Reader that stuck in a timeloop for hundreds or thousands times..
Every time you die, the world resets, and you awaken again at the beginning of the same life, as if nothing had ever happened. Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Lived and death.
After a while, the memories became too much.
Too many voices, too many faces, too many endings layered on top of each other. It became exhausting to carry them all, to remember every mistake, every death, every life that had never truly lasted, suffocating in a way you couldn’t escape.
Letting them blur into something distant and meaningless.
It was easier that way, easier to move forward if you simply left everything behind and treated each new life like a blank page. Cause remembering everything would have driven anyone mad.
The first time it happened, you didn’t realize anything was wrong.
It felt like waking up in your room just like any other day. You got up, ate breakfast, saw your family, went through the usual routines, and eventually went back to sleep. Life simply continued without any strange premonition. A few moments felt oddly familiar, like you had already seen them before, but you brushed the feeling aside—it didn’t make sense, so it couldn’t be real.
And then you died.
End...
The second and third times left behind something stranger: a lingering sense of familiarity you couldn’t quite explain. Certain moments made you pause, confusion settling in your chest as if something was trying to surface from your mind but never fully did. You frowned slightly, whispering to yourself,
“Hasn’t this already happened…? Or am I just imagining things?”
You wake again, stiff and disoriented, lying in your room with eyes slowly opening, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling comes into focus first, then the familiar creak from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds. Gotham looks exactly the same as it always does.
By the sixth time, the feeling became impossible to ignore.
Something about the world felt too rehearsed, too familiar—like a story repeating itself while pretending it was new. Confusion slowly crept in as you began to notice things unfolding exactly the way you expected, even though you had no memory of learning them. The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“What… is happening right now?”
Things that 'should not exist' appeared again. A fallen tree you had watched collapse days before now stood tall and unmoving, as if it had never touched the ground. Graves you were certain had been there, names carved into cold stone, dirt still fresh—were suddenly gone, leaving nothing but smooth earth behind.
And the people…
The ones you knew had died were suddenly standing in front of you again.
The ones who had died.
The ones you had watched die.
The ones you had killed.
They stood there like nothing had ever happened, speaking, breathing, living their lives as if the world had never broken in the first place.
Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Again, again, and again..
________________________________________
Life kept repeating itself, 'again'.
It had happened so many times that eventually, you started to do things differently. Small changes at first, then bigger, more reckless ones.
In the haze of confusion, you chose different paths, made different decisions, disobeyed orders you had never dared to question before. Sometimes you left without explanation, disappearing for hours or days, only to return with no clear reason even you could understand.
And each time, the world felt the same… yet somehow, nothing was ever quite the same.
Sometimes, your family noticed.
More than once, they stopped you with worried expressions, their voices edged with confusion—sometimes even frustration. You would act strangely without explanation, leaving and returning at odd times, making choices that didn’t make sense to anyone but you.
Dick was usually the first to approach you, his brows drawn together in concern. “Hey… what’s going on with you lately?” he would ask, clearly trying to keep his voice gentle, like he was hoping you’d open up if he didn’t push too hard.
But it was obvious that your behavior was starting to trouble him too. The careful tone didn’t quite hide the tension in his expression, the way his eyes searched your face a little too closely, like he was trying to read something you refused to say out loud.
Other times, the concern turned sharper.
Jason would cross his arms, irritation clear in his voice. “You’re acting weird,” he’d say bluntly. “You gonna explain, or are we just supposed to guess what your problem is?”
Even Bruce had stopped you more than once, his voice low but firm.
“What’s going on?”
But every time they asked, you found yourself hesitating.
Because the truth was… you weren’t sure what was happening either.
'Were you just exhausted ? Had all of this finally caught up to you? Or were you slowly losing your mind?'
You had asked yourself that question more times than you could count. Was this some kind of curse, karma for something you didn’t remember doing or was it meant to be a gift? An opportunity. A second chance (??) repeated endlessly.
At some point, the answer stopped mattering.
________________________________________
More than once, in those countless lives, you tried to end it yourself.
Sometimes it came from frustration an unbearable weight pressing against your chest after realizing the cycle would not stop, no matter what.
You wake with a jolt, sitting up immediately and ignoring the sharp headache pounding behind your temples.
'No… not again… please…',
The thought rushes through your mind as panic claws its way up your chest, your eyes darting quickly around the room as if searching for something. Anything. Different.
Then you hear it. Creeeak… creak.
The familiar sound of the window frame shifting in the wind. Your gaze slowly drifts toward it, dread already settling heavily in your stomach.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds, exactly the same as it always is. Just like every other time.
A humorless laugh escapes you as your shoulders sag slightly, frustration twisting in your chest. “Of course,” you mutter bitterly under your breath, staring at the window with growing disgust. “Of course it’s the same again.”
Your hand reaches toward the nightstand without hesitation, fingers already curling around the handle of your weapon. The motion feels automatic now, almost routine.
You don’t even sit up.
The gun lifts slightly.
A breath. A pause.
And then, Dark.
...>>>
Other times it happened randomly, like a quiet experiment you carried out just to see if anything would finally change.
You experimented with things you normally wouldn’t touch—mixing strange compounds together, studying poisons, even testing venom from creatures that should have never been near your hands.
More often than not, you became your own test subject.
Stupidly… you didn’t stop there.
There were lives where you invited others—family, guests, friends, anyone who had simply happened to be there that day. The dining table would be set like any other evening, plates neatly arranged, glasses filled, conversation drifting casually through the room.
And somewhere in the meal… the poison would be waiting.
The endings were never quite the same.
Sometimes everyone drank. Sometimes someone arrived late.
They would stood frozen in the doorway of the dining room, watching in silent horror as bodies slowly collapsed around the table, one after another—until the room fell into a terrible stillness.
And in the middle of it all, you would still be sitting there.
Watching them.
Waiting.
Your eyes would lift toward the lone figure in the doorway as you raised the final glass to your lips, the same quiet mixture already swirling inside.
A small, tired breath leaving your chest.
Then you drank.
And followed the others into the dark.
...>>>
There was lives where you stood on a rooftop with Dick, watching the city lights scattered beneath you like distant stars.
The night had been calm for once, patrol already finished, the air cool against your skin. Dick was leaning against the ledge beside you, talking about something trivial—maybe a mission, maybe something Jason had said earlier that day.
You barely remember.
What you do remember was laughing.
“See? That’s what I’ve been saying,” Dick said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You worry too much sometimes.”
“Maybe,” you replied, smiling faintly.
For a moment, everything felt nice..
Then you leaned back.
Dick blinked. “—Hey, wait, what are you—”
Your body tipped over the edge before he could finish.
The last thing you saw was the shock on his face as the distance between you and the rooftop widened, Gotham’s wind rushing past your ears as gravity pulled you down.
And then— You woke up again. yayyy!!!
.....
In some of them, you tried to be good, to be better.
You trained harder. Memorized the patterns of crime across Gotham City. Tried to prevent disasters before they could happen.
