skulls, taking over drug routes, and splitting the heads of the local mob bosses with zero hesitation. even bruce and the circus had trouble handling the guy.

it didn't take you long to crack the cave’s encrypted security logs and find out the truth. jason was back.

apparently, he’d been resurrected. clawed his way out of the dirt or did some weird magic pool shit - you didn't really care about the details. what mattered was that it wasn't the jason you knew. the happy kid who used to vibrate with excitement was totally gone, wiped clean. he’d gone completely mad, full of rage and venom. he was violent, unstable, and ruthless - looking exactly like the cruel, predatory older kids from crime alley that he’d spent his whole childhood trying so hard to be different from.

it’s bittersweet, really. you looked at his grainy profile on the cave monitor and you realized how much the world cracks people open. you’ve changed into a lying monster, and he’s mutated into a loud, bloody one.

even after he seemingly made peace with the bats, jason is barely ever around the manor anyway, since he hates bruce's guts now and runs his own syndicates in the slums.

but even on the rare nights he slinks into the cave to steal medical supplies or argue with the old man, you two don't talk. you’ll pass each other in the dark corridors of the basement, your eyes meeting for a split second. you don't say hey, jay, and he doesn't say your name either. you just keep walking - there’s nothing left to say to a ghost who came back wrong.

and then, the present day hits.

it’s late on a thursday night, and the quiet of the manor is completely shattered. the heavy, grinding crunch of tires on gravel echoes through the window of your dark bedroom. you look out through the glass, different cars are pulling up to the grand entrance.

a massive family reunion you weren’t invited to it seems.

the heavy thump of bass from what you recognize to be dick’s car engine is still vibrating through the manor's old foundations when you decide to head down.

usually, you wouldn't give a shit. you’d lock your door, put your headphones on, and let them play their little war games in peace. but having this many cape-wearing freaks under one roof is an anomaly. you need to know what the hell is going on, if only to make sure their stupid mission doesn't block the routes you and louis use to haul bodies across the diamond district.

you pull on a loose black hoodie, slide your hands into the front pocket, and head for the grandfather clock.

the elevator clangs open into the belly of the batcave, and the sudden silence of the cavern is loud.

the whole circus is down there it seems. bruce is hunched over the main console, his cowl pulled back.

dick is leaning against the arm of the chair, arms crossed. barbara’s van must be parked outside because she’s already plugged into the auxiliary monitors, her fingers flying across a keyboard.

stephanie and tim are huddled near the weapons racks, whispering, while damian stands on the sparring mat, looking like a pint-sized dictator.

the moment the iron gate slides open, everything freezes.

six pairs of eyes snap directly to you. it’s like watching a group of deer catch the scent of a wolf.

tim actually lets out a tiny breath, his shoulders tensing up. stephanie shifts her weight, looking deeply uncomfortable, her eyes darting to dick like she’s asking why is he here? bruce just looks tired, his heavy brow furrowing as he tracks your approach.

you don't break your stride. you stroll up to the console platform, your bare feet making no sound on the metal plating. you let your eyes drag over the whole group, a lazy smile touching your lips.

"damn," you drawl, your voice totally casual, entirely flat. "didn't realize i missed the invite to the family reunion. should i have brought dip or something?"

the silence stretches for three agonizing seconds. dick is the first one to break it, rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a dry, forced laugh.

"hey," dick says, his voice trying way too hard to sound friendly, like he’s trying to bridge a gap that’s been widening for seven years. "it’s not a reunion, kid. we’re just... we've got a long-term tactical mission that requires the whole grid. we’re gonna be staying at the manor for a while."

"all of you?" you ask, eyebrows raised as you look over at stephanie, who quickly looks down at her boots.

"yes," damian snaps from the mat, his voice dripping with his usual prep-school arrogance. "and your presence in the tactical bay is a disruption. return to your quarters."

you let out a soft, amused chuff through your nose. you don't even look at the kid. "chill out, brat. i'm just grabbing some spare ethernet cables." you reach past a stunned tim drake, plucking a coiled gray wire off the workbench with total disregard for the top-secret files laid out next to it. you look back at dick, giving him a small, empty nod. "have fun saving the world or whatever."

you turn on your heel and head straight back to the iron cage. as the elevator doors groan shut and start pulling you back up into the mansion, the heavy stone walls don't completely drown out their voices.