Sometimes you succeeded.
Sometimes you didn’t.
Because every change, even the smallest one—seemed to create a different kind of disaster somewhere else.
Saving one person meant losing another.
Stopping one tragedy caused a new one to appear somewhere you hadn’t predicted.
.....
You have saved the city.
You have also destroyed it.
You have rebuilt entire parts of Gotham’s criminal network just to understand how it functioned from the inside.
You have dismantled those same networks piece by piece in other lives.
You have been someone your family trusted.
And someone they hunted.
.....
There were loops where Jason killed you.
Loops where you killed him first.
There were countless lives where you and Damian fought until only one of you walked away. Most of the time, he won. A few times, you were the one left standing, and in some of those lives… neither of you won.
Loops where Tim holding your hand while your breathing slowly faded.
His fingers were always warm, gripping yours a little too tightly, like if he held on hard enough he could keep you here. In those moments he rarely spoke, only watching you with tired, frantic eyes, as if searching for something he could fix.
And in more than one life, those memories stayed vivid.
There were lives where Bruce had carried you through the night.
His arms were locked tightly around you as he ran across Gotham’s rooftops, cape snapping violently behind him. His grip was desperate, almost painful, as he kept telling you to stay awake, to keep your eyes open, his voice low and rough in a way you had rarely heard before.
Pressed against his chest, you could hear it clearly—the rapid pounding of his heartbeat, racing in frantic rhythm, as if sheer will alone could keep you alive.
“Please… just stay with me.”
Your vision blurred, the lights of Gotham smearing into soft streaks of color as the pain in your chest grew heavier with every breath.
“Dad…” your voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. It hurt to speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”
And every time, the darkness came anyway.
________________________________________
The first breath
always feels like drowning in reverse, lungs that were flat forced to expand, a heart that had gone cold suddenly forced to beat again, a world that had gone dark flooding back with color.
It leaves you disoriented for a moment, eyes searching your surroundings while the memory of your last death still lingers vividly in your mind. 'Was it just a nightmare… or had you died again?'
Every time.
The same sharp inhale, the same moment of confusion before awareness slowly settles in.
Until you recognize the pattern.
Until you realize, You’re alive again.
The ceiling of your room comes into focus first, followed by the familiar creaking from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.
'Wait… the creaking?'
You freeze, trying to catch it again. Nothing. Silence. In every life, every loop, that faint squeak always welcomed you awake, a small but stubborn proof that the world hadn’t yet fully reset. And now… nothing.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray with clouds. Wayne Manor looks exactly the same as it always does. The corridors stretch in their familiar way, the portraits lining the halls staring down at you with that same quiet judgment.
Everything is exactly as it should be—and yet something is off.
You start the day as usual, walking down the halls of the manor. The clock shows it’s already past noon. Gray clouds hang low over the estate, casting familiar comfort, in a strange way.
Heading toward the dining room, you see Tim sitting in the same position he always does in every life you’ve lived.
Though… somehow, he seems different. Something in the way he holds himself, the tension in his shoulders, makes him feel more… unsettled than usual.
Your eyes drift to the table. Some utensils and tools are scattered there. 'Wait, this shouldn’t be here. It’s usually just Tim alone.'
Tim catches your gaze and his eyes flick to the tools, then back to you. “Bruce finally fixed your window,” he says briefly.
“Huh… really? Finally, after all this time…” you reply, a little awkwardly. Then you tilt your head toward him, concern rising. “Are you… okay? Was your mission… rough?”
His eyes lock on yours, unblinking, unnervingly still. “…I… keep having nightmares,” he whispers, the raw, almost pleading weight in his voice catching your attention.
“Nightmares?”
Tim looks away, jaw tight, hesitating as if the words themselves could break something. “…Ah, forget it, Reader,” he murmurs finally, though Tim tries to shake it off, the echoes are already reaching others.
________________________________________
Dick is in Blüdhaven when the dreams begin,
Patrols, late nights, brief pauses of sleep, they blur together, but the dreams keep coming. In them, Gotham is different: quiet, almost hopeful, a city he barely recognizes but wishes could exist. And you are there, standing beside him on rooftops, leaning against the stone like this exact moment has happened a hundred times before.
“You ever think the city might actually stay like this?” he asks lightly in the dream, watching warm sunlight spill across the streets.
You glance down at Gotham, calm as always. “hum.. I am not sure, nothing stays good here. But it’s nice enough for now.”
For a heartbeat, it feels familiar. Comfortable. The two of you have shared years of nights together, moving across rooftops and streets.
Dick remembers laughing at you, remembers the strange certainty of it. And then it shifts.
The light dims.
The wind bites colder.
The edges of the city feel sharper.
You stumble backward, losing your balance.
Your body tips over the edge, falling headfirst.
He lunges forward, hands outstretched, but it’s too late.
Your body hits the ground with a sickening crack.
“Hey—Hey, stay with me", he says, dropping to his knees beside you. Panic coils in his chest, tight and raw. "Reader!”
You try to respond, but no words come. Your body collapses, sound echoing too loudly, impossibly, across the quiet of the night. Every detail is vivid, burning into his memory even as he knows it isn’t real.
Dick jolts awake in his apartment, chest heaving, eyes wide. The ceiling stares back at him, ordinary and unchanging, but his hands tremble as they rest on the sheets. He can still feel the weight of your body against him, hear the echo of your fall.
For a moment, the noise of the city outside fades. He clutches at the fragments of the dream, the feeling of loss, the unnatural perfection of it.
Then reality drags him back, the apartment, the faint hum of traffic, the knowledge that you are far away, somewhere in Gotham, probably still asleep or wandering the halls half-aware.
“A dream,” he mutters, voice rough, running a hand through his hair. “Just a dream.”
But even as he forces himself up, he knows it won’t be the last.
......
Jason’s dreams are harsh.
Gotham burns from end to end, smoke curling between shattered buildings, sirens wailing in the distance like they’re useless echoes. Jason moves through the chaos, weapon drawn, muscles taut, heart pounding. The city feels wrong, alive and heavy, as if it’s breathing fire.
At the center of it all, you stand. Calm, relaxed, looking at him lazily.
“Really?” Jason snaps, irritation slicing through the chaos. “You’re behind this?”
You tilt your head, watching him like this confrontation has already played out a hundred times before. “Depends how you look at it.”
Jason fires first.
The fight is fast, brutal, and precise. Every strike he throws, every step he takes, seems predicted—like you’ve already lived through this moment before. Pain ricochets through him, adrenaline and disbelief mixing in a bitter taste at the back of his throat.
“You’re not walking away from this,” he growls, raising his weapon again.
A faint smile curls at your lips, and then a laugh slips out. It grows—longer, louder, harsher—echoing across the burning streets of the dream. You laugh for so long that you eventually have to pause, drawing a slow breath while your eyes remain fixed on him.
“I know. I fucking know,” you whisper, your voice tight, almost trembling with exhaustion. “You’ve said that before.”