"...god, he gives me the creeps," stephanie’s voice echoes faintly up the shaft.

"steph, don't," dick mutters, sounding exhausted.

"she’s not wrong," tim adds quietly - you can't hear the rest of what he says.

…

back in your bedroom, you toss the ethernet cable onto your desk and flop backward onto the mattress. the house is officially a birdcage, great.

you pull out your phone, the screen blinding in the dark room, and pull up your chat with louis.

you: bro you will not believe this shit the whole circus just spawned in here

you: dick, barbara etc they’re literally moving in for a mission

louis: LMAOO

louis: are they fr moving in??

you: pretty sure, yeah

you: one of em looked like she was about to cry looking at me lol

louis: valid tbh u look like shit when u do that stare thing

louis: but wait does this mean our summer plans are bricked? i already mapped out the spot

you: nah

you: we just have to play it cleaner bud

louis: bet

louis: hmu when ur ready

seen

you close your phone and toss it to the side, yawning.

things are about to get a lot more interesting round here.

A/N: and were done!! sorry that the chapter had so much backstory and so little dialogue… before we go into the main story i wanted to give y'all a feel about the reader. this also lowkey isn't proof read so forgive any mistakes lolol. if you want to be added to the taglist, comment or reblog pls!!

[wwhysofiart]

another insta request. I actually kinda like this one I think

[tempobaekh]

i need him so bad its concerning at this point

[kasttt]

more invincible more 😈🙏

que guapooo ooooo que guapo es

[b0nesjam]

What’s 17 more years?

Back on the “most good Mark variants died trying to fight their father”

[chenniedol]

thragg is fitting in on earth pretty well

[wlilkanis]

mark and eve sketch as this image of spidey and mj

[envy-of-the-apple]

Going Method

Dark!Black Noir x reader

wc 1.9k

Summary: One day Earving leaves and a stranger comes back wearing his suit.

(implied kidnapping, non con touching, yandere, dark content, delusional behavior, i had this idea since the fourth season came out and im finally able to put it on paper so sorry if this doesnt make sense i wrote this all in 20 minutes)

You know he’s back from the dull thump right outside. 

It’s the longest he’s been gone, you muse to yourself while you hear the keys jingle through the door. A little more than a month, if you counted the days right. Usually, his missions were barely a week or two long before he was right next to you, silently staring and watching. 

You’ve been with Earving for years now. You should be used to it. And yet, it takes a while to calm down your heartbeat and settle your nerves. You silently practice your smile as his footsteps get closer and closer. 

Despite your unease, you were glad he came back. You were starting to run out of food. 

The front door gives a dull creak and heavy footsteps echo across wooden floors. You fix your hair and prepare to step out and greet him. You already know what’s about to happen. He’s going to stare and not speak and stare and stare. For the rest of the evening, you will feel eyes rake down your back and your skin and you will pretend it will be fine like always. 

You step out of the bedroom and into the living room. Earving is standing, fully masked as always, delicately holding a scarf you’d left out the day prior. He looks like he’s seeing it for the first time even though he was the one who gifted it to you. 

He jolts at your voice. 

“Welcome back–” 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

Five minutes later, you’re starting to piece together this Black Noir isn’t Earving. 

Even before he spoke, you should have seen the signs. He’s usually so quiet when he comes inside, you barely hear footsteps before he’s right next to you. He never jolts or flinches or sways. Earving’s movements are often robotic and machine-like. 

The talking however, is the biggest giveaway. 

“-So, this guy lives in some creepy-ass bunker and he also has some random living with him, too? The lack of direction in this role. I’m telling you.” 

You quietly sit on the sofa as Not-Earving paces around the living room. You hadn’t spoken, partially because you were trying to figure things out yourself and why this Not-Earving was in the role your captor once had. 

“You’re an actor?” You finally decided on. It was the first thing you pieced together from his ramblings. 

He pauses his pacing. You can feel him stare at you through the mask. Instinctively, you shift your eyes down. 

“Uh, yeah,” he finally says, seeming to calm down. “Vought hired me to replace him but…I gotta’ be honest. The more I learn about the guy, the more confused I get and–hold on do you mind if I–” 

He pulls off his mask with a relieved sigh. 

You stare. You didn’t mean to stare. You couldn’t help himself. Earving was always so secretive of his face. He never took off his mask, not even with you. Some nights, when the lights were off and you were half-asleep, you swear the face pressed into your neck was unclothed and marred on one side–like a bad burn. 

“That’s so much better,” he says. “No idea how anyone breathed in that thing. I still can’t believe they made me cover up my face. It’s the money-maker.” 

He was handsome. You couldn’t deny it. If you saw him in the street, you might have wanted to track him down and beg for his phone number. You wondered if Earving was that type of handsome. 

“Do you know what happened to him?” You ask. “To Earving, I mean.” 

He looks at you. “That’s his name?” He makes a face. “I didn’t even know he had a name. Everything about this guy is a complete mystery. No one told me why he lives in a Dojo apartment at Vought. Is he Japanese? Am I supposed to learn Japanese?” 

“It was a marketing tactic,” you find yourself saying, “Vought thought his brand would be more cohesive, with the suit and all that.” 

You used to live at the Vought apartment, in the beginning. You should have appreciated how nice you had it back then. It was a cage, just like this bunker, but you had a semblance of freedom. You would see hints of people that weren’t just your captor. The city would glow right underneath you. Earving moved you when Homelander complained about hearing you cry through the walls at night. 

Compared to the apartment, the bunker is plainer, sparser. It’s like an empty dorm that hasn’t been decorated yet. Plain and sterile and so much like Noir once acted. 

The Noir II stares at you. You fiddle with your thumbs. 

“You know a lot about this guy,” he says. “Tell me about him. What’s he like? What are his hobbies? What does he do for fun?” 

“What?” You say, dumbly. 

“I have no idea who this guy is.” He complained. “I need some type of guidance–something to know I’m doing the role justice.” 

You want to ask for his help. You want to ask him to get that chip Earving put in your neck all those years ago. You want to ask him to call the police. 

When you glance down, you see the dagger Earving liked to play with strapped right on Noir II hip. It was bloody. 

You swallow. 

“Okay. I…okay.” 

~ 

Noir II was more punctual than Earving. 

He was typically back in the evenings, unlike his predecessor, who’d often spend nights away. Perhaps it’s because Noir II wasn’t a trained assassin sent around the globe to carry out Vought’s dirty work. 

That thought gave you more relief. If he was a lot less dangerous than Earving, you shouldn’t be as afraid, then. 

Noir II was more friendly. This should be easier then, right? Noir II was constantly talking and talking, and he consistently said he got berated for it by the other Supes. He was nicer. 

Truth be told, you tried to have this discussion with him numerous times. Each time you’d try, your words would fail, your throat would simmer back in your chest. Noir II would talk about how annoying Ashley was or how he hated the newest team up and you would sit there and nod. 

A part of you tried to dismiss his avoidance of the topic as obliviousness. Maybe he genuinely didn’t realize what was happening? Maybe he didn’t know you were here against your will? He never once asked what Earving was doing keeping you down here, if you wanted to go outside. After all, it’s not like you were kept in chains or screaming for help. 

Yeah, he was just oblivious. You’d talk to him about it, today. 

You wouldn’t fumble around anymore. Tonight would be the last night you stayed in this damn bunker. 

“I really gotta’ thank you,” Noir II says later that night. “I think I’m finally reaching a breakthrough to really get this character.”

His mask was off, but he was in his usual black armor as he talked to you. You were in the kitchen, working on dinner. Earving preferred less strenuous foods. Plain, for nourishment only. Canned beans, slightly stale bread. Something he can eat and get energy from. 

Noir II liked richer foods. Some days, he’d bring home pizza or take out. He brought groceries on other days. You were able to play around with fresh fruit and vegetables rather than canned food and nearly expired bread. 

It is a nice gesture, but you want to buy your own groceries and make your own purchases. 

You want to go home. 

You steel your nerves and place down the knife. The onion rests on the cutting board, abandoned. 

“Seriously,” he continues, “Homelander hasn’t yelled at me in like…a month. That’s crazy.” 

You feign a smile. 

“I’m glad,” you respond, “I’m…happy things worked out for you.” 

He's saying something about how he finally worked things out with upper management, when you can’t hold back any longer. 

“Noir?” You ask. It felt wrong on your tongue. 

“Justin.” You speak his real name. He stills at your voice. 

You adjust your shoulder, baring your neck. 

“There’s this…chip right below my neck.” You weren’t awake when Earving put it in, but you could feel it in the weeks after. Even your body knew how foreign it was. “It shocks me if I get close to the door. Could you maybe…remove it?” 