This time the laugh that follows is smaller, quieter, your gaze drifting away from him as if the moment itself has already lost its meaning.
Gunfire cracks through the air. A single shot.
And your voice fades, slowly, until it disappears completely.
Dead silence.
Jason doesn’t see you collapse, he refuse to rise his head.
He’s the one trying to steady his breathing now, chest rising and falling as the gun slips from his hand and clatters against the pavement. Only after a moment does he finally glance down at the body lying in front of him.
The words hang in the smoke-choked air, heavier than any gunfire, heavier than the city collapsing around you. Jason freezes, heart hammering, trapped in the memory of it even as the dream begins to dissolve.
Jason wakes with a start, the dim light of the safehouse sharp in contrast to the heat and smoke still lingering in his chest. He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, trying to shake the echo of the words, the clash, the weight of you in that burning city.
“Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath, forcing the memory into the corners of his mind.
'You’re probably in the Manor right now', he thinks, trying to push the dream out of his head. 'Wandering through the kitchen, arguing about something stupid, laughing with someone like nothing’s wrong.'
And yet the dream refuses to release him. The idea of that the version of you in his nightmares could never exist. Yeah.. that is impossible.
......
Tim’s dreams come in fragments.
One night he’s in the Batcave, watching you stand before a wall of screens. Data scrolls endlessly—crime reports, patrol routes, surveillance feeds—all moving in precise, chilling coordination under your direction.
“You’ve mapped the whole network?” Tim asks, leaning closer, heart racing despite the calm in the scene.
You don’t look up. “Every supply line, every front business, every backup location. They’ll collapse within a month.”
Tim studies the projections, admiration mixing with unease. “You’re dismantling half the city’s crime in four weeks.”
“Three,” you correct, voice flat, precise, too certain.
Another dream replaces it the following night.
The room is dim and filled with candles, shadows stretching across the walls while people kneel around your silent, faces pale and empty, eyes wide as if carved into devotion.
The air is thick, heavy, scented with wax, iron, something rotting beneath it. Their attention never wavers as you speak softly about cycles and inevitability.
One of them whispers, almost reverently, “What happens after the city falls?”
You look down at them with an unreadable expression.
“We start again.”
Tim wakes from that one with a slight frown, the words lingering in his head longer than they should. Was that.. a cult??
......
Damian is still with the League when his dreams begin.
His dreams are violent, fragmented, and disturbingly familiar.
Over and over, he sees the same ruined courtyard outside the league, broken stone, dust hanging thick in the air, the smell of smoke and iron biting at his nostrils. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the cracked walls, moving like they have minds of their own.
Someone stands across from him, weapon in hand. At first, he thinks it might be a League operative or maybe one of the assassins, the followers, the children of death he once struck down, manifesting here in a shape he cannot fully recognize.
The battles always end the same way. Damian wins.
Sometimes it’s quick—a precise strike, sending them to the ground. Other times, the fight drags on, blows exchanged in brutal rhythm, each movement answered perfectly. Both of them bleed, both exhausted, and still Damian lands the final strike.
Each time, they die.
Again. And again. And again.
Sometimes the dream changes.
The courtyard looks the same—ruined, silent, dust drifting slowly through the air. Both of them are breathing hard now, weapons raised, sweat and blood mixing with the grit beneath their feet.
Damian moves for the finals strike, certain the ending will be the same as always.
But, they slip out of the way with surprising speed, stumbling back a few steps. Their breathing is uneven, almost reckless, and the way they look at him is sharp, angry.
Annoyed.
Their expression twists as they glare at him, at the situation itself, at the endless repetition, the same fight, the same ending played over and over again.
Their hands tremble faintly around the weapon, chest rising and falling too fast, as though they are exhausted by everything that keep repeating.
They drive their own blade straight through their chest.
No hesitation. Just a quick, deliberate motion.
The body drops backward onto the broken stone, the weight of the fall forcing the blade deeper.
Damian takes step back, watching the figure collapse onto the ground. His hands twitch slightly, but he does nothing.
He simply stands there, staring at the body.
For the first time since these dreams began, tthe ending changes.
And then he wakes.
Cold sweat clings to his skin, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Years of League training should have steadied him, should have forced his breathing back into control within seconds—but for a moment, it all feels useless.
He sits up slowly in the darkness, staring into the shadowed corners of his room, listening to the familiar, mundane sounds of the League quarters. Stone walls. Quiet footsteps somewhere in the distance. The faint whisper of wind through the narrow windows.
He exhales sharply and forces the thoughts away.
'They are dreams. Nothing more.'
And soon enough, they stop.
Or at least… he convinces himself they do.
So when Damian finally arrives in Gotham for the first time and steps into Manor, those dreams are already buried somewhere in the back of his mind—filed away and dismissed like irrelevant noise.
The front doors open with a low creak as Bruce leads him inside.
They’ve barely stepped past the threshold when footsteps echo from deeper inside the manor.
Someone is already approaching the entrance.
You appear a moment later, walking toward the door with the casual familiarity of someone who has crossed this hall a thousand times before. Your gaze flicks toward them briefly.
You slow slightly when you notice Bruce and the unfamiliar boy standing beside him, but only for a moment. You make no move to introduce yourself, offering them nothing more than a brief glance before turning back toward the door.
Then you continue walking.
“I’m heading out for a bit, Dad. I’ll be back before dinner.”
You don’t wait for an answer. With an easy motion, you step past them, pushing the door open and slipping outside.
The door closes softly behind you.
For a moment, Damian doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on the space where you had just been standing.
Bruce is the first to notice the silence. After a brief pause, he speaks calmly.
“That was Reader,” Bruce says. “Your sibling.”
Oh. So those nightmares he had tried so hard to forget come rushing back all at once.
As Damian’s gaze drifts across the manor, the images from those dreams begin to overlap with reality—the courtyard he remembers seeing stained with your blood more times than he can count.
The dining room further down the hall, where in one of those dreams, he watched you quietly lift a glass to your lips before collapsing moments later, poisoned… or perhaps choosing to drink it yourself. The memories slam back into place with unsettling clarity, and a quiet realization settles in his chest.
Something here is very, very wrong.
________________________________________
“Ayah.. aku capek banget”, Bruce menggenggammu erat, memohon agar kau tetap bersamanya, "Nak.. ya tuhan.."
Agak kaget karena di shopee katanya paket sampai tanggal 31. Jadi pas bangun tidur siang langsung jrenggg ada pakett!! Agak nyesel karena cuman beli segini huhuhuu.. harusnya aku CO lebih banyak lagik.
IF youre Indonesian, mungkin kamu mau ikut PO Fatson Todd doll. Aku baru Nemu di Twitter.
Cold wind cuts across Gotham’s rooftops. Sharp. Relentless.
The city glows far below, neon and distant, while the two of you crouch on the edge of a building that’s been painfully quiet for too long.
Your wings are folded tight against your back. You haven’t stretched them once tonight.
“I’m bored,” Jason mutters, shifting his weight. “Hey, kid. Why don’t you fly around for a bit? Might shake off the sleepiness.”