He says nothing. For once, you’re the one rambling. 

“If you can’t, then…could you call my family? The police? Or–or maybe the people at Vought. I’ll sign as many NDAs as they want me to. I’ll never breathe a word about this. I just…I just want to leave. Please?” 

You could almost taste it on your tongue. Freedom was a door away, and Noir–Justin could make it happen for you. He wasn’t like Earving, he wasn’t like—

“Why?” 

His head was tilted like a child with idle curiosity watching an ant. 

Something dies inside your chest. Your smile becomes more forced. 

You give a helpless shrug. “I want to leave,” you finally say the words out loud, “I want to go home back to my family. I–I don’t even think they know if I’m alive. Just…” 

He cracks his neck. You can hear the pop, clear as day inside the still and silent bunker.  

“But, why?” He repeats. “Things are going so well for us right now. My career is skyrocketing. People love our act.” 

“Act?” You repeat. “But–but I’m not acting this is–” 

Kidnapping, torture, dehumanization. Whatever words you wanted to say died in your throat the moment he took his first step to you. Then another. Then another. You’re forced to press up against the counter, shrinking against him. 

He’s taller than Earving. Not by much, but it’s easier to see when he’s inches away from you like this. A gloved hand–Earving’s gloves– reaches out to softly touch your face, tracing the side of your cheek. 

“Back at God U, my favorite performing arts professor had this really neat trick to get us warmed up. He told us to have a thing that kept us grounded, but something your character would also keep. It could be an eraser, an action figure. I think for me…that thing is you.” 

Your vision blurred, but you think he started to smile. 

“I think you were that thing to him, too. I mean, why else would he keep you? This shithole has nothing but a few drawings and then..you. That’s got to mean something, right? I think it does.” 

You can hear your heartbeat. It pounds through his ears. You wonder if he can hear it too. You wonder if he can see every emotion flickering through your eyes as you silently plead him to let you go. 

“I think I’m starting to get it now.” Fingers trace down to your throat. A thumb pressure just below where the chip would be. “I think…I’m really starting to get it.” 

There’s a hitched breath before he’s turning away. He shakes his head with a laugh. You remain in your position, curled up in the counter as you stare at him. 

“Fuck.” He curses, but he doesn’t sound upset. “We messed up the scene.” 

“The scene…?” You ask, warily. 

“I’m not supposed to speak, remember?” He reminds you. “And you aren’t supposed to call me that name.” 

Black Noir dons his mask, straightening it across his face. He backs away. 

“Okay,” he says, “We’re gonna redo that part

This time, let’s remember our lines.” 

[ymirxex]

IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE (Reader x Mark¡Variants) ⁰²

warnings: blood, possessive and obsessive traits, emotional blackmail, kidnapping, inappropriate language.

summary: You're just Mark's forgotten human friend, left aside after his life turned upside down. But was that really all you were in the main universe, and what about in others?

author's notes: Hi everyone, how are you? I hope you're all well! Here's another chapter, this one was rewritten twice because I accidentally deleted it lol... wow, I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 01

❝ YOUR EYES ❪ COLOR ❫ widen as you try to process the scene in front of you. The sight of two Marks (or Invincible) leaves your mind slightly hazy, as if that couldn’t possibly be real.

As if it were just some kind of sick joke. You try to back away from the situation, but the white-suited Mark is faster, his arms sliding around your waist until he grips your hips with extreme force:

That Mark Without Lenses laughs, his dark eyes devouring your face as if you were a work of art ── his pupils dilate, licking his lips:

"Oh," he laughs. "I see you had the same idea as me, Mark," the Mark Without Lenses exclaims, landing atop the debris of the broken wall. Your dorm room had turned into pure chaos, everything shattered, scattered, and covered in dust. "After all... we’re the same person, with the same goal in the end, aren’t we?"

"Shut up," Mark snaps, grinding his teeth. You try to break free from his grip, but his hold is firm, as if he refuses to let you go. "Stay still," he says with unusual seriousness.

"Oh, so you didn’t tell her?" the Mark Without Lenses approaches, laughing mockingly. "You know we’re not the only ones who had this idea... it’s only a matter of time before all the others show up," he smiles maliciously. "And when that happens, the real war will begin."

"Others?" you ask, confused. Your eyes widen as you feel the white-suited Mark tense beside you.