You glance at him sideways. “Dad said I’m not allowed to fly outside the manor’s airspace.”
Jason snorts. “Just for a bit. It’s fine.”
You shake your head immediately. “Nope. Not happening. I’m not brave enough and i am not risking it. You know what Dad said.”
He turns fully toward you, offended on purpose, thumbing his chest. “Not brave why? You don’t trust your big brother?”
You give him a long, unimpressed look. Completely flat. “I don’t.”
Jason throws his hands up dramatically. “Wow. That’s mean, you know that?” He complains. “So cruel to your own big brother.”
You click your tongue and look back out at the sky. “Meh.”
Jason scoffs, but there’s a smile in his voice when he mutters something under his breath. The wind howls again, cold as ever. But the boredom feels lighter now, stretched thin between banter and the quiet comfort of not flying.
Then suddenly, a hands on your back.
The world drops.
“JASON—”
He throws you straight into the air.
Cold rushes up to meet you, the wind slamming into your chest as pure instinct takes over. Your wings snap open with a sharp WHUMP, feathers exploding outward as you flap hard—panicked, clumsy, anything but graceful.
“YOU IDIOT—!!” you scream, your voice tearing through the night sky.
Below you, Jason is doubled over laughing on the rooftop. “HEY! You’re flying, aren’t you? See? Totally fine!”
You hover shakily, wings beating far harder than necessary, heart trying to escape your ribs. “I SWEAR WHEN I LAND—”
“Hey, hey, relax,” he calls up, laughing. “You’re doing great! See? Born for it.”
You glare down at him from the sky, feathers trembling. “I’m telling Alfred about this.”
Jason freezes. “—Wow. Low blow, kid. That’s just not fun.”
Jason just laughs louder, Gotham’s lights reflecting off his helmet, while you stay airborne—furious, alive, and very much flying.
__________________________________
draft
lagi patrol di atas atap. bosan ngantuk. dingin.
jason: dek, kau coba terbang bentar. suntuk kali ku rasa
reader: tapi kata bapak nggak boleh terbang diluar area manor lho bang.
jason: bentar ajaa, aman ituu
reader: nggak lah bang, nggak berani aku.
jason: nggak berani kenapa? nggak percaya kau sama abang mu ini? (ujar jason sambil memamerkan dirinya)
reader melihat malas, "emang nggak!"
"ih jahat kali lah kau sama abang mu ni dek!"
"prett"
hal berikutnya ialah, ia melempar mu ke langit. menyebabkan kau mengepakkan sayap dengan panik. "ABANG BODOOO"
For, "Child from Somewhere", I do have plan to make 'some' Good/bad/neutral/Open ending. But… don’t you think there are already too many good endings out there? Hehehehh 😋
I honestly didn’t expect so many people to like that story. The idea actually came to me after seeing Jason Old Todd in Batman: Arkham Knight.
____________________________________
I haven’t been very active lately, and I’m not sure why.
I have so much freetimes right now, so I should have time. Back when I had classes and deadlines, I always managed to squeeze in writing somehow. Now that I finally have the time, but my mind feels stuck.
Bruce and Batman.
Bruce Wayne is Batman.
Batman and Bruce Wayne are the same person.
'how tho? they feel so different..'
Seeing your father through two different lenses feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain. One familiar, one distant. One steady, one unbearably awkward. They wear the same face, share the same voice and yet, standing before you, they feel impossibly different.
Bruce Wayne is Batman.
Batman and Bruce Wayne are the same person.
You know that. Everyone does. And yet, in your mind, they never quite become the same person.
Those two images feel profoundly different. You don't know how to explain it without sounding wrong, ungrateful, or confused. They don't overlap the way they're supposed to.
____________________________________________
“Dear father,” you stare at the words for a moment—then cross father out. not comfortable and sound weird.
“Dear, Bruce Wayne…”. No. That sounds stiff. Formal. Wrong. Who the hell write letter in this form?? Sigh, crumple the page, and reach for a fresh sheet of paper.
“Dear Batman.” That. That feels right! You add the next line carefully. "The man I look up to…"
Pause there, pen hovering just above the page, as if the words themselves carry more weight than they should.
Bruce Wayne is your father.
Or at least, the man who is meant to be. It is a truth you know in the most factual sense and yet one that never quite settles right in your chest.
Every time you face him as Bruce, you feel perpetually out of step, like standing in a room whose rules were never explained to you. Not because he is cruel. No. He is kind—but because your own awkwardness around him is so sharp it fills the space between you, louder than anything either of you says.
At home, sometimes you still see/hear him as Brucie. The easy smile. The practiced casualness. Emotions tucked neatly behind charm refined for Gotham’s eyes. He is the billionaire, the socialite, the man who inherited everything and carries it as if it weighs nothing at all.
'Is this Brucie… or Bruce Wayne?'. you wonder whenever he greets you in the manor’s hallway, voice light, steps unhurried, as if this is all effortless to him.
That version of him is the first one that settled in your mind, and now you cannot unsee it. Even when he tries to reach for you, to be your father—all you can see is the mask he shows the world. Someone effortless. Untouchable. Someone you were never meant to fully know.
When Bruce's unmasked eyes are on you, you look away first. Your shoulders tense when he stands too close. The silence stretches whenever he tries to step nearer. There is no anger in your distance, only discomfort you can't name, a wrongness that settles in your chest every time he speaks to you without the cowl.
“Reader, Are you free right now?” he asks, voice low and careful, trying to close the distance the way a father would.
You blink, caught off guard. “I—yeah. I mean. No!.” The answer comes out too fast, too thin, and you don’t know what else to add. The space between you grows heavier the longer you stand there.
“I just… I already have plans!” you say, already stepping back. You don’t wait for his response. By the time he realizes what’s happening, you’re already gone, leaving the silence behind to stretch even further than before.
Bruce had been about to say more. He remains where he is, watching the doorway long after you disappear, words left unfinished in his throat.
A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Dick stands beside him, gaze following the direction you went. “They’re still awkward around you,” he says gently. “They’ll get used to it. Give them time.”
Bruce exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hope so."
____________________________________________
You look back down at the page, at the words waiting patiently for you to continue.
Sigh. fingers around the pen. 'How am I supposed to put this into words?'. Eyes flicking back to the paper again and again, as if it might offer an answer if you stare long enough
Batman feels different.
With him, you trust without hesitation. He is clear. He is your mentor, your teacher, and also the one you turn when something is wrong and you don't know how to fix it. He demands, guides, corrects you when you fail, and does so with a precision that never leaves room for doubt.
Batman, the Dark Knight, the World's Greatest Detective, the Defender of Gotham, is never 'careless'.
Every movement is deliberate, every word weighed, every silence chosen with intent. He doesn't pretend. He doesn't perform. He simply is solid, unwavering, real in a way that your father never feels.
You cling to him—to Batman.
It’s obvious to anyone watching: the way your hand grips his cape during patrol, the way you stay close to him without a second thought. You smile around him, move more freely, lighter—and if you fall, you know he will catch you without hesitation.