"It doesn’t matter." Mark’s grip tightens painfully on your hip, making you gasp. "I’ll kill them all, without exception. Anyone who lays a hand on my woman will die." He says it so casually it sends chills down your spine.

"My woman?" the other Mark mocks. "You’re stealing from another Mark and still calling her yours?" He bursts out laughing. "How arrogant, Mark Viltrum," the smug grin on his lips is terrifying.

Suddenly, he stops, staring at you as if you were nothing more than prey:

"Sweetheart... close your eyes, I don’t want you to see so much violence... yet." And in an instant, using his super speed, the one without lenses lunges at the other Mark, raising his fists.

Mark Viltrum shoves you aside, and you stumble, falling hard onto the ground. The scene before you is terrifying ── the two colliding, blows clashing as Mark Viltrum blocks with precision.

And the building trembles.

Your breathing becomes uneven as you scramble to your feet in panic. From the corner of your eye, you catch the moment Mark Viltrum lands a punch on the other, making him spit blood... yet he laughs.

And groans. Asking for more.

It’s sickening, and you quickly back away, your steps unsteady, dust rising around you. Taking advantage of the moment when neither of them is paying attention to you, too consumed in a fight that seems endless.

The hallway is empty, and with every strike, the building shakes.

Your mind races as your body pushes toward the emergency stairs ── there’s no way you’d take the elevator in a situation like this.

Who were those two? And why did they look so much like Mark?

You try not to dwell on it, especially not on the fact that there were others. Other Marks? Other copies? And why were they coming after you? Where was the real Mark in all of this?

He definitely wasn’t worried about you. He probably didn’t even know his identity was being stolen by idiots with his same face, voice, and body.

Your steps are desperate as you rush down the stairs from the 7th floor toward the ground level. The building shakes like jelly, the walls starting to crack apart.

Your eyes lock onto the number: 4th floor. You were close. Just a bit more and you’d reach the ground floor, finally escaping this nightmare.

Your steps halt when you notice a man standing at the bottom of the fourth-floor staircase. Tall, slightly muscular, wearing a black and blue suit that covers his entire body, along with a mask.

You freeze halfway on the stairs, your hands trembling as you realize he stopped as well, his shoulders tense as he speaks quickly:

"I’m not here to hurt you," he says calmly. "I came to help you... I won’t hurt you like the others." His voice sounds like Mark’s, though slightly muffled by the mask.

The masked man steps closer ── or tries to ── because you immediately step back, slipping and falling onto the step behind you:

"DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!" you shout, eyes wide. He raises his hands in surrender:

"I won’t hurt you," he repeats gently, using the same tone Mark always used with you in tense moments. "I’m not like them... I just want to take care of you."

His shoulders tense even more when he sees how scared and withdrawn you are:

"I miss you," he begins, his voice dropping. "In my universe, you were killed by Omni-Man... and..." He swallows hard, as if on the verge of tears. "But I won’t let the same mistake happen twice... I won’t let anyone hurt you."

Your brows furrow:

"What the hell are you talking about?!" you snap, standing up and gripping the railing. He steps closer again, and you retreat further.

"I’ll protect my mother... and you..." He moves toward you, his steps heavier now. Your eyes widen, your breathing quickens, and you think you’re about to be kidnapped again by some lunatic.

But then the building shakes violently, the structure cracking. Pieces of concrete begin to fall, and you shut your eyes tightly, bracing for impact.

You feel hands grabbing your waist, pulling you away. Your eyes try to focus on something, but the dust—along with something that feels like fabric completely covering you—keeps you from seeing anything.

You stifle a breath, your hands pressing against a strong chest. The wind brushes softly against your face, and panic begins to rise as you try to kick whatever is holding you.

And suddenly, clarity returns to your vision—slowly, you look at the strong arms holding you, noticing the chaos surrounding the campus.

Destruction. The college buildings were ruined, but your building was now reduced to nothing—blocks of concrete where you had once spent so much time.

Your eyes widen in confusion, and you swallow hard as you realize you're in someone’s arms, being carried through the air.

Shit.

Your head quickly turns to the side, your expression shifting when you notice another guy who looks like Mark—but wearing a mask and a pathetically red-and-white uniform.

With Omni-Man’s symbol.

Omni-Man.