With Batman, you let go of the tension, the quiet fear Gotham’s nights press into your chest. Because you know, Batman will save you. He will save anyone, no matter what.
The moment the cowl is in place, you can meet his gaze without fear. You step closer as if nothing is wrong, as if distance was never there to begin with. This is Batman and you trust him completely.
But the moment the cowl comes off, the moment Bruce's face replaces the mask, your hand loosens. You step back, the ease draining from your posture, your body going stiff as distance quietly returns.
You can’t explain why Batman feels solid while Bruce Wayne feels distant. Why the armor makes him certain, and the bare face leaves you unsure. All you know is that with Batman, your lungs fill easilyand with Bruce, they forget the rhythm.
Once you’re suited up, your feet carry you to the Batcave without hesitation. Batman is already there, standing near the platform, cape draped over his shoulders like it belongs there. The sight of him alone is enough to ease the tightness in your chest.
“B!” You hurry over, catching the edge of his cape as you reach him, anchoring yourself there instinctively.
He pauses. Just a fraction of a second.
“I’m going with you tonight,” you say, firm and hopeful all at once.
Damian exhales sharply. “Again?” he says, irritation clear. “There is a rotation. You ignore it every time.”
You barely glance at him. “I just want to go with B,” you reply, grip tightening. “You can go with Dick.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. Batman doesn’t speak yet, letting you do what you want.
____________________________________________
"I don’t know how to say this properly,
but I’m grateful that you were willing to help me."
The pen hesitates between each line, ink pooling where your hand pauses too long. You press down harder than you mean to, then ease up, as if afraid of leaving a mark you can’t take back.
"Being around you makes things feel… steadier. Like I know where to stand, what to do next. I don’t have to second-guess myself as much, or hold my breath waiting to get something wrong."
From Bruce's Perspective
He notices. Of course he does.
Bruce Wayne is the World's Greatest Detective—he notices everything. The way your hand instinctively reaches for his cape during patrol, fingers curling into the fabric as if it's the only solid thing in the world.
The way you lean into him when he corrects your stance, trusting him to guide you without question. The way you smile at Batman—small, fleeting, but real.
He's grateful for it. Truly. That trust means something to him, more than he knows how to express.
But then the cowl comes off.
And he watches you take a step back. Watches the ease drain from your posture, your shoulders drawing up, your gaze sliding away from his as if eye contact might burn. The same hands that gripped his cape moments ago now hang carefully at your sides, deliberate in their distance.
'It only happens when he's Batman', he realizes. The reaching. The trust. The closeness.
____________________________________________
As Bruce—as your father, the man he is supposed to be—he feels the distance in ways that are small but unmistakable.
You tense when he rests a hand on your shoulder. Not sharply, not enough to call it fear—just a subtle tightening, a quiet withdrawal. He pulls back before you have to ask. He always does.
At dinner, you don’t meet his eyes. Your answers are polite, brief, carefully neutral. When he asks about your day, you give him the outline of a response without any of its weight.
"It was fine." "Nothing much happened." "I'm okay."
The silence stretches between you, and he doesn’t know how to bridge it. He’s faced Gotham’s worst, stared down things that should have broken him, but this leaves him feeling helpless in a way he can’t quite name.
He tries anyway. He always tries.
“Is something wrong?” he asks one evening, after you’ve barely spoken all day.
You look up, startled, as if the question itself catches you off guard. “No. Why?”
“You seem…” He hesitates, searching for a word that won’t push you further away. “…quiet.”
“I’m fine,” you say, and the wall is back up before he can say anything else. You excuse yourself moments later, leaving him alone at the table, staring at the space you just vacated.
He asks again another time, softer. “If I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me.”
“You’re not,” you answer—quicker now, more certain. But your body has already shifted, already preparing to retreat.
Each time he reaches for you, you close off a little more. And each time, it hurts in a way he doesn’t quite know how to face—because there is no enemy here, no mistake he can clearly correct. Just distance, quiet and unresolved, growing in the space where trust should be.
____________________________________________
It confuses him more than he wants to admit. You are not like his other children, and the difference is stark enough that he can't ignore it.
Dick wears his heart on his sleeve. When Dick is angry, Bruce knows it immediately. When he’s hurt, he lashes out or pulls away, but it’s always visible, raw, unfiltered, and aimed straight at him.
They fight, they argue, they raise their voices, and eventually they sit down and talk it through. It’s messy, imperfect, but honest.
Jason is fire and fury, all sharp edges and defiance. Even at his angriest, Jason turns toward him. Every argument, every biting remark, every challenge is engagement. Jason pushes back because he cares enough to fight.
Tim explains himself, even when no one asks him to. He fills the silence with logic and analysis, walking Bruce through his thoughts as if afraid of being misunderstood. There’s an openness in that, an effort to be known, even when it’s tangled in overthinking.
And Damian.. Damian resists, but his resistance is loud, deliberate, and unmistakable. His walls are built of pride and steel, but they are visible. Bruce knows where they stand. He knows how to navigate them.
You are different.
You don't fight him.
You don't argue.
You don't try to explain yourself or demand to be understood.
You simply... retreat.
You turn inward, folding yourself into something small and quiet and unreachable, and no matter how carefully he approaches, he can't seem to find a way in.
You don't give him anger or defensiveness or even sadness. You give him nothing just polite distance and carefully constructed walls, and somehow that's worse than any fight could be.
He doesn't know how to reach someone who won't reach back.
____________________________________________
And yet.
And yet.
With Batman, you're an entirely different person.
You seek him out on patrol without hesitation. You ask questions freely, without the careful restraint you keep around Bruce. You laugh sometimes—soft, surprised—when he makes a dry remark about a ridiculous villain. You lean into his corrections, trusting him to guide you, to teach you, to keep you safe.
With Batman, you are open in ways you never are with Bruce.
It's the same man. The same voice. The same presence. The only difference is the armor, the mission, the mask.
And somehow, that is the version of him you trust.
He doesn’t understand it. He’s tried, God, he’s tried. But it refuses to make sense.
Batman is the persona, the role, the thing he built for the city.
Bruce Wayne is meant to be the truth beneath it, the man without armor, the father.
But for you, it’s reversed.
The armor makes him safe. The mask makes him real. And the man underneath—your father—is the one you can’t seem to face.
The realization doesn’t come with anger or frustration. It arrives quietly, settling deep in his chest and refusing to leave. A loneliness he never expected to feel.
He never imagined that the part of himself most carefully constructed, the disguise, the symbol, would be the only part of him you would let close.
He is the same person.
____________________________________________
"I know the way I act might seem strange.
I don’t really know how I’m supposed to see you, as my father,
as someone everyone looks up to, or as the one who taught me how to survive.."
"I know this probably doesn’t make much sense. I’m still trying to understand it myself. For now, all I can say is that it helps, even if I don’t know why.."
You read it over once, then again, letting the words linger longer than you meant to. For a moment, you consider giving it to him, letting this be the way you explain what you can’t say out loud.
But, in the end, you don’t.
You crumple the paper, enough to make it unreadable, and drop it into the trash.
Whatever the letter was meant to be an explanation, an apology, a bridge. You reduce it to something small and easy to ignore.
“Forget it,” you mutter. It’s stupid anyway, you tell yourself. Who writes letters when you live under the same roof?
But the trash can doesn’t swallow the weight of it.
And neither do you.
Because by throwing it away, you don’t just spare yourself the risk of being seen. You also leave him standing on the other side of a gap he doesn’t even know how to cross.
____________________________________________
Authors note:
This was meant to explore about sometimes the hardest part isn’t having a parent who failed, but learning how to be a child when they finally try.
It’s about the confusion of responding to a father who is reaching out, when you never learned how to be a child who has one.
And about looking up to a teacher or a mentor as someone safe. Only to realize that they are not meant to fill the same space, even when they are the same person.
No warning. No explanation. One moment Jason is alone and the next, there’s a kid sitting on his motorcycle, calling him Dad like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The child knows his name, knows the family, knows things they shouldn’t be able to know.
Worse, they have proof.
the child isn’t scared. They aren’t confused. They’re soft, trusting, affectionate, utterly certain they belong here. Certain Jason is their father. Certain this is home.
Jason doesn’t know when this child is from.
Or how they arrived.
Or what kind of future could produce something like this.
All he knows is that every instinct in him says this shouldn’t exist.
The night patrol passed like any other. Nothing out of the ordinary—if anything, it was almost peaceful. The shift was nearly over, and they gathered briefly before splitting up, each heading their separate ways.
Jason had only stepped away from his bike for five minutes—five goddamn minutes—to grab intel from one of his contacts in Crime Alley. When he returned, ready to head back to his safehouse, he froze.
There was a kid sitting on his motorcycle.
Not near it. Not looking at it. On it. Perched on the seat like they owned the damn thing, legs swinging casually, completely unbothered by the fact that this was Red Hood's bike in one of Gotham's worst neighborhoods at night.
"Kid," Jason called out, his voice edged with warning as he approached. His hand instinctively moved toward his holster before he stopped himself, it was just a kid, probably no older than six or seven. "What the hell are you doing on someone else's ride?"
The child looked up at him with an expression that was far too calm for the situation. No fear. No surprise. Just... mild annoyance?
Jason glanced around the empty street, his instincts screaming that something was off.
No parents in sight. No one running after a lost kid. The area was deserted except for the distant sound of sirens.
"Where are your parents?" he asked, studying the kid more carefully now.
This wasn't some street kid. Their clothes were too clean, too well-fitted, a nice jacket, good shoes, and a shirt that probably cost more than what most families in this neighborhood made in a week. The kid was well-fed, well-groomed, clearly cared for.
So what were they doing here? Alone? On his bike?
The kid's expression shifted from annoyed to offended, their small face scrunching up in a way that was almost... familiar.
"Dad! What's wrong with you?!"
Jason's brain screeched to a halt. "What?"
"I said," the kid repeated, crossing their arms with the kind of attitude that would've made Damian proud, "what's wrong with you? Why are you acting like you don't know me?"
Jason's brain stuttered to a halt. 'Huh? What? Dad? Me? A father?' His confusion only deepened as he tried to process what he'd just heard.
“Yes! You’re my dad!” The child held up the locket, hands trembling with excitement.
The photograph inside captured Jason as he had never seen himself—older, grayer, faint wrinkles at his eyes, smiling with a warmth he didn’t recognize as his own.
In his arms was the child, barely five years old, tucked close, gazing up at him like the world had already decided where it belonged.
"Wait, let me see that..." Jason took the locket necklace to examine it more closely. The photo looked recent, almost too recent.
But what really caught his attention was the small tracker embedded in the back of the locket, technology that was unmistakably from the Batcomputer. Who is this kid?
He looked back at the child. "How old are you?"
“Seven!” the kid said brightly, then held up all ten fingers. Jason exhaled through his teeth. “Seven,” the kid corrected quickly. “I think.”
'Ten or seven?' Jason mentally noted the discrepancy. "How did you get out here by yourself?"
“And how did you get out here?” Jason asked, voice low now.
The kid laughed, small and nervous, eyes flicking away. “Don’t be mad, okay? I just… I found a hole in the wall.”
Footsteps sounded behind Jason before he could respond. He turned just as Red Robin came into view, already mid-sentence, then stopping short. Tim’s gaze slid past Jason, straight to the kid sitting on the motorcycle.
“Jason, Bruce is looking for—” Tim cut himself off. “Why there is a child on your bike?”
The kid grinned, bright and unbothered, like this was exactly how things were supposed to go. “Hiiiii, Uncle Tim!!”
Tim froze. The surprise wasn’t just the kid, it was the name. “...What?” he breathed, the shock sharp and immediate, because no one was supposed to know who he was.
Silence settled thick and immediate.
Tim stared, then crouched slightly, eyes catching on the necklace, the backpack slung over the kid’s shoulder. A Robin keychain hung from the zipper, and when Tim looked closer, he saw the subtle stitching that hid yet another tracker.
They checked everything. The necklace. The bag. The clothes. Wayne Enterprises labels appeared again and again, neat and undeniable, enough to suggest coincidence—if not for the photo, the tech, the way the child said dad and uncle without hesitation or doubt. there is no way that's a lie.
_____________________________________
Tim and Jason exchanged a look.
The trackers, the photo, the Wayne branding, none of it fit cleanly into clear explanation Tim could pull from his head. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something they could leave standing on an empty street.
A moment later, Dick arrived, slowing as soon as he took in the scene. His gaze moved from Jason, Tim and.. the child perched too comfortably on Jason’s bike, "what is going on here?"
Jason let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Dick didn’t press. He glanced down the street instead, the quiet, the cold, the faint hint of dawn already settling in, before looking back at the kid. “We should move,” he said quietly. “This isn’t a conversation for the middle of the city.”
They formed a loose circle around the child, close enough to contain him without crowding. Dick crossed his arms. “Kid,” he called, “you’re coming back to the manor with us.”
“Okay!” the kid answered instantly, bright and easy.
“We’ll take the Batmobile,” Dick added.
The kid hesitated, then stepped closer to Jason instead, fingers reaching out to clutch the edge of his jacket. “…I don’t want to,” they muttered, grip tightening. “I want to go with Dad. On the bike.”
Jason frowned. “The bike’s cold, and I’m not even going to the manor,” he said, trying to peel the kid’s fingers away. The effort only made the child cling harder.
“I’m going with Dad!” the kid insisted, voice rising. Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again before finally sighing. “…Fine. Jason can ride in the Batmobile too.”
“No,” Jason said immediately. “That’s not happening. Who’s taking my bike, then? you?” He tried again to ease the child’s fingers loose. “Come on. Let go.”
The child’s lower lip trembled. “I want to go with Dad,” they said, voice wobbling, cracking as tears spilled over. “Dad, you’re being mean… you don’t want me anymore..”