Your brain short-circuits, registering those last words. Your arms struggle weakly against the muscular chest, light tears forming in your eyes:

“LET ME GO!” you shout, but that “hero” doesn’t obey. His hands tighten around your waist, as if reminding you who’s in control.

“Don’t be rude,” he says, his voice once again similar to Mark’s, making your stomach twist. “I’m the one in charge here…” His grip becomes firmer. “Maybe I should remind you who you belong to.”

GDA HOSPITAL

Amid all the chaos, Mark stands beside Eve—who lies unconscious in bed, her leg broken, in a light coma.

The world outside was falling apart.

Several variants causing destruction beyond anything seen before. All thanks to Angstrom, who seemed extremely amused watching this dimension crumble into ashes.

Cecil enters the room alongside Donald, who carries a tablet in his hands.

The older man crosses his arms, sighing:

“Mark.” His voice echoes through the room, where only the beeping of Eve’s vital monitors can be heard. “You should be out there, helping other heroes who are dying because of pathetic copies of you.”

“I’m not leaving,” he snaps, clearly frustrated, looking at Eve. “I can’t leave her here alone.”

“She’s in one of the most guarded hospitals… It’s unlikely your variants will find us here,” Cecil explains, while Donald starts scrolling through something on his tablet.

“No.” Mark growls. “I won’t.”

“Your mother, your friends… would you let the world fall into chaos? When Eve is stable?” Cecil presses, growing irritated. “You’re our only available weapon against those monsters.”

“No,” Mark growls again, refusing to look at him.

Silence falls, and Cecil sighs, glancing at Donald, who seems to understand immediately.

Images of destruction project from Donald’s tablet. The college campus… your campus.

It’s like something snaps inside Mark as he sees it.

“We deployed small drones across Chicago… the situation is bad,” Cecil begins, arms crossed. “They left the big cities and came here.”

“There are 25 more heading there… Some were killed, others intercepted… but—” Donald pauses. “They all have one thing in common.”

Mark freezes, letting Eve’s hand slip from his fingers as he stands abruptly, though still tense.

“What?”

“❪ name ❫.”

The silence that follows is terrifying. Cecil knows he’s hit a nerve.

He inhales deeply, adjusting his tie as the image zooms in—you, struggling in Omni-Mark’s arms.

“And there are more heat signatures heading there…” Donald continues. “They probably want something from her, since they haven’t hurt her—and are even fighting each other.”

Mark goes still, eyes locked on the projection. You—defenseless—while Omni-Mark holds you with possessive force.

He feels it. He notices the way the other Marks are looking at you… at what is his.

“I figured you’d want to know that… your childhood sweetheart is in the hands of those maniacs, and she could—”

Cecil is cut off when Mark grabs him by the collar.

“Where… where is she?!” he demands, rage rising through him. He looks like a different man now, almost shaking, fists clenched.

“University campus in C-Chicago!” Cecil answers quickly.

Mark releases him, grabbing his mask from the counter and putting it on.

As he’s about to leave, he glances once more at the projection—at you—and feels a burning urge to destroy that pathetic version of himself.

But the image suddenly glitches and disappears.

“Someone must’ve… taken out our surveillance drone,” Donald says.

Mark clenches his jaw and leaps out the window, flying toward the campus.

Without looking at Donald.

Without looking at Cecil.

Without looking at Eve.

Without looking back.

Flying toward you.

Because he’s tired of pretending that staying away from you was enough.

Tired of pretending that becoming a side character in your life was the right choice—that you’d be safe.

But he was wrong.

Because leaving you alone was enough for dozens of versions of him to come after you—to claim you, to kidnap you, or worse.

He wouldn’t let you slip through his fingers again.

That Mark—this version—would not lose.

He wouldn’t leave you again.

He would run, fly, and kill every single one of them—

Just for you.

Only for you.

[tunaem-72]

im so scared.

[acheronlovely]

OH MY GAIABJAKHAJABANJ

[minichupikkk]

My favourite variant is def mohawk

[yoijin]

Spider-man shiesty mark... doesn't really work but one can dream. I hate his dumbass btw

Yes WE all gonna ignore the white space and lack of creativity in his suit aight 😂😂😂🥀🥀🥀🥀💧💧

[totallynotrey]

Beard Mark kinda 👀

[invincifishhh-deactivated202605]

Ohhhhhh Shayla imma miss that blueberry suit

[invincifishhh-deactivated202605]

Bingus brings me joy