Jason froze mid-motion, a cold thread of dread crawling up his spine.
Dick immediately elbowed Jason in the ribs, giving him a pointed look. "Just give in for a bit, man. Come on, it's almost morning. Poor kid's exhausted."
Their attention shifted back to the child—tear-streaked, fingers still tangled in Jason’s jacket, knuckles white with the effort of holding on.
Jason looked down at the small figure clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, and hated how natural it looked, how wrong it felt that the child seemed to belong there anyway.
Jason groaned, running a hand down his face as the child sobbed into his jacket, tiny shoulders shaking. 'This is emotional blackmail. Why is it working?'
"Fine! Fine!" Jason threw his hands up. "Stop crying, okay? We'll take the bike."
The child was still crying softly, tears clinging to their lashes as they looked up at Jason. Big, watery eyes searched his face. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Jason muttered, shooting a glare at Dick, who was very clearly fighting back a grin. “But you hold on the entire time. If you let go even once, we’re switching to the Batmobile. Got it?”
“Yes, Dad,” the child answered softly, voice hoarse and tired from crying. They wiped at their face with the back of their sleeve, eyelids drooping even as they nodded. “I’ll… I’ll hold on tight. Really tight.”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jason, you know Bruce is going to—”
“Bruce can deal with it,” Jason cut in, already turning toward his motorcycle. “You two take the Batmobile. We’ll meet you there.”
Dick finally let his smile show. “You’re such a softie.”
“Shut up, Grayson,” Jason muttered. He reached up and gently wiped the tears from the child’s cheeks before shrugging off his jacket and draping it around their shoulders. “Here. Put this on.” He adjusted it properly, tugging it closer. “And stop crying already. What’s your name, kid?”
The child sniffled, rubbing at their eyes with the sleeve that was far too long. “I’m… Reader,” they said weakly, voice still thick from crying. After a beat, they added with quiet indignation, “Dad’s mean. Why would you ask what is my name.. hiks”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jason sighed. “Sorry.”
“Dad’s mean,” Dick teasing lightly, grinning as he picked up the kid’s bag.
The child giggled despite themself, small and tired, and Dick’s grin only widened.
Jason reached his bike and pulled the spare helmet from the storage compartment. It was far too big for a seven-year-old, the padding loose and imperfect, but it was all he had.
He crouched and settled it carefully over the child’s head, fingers lingering as he adjusted the straps, slower and more cautious than usual.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Rules. Hold onto me. Don’t let go. Don’t move around too much. Okay?”
“Mm,” the child answered softly, nodding instead of speaking, exhaustion weighing down their movements.
Jason swung his leg over the bike, and the child climbed up behind him with help, arms wrapping around his waist without urgency, more for balance than excitement. The hold was tight but unsteady, like they were afraid of slipping rather than clinging on purpose.
“Not too tight,” Jason muttered. “I need to breathe.”
The child loosened their grip a fraction, forehead resting briefly against his back.
“Sorry..” they whispered, voice small.
A few steps away, Dick and Tim were still watching. Dick tilted his head slightly, eyes lingering on the child. “They’re too small to be sitting back there,” he said quietly. “If they slip, Jason might not even feel it.”
“And that helmet’s barely holding,” Tim added, his gaze fixed on the loose strap.
Jason let out a slow breath. “So what?”
Tim stepped closer. “Reader—hey,” he said gently. “Just for a second, okay?” He lifted the child with careful hands, supporting their weight as he shifted them forward and settled them in front of Jason instead.
The child didn’t resist. They only leaned back against Jason’s chest, shoulders slack, exhaustion still heavy in their body.
Jason shot Tim an irritated look. “Seriously?”
“It’s safer,” Tim replied evenly. “At least you’ll know where the kid is the entire ride.”
Jason adjusted his arms, steadying the small body in front of him—and hated how natural the motion felt.
Dick headed toward the Batmobile, still grinning. “See you at the Manor, Dad.”
“I swear to God, Dick—”
“Bye, uncles,” the child murmured weakly, lifting a small hand in a lazy wave as the Batmobile pulled away.
Tim shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he followed Dick. “Try not to traumatize the kid with your driving, Jason.”
“My driving is fine,” Jason called back as he started the engine, the familiar rumble cutting through the quiet street.
He pulled onto the road at a measured pace—slower than he ever rode, slower than felt natural. With a small body pressed against him, he wasn’t taking chances.
Gotham’s streets were nearly empty, washed in pale blue as dawn began to creep in. Somewhere between intersections, Jason felt the child’s weight shift, their body relaxing fully against his chest, breaths evening out into a soft, steady rhythm.
'…Great. The kid’s falling asleep on a moving motorcycle.'
Jason didn’t speed up. Didn’t take sharp turns. He just kept the ride smooth and steady, carrying the quiet weight with him all the way to the Manor.
_____________________________________
They reached the Batcave just as dawn began to bleed faintly into the sky above.
Jason killed the engine, and before he could say anything, the child slid off the bike with practiced ease, landing lightly on their feet like they'd done it a hundred times before.
They didn't wait for him, didn't pause to take in their surroundings—just walked forward with casual familiarity, as if the cavernous space was nothing more than another room they knew by heart.
Straight toward the Batcomputer.
Where Bruce was sitting with Damian.
Both of them looked up at the sound of the motorcycle, their gazes landing first on the kid, then shifting to Jason with identical expressions of confusion and suspicion.
Bruce stood slowly, his imposing frame casting a long shadow in the dim light of the cave. "Why did you bring a child here?" His voice was measured, controlled, but there was an edge beneath it. "Who is this?"
The hesitation vanished in an instant. The kid's face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. "Oh! I'm Reader, Grandpa! How could you forget?!" They rushed forward without a shred of fear and wrapped their arms around Bruce's leg in an enthusiastic hug.
Bruce stiffened, clearly not expecting the contact.
Reader pulled back just enough to hold up the locket, flipping it open to show the photo inside. "See? Grandpa looks just like Dad!" they said brightly, pointing between the older Jason in the photo and Bruce's face.
Damian and Bruce both leaned in to examine the locket—the photo of the kid standing beside an older, more weathered version of Jason.
Then their eyes moved to Reader, and finally to Jason standing several feet behind, his arms crossed and his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
Damian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Todd, what is the meaning—"
"We're just as confused as you are," Tim cut in, stepping into the cave with Dick close behind. "But I don't think the kid is lying."
He held up the small Robin keychain, turning it so the embedded tracker caught the light. "Everything Reader has on them—clothes, accessories, this tracker—it's all Wayne tech. High-grade stuff. And this," he tapped the keychain, "is directly connected to the Batcomputer. Same encryption we use."
Bruce's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His gaze dropped back down to Reader, who had released his leg and was now bouncing slightly on their heels, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes.
"Grandpa! Grandpa, pick me up!" Reader lifted both arms overhead, hands opening and closing in the universal gesture of a child wanting to be held.
No one moved.
The Batcave fell into a thick, uncomfortable silence. All eyes lingered on Reader—a small child who shared no physical resemblance with Bruce, with Jason, or with anyone else in the Cave. Their features were unmistakably their own, belonging to no one present, and yet they stood there as if the space had always been theirs.
Bruce didn’t pick the child up. Instead, he crouched, lowering himself to eye level, the habit automatic as his mind began sorting through variables and improbabilities. “Reader,” he said carefully, his voice gentler now but still precise, “who are your parents? Your mother—who is she?”
Reader tilted their head, confusion crossing their face as if the question itself didn’t quite register. “My Dad is your son, JJason Peter Toddd,” they said, pointing at him as if clarifying something obvious.
Then they shrugged, entirely unbothered. “But Dad says I don’t have a mom. He said I was born from a tree,” they added, thoughtful for a beat. “Like Timun Mas or Princess Kaguya.”
“Must’ve read too much fairy tale,” Damian muttered under his breath.
“Sssstttt,” Bruce said quietly, without looking away from the child.
I mean, what do you tell a child who’s too young to understand, when even you don’t know the truth about where they come from?
_____________________________________
second person point of view
Bruce doesn’t press the question after that. Instead, he let you a little closer, one arm steady at your back as you shift and settle into his lap on your own, like you’ve quietly decided this is the safest place to be.
You lean against his chest, smaller and quieter now, the earlier certainty finally worn down by fatigue.
The Cave slips into a waiting hush. Bruce stays where he is, gaze distant as his thoughts move silently, while the others linger nearby, careful not to crowd.
You remain still in his arms, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of his suit, blinking slowly as the long night catches up with you.
One by one, the rest of the family arrives.
Cass appears first, silent as ever, her eyes finding you immediately and lingering with that unsettling focus she uses for things she hasn’t figured out yet. Stephanie follows not long after, drawn in by Tim’s vague message that apparently just said you need to see this.
Soon, the Batcave’s main workspace feels crowded in a way it rarely does. Everyone stands a little too stiff, a little too deliberate, their attention drawn again and again to the small, drowsy figure curled against Bruce’s chest.
You blink slowly, fighting sleep, cheek resting against him as questions hang heavy and unspoken in the air.
“Is that… a new kid?” someone whispers, barely audible.
“No,” another voice murmurs back. “That’s Jason’s.”
“…What?”
The word echoes softly, unfinished, as several heads turn, toward you, then Jason, like no one is quite sure what they’ve just heard.
You shift slightly on Bruce’s lap and yawn, your head tipping against his shoulder before you straighten again, fighting sleep more out of habit than need. Bruce adjusts his hold without thinking—steady, stills, as if suddenly aware of how many eyes are on the two of you.
The Cave feels tighter all at once. Conversations taper off, movements slow, and the attention in the room sharpens—not on Bruce, but on you.
“We need to talk for a moment,” Bruce says at last, his gaze sweeping over the group gathered in the Batcave—Alfred, Tim, Dick, Jason, Cass, and Stephanie.
You’re still on his lap as he speaks, your eyes drifting now and then to Damian with awkward uncertainty, while Damian returns the look with his usual flat, unreadable stare.
Bruce gently lifted you and set you onto a nearby chair. “Reader, stay here for a bit, alright?” he said softly. “With Damian.”
“Why me?” Damian asked at once, displeasure plain in his tone.
Your eyes widened and you shook your head immediately. “I wanna stay with Grandpa,” you said, casting Damian a wary glance. “I don’t wanna be near him.”
“I don’t want to be near a spoiled brat either,” Damian shot back.
“Damian,” Bruce said quietly, in that tone that wasn’t quite a request. “Just for a few minutes.”
The others moved off toward the far side of the Cave, voices dropping as they began a private discussion, leaving you and Damian near the Batcomputer. The silence that followed stretched thin and uncomfortable.
You fidget with the hem of your jacket, sneaking glances at him before finally working up the courage to speak. “Are you really Uncle Damian?”
“Uncle?” Damian repeats, one eyebrow twitching.
You tilt your head, studying him with quiet seriousness. “Well… your name is Damian, and you’re short,” you pause . “You’re totally different from my Uncle Damian. But your attitude’s the same, super grumpy. Not fun at all.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. After a beat, he held out his hand. “Let me see your locket.”
“Okay.” You slipped the necklace over your head and handed it to him.
Damian examined it carefully, eyes sharp as he opened the locket. His expression shifted, just slightly. “Tt. Todd looks ancient here.”
“Well, yeah,” you shrug. “Dad is old. Even now his hair’s already going gray.” You glanced toward the group murmuring in the distance, then back at Damian. “It’s weird though. Grandpa’s older than Dad, but Dad’s the one with gray hair. He’s such an old man.”
“Hmph. Old man,” Damian muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.
“You’re a tiny kid,” you shot back.
“Excuse me?” Damian snapped. “I’m older than you, you kindergarten baby.”
You went quiet for a moment, face scrunching as you thought hard—then brightened. “Well… you’re short.”
Damian’s eye twitched.
“Short and grumpy,” you added, clearly pleased.
“I am not short, I am still growing, you insolent—”
“Shooort,” you sing-songed, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.
Across the Cave, Stephanie leaned closer to Tim, whispering, “Are they… actually getting along?”
“That’s what you call getting along?” Tim asked, incredulous.
Dick grinned. “For Damian? Yeah. That’s basically a heartfelt bonding moment.”
Alfred observed the exchange with faint amusement. “It would seem Master Damian has acquired a… peer,” he said. “How… refreshing.”
Near the Batcomputer, the bonding continued.
_____________________________________
A few hours later, when the sun is already bright aboveground, you wake up somewhere unfamiliar. Not the Batcave—but a quiet, empty room, clean and orderly, like it’s waiting to be decided what it’s meant for.
Alfred is there not long after, gentle and unhurried as he helps you get ready for the day, treating the whole thing as if it’s perfectly normal.
There’s nothing special planned. No grand welcome, no explanations you can understand yet—just an effort to ease you into the space, to make the hours pass comfortably while they figure out what’s actually going on. Or, more precisely, who you really are.
It takes longer than they expect.
They ask you questions often. Not all at once, never pressing too hard—just small things woven into the spaces between conversations. What do you like to eat. Do you go to school. What games you play.
They listen closely, like every answer matters more than it should, and you talk easily, swinging your legs where you sit, unaware of the weight your words carry.
Sometimes you talk about your family back there—especially your dad. About how he was already old, even when you were still a baby.
You repeat it the way Grandpa once said it, because that’s how it stayed in your head. “Dad’s stubborn,” you explain seriously. “A real rock-headed guy.” You nod to yourself, certain. “Grandpa said that’s why he only had a kid when he was already old.”
“So,” Dick says casually, “you two close?”
You brighten at once. “Uh-huh. I’m close with everyone!” Then you add, just as easily, “Dad says I’m his favorite.”
Jason freezes.
Later, when the questions drift elsewhere and the room relaxes just a little, you lean back where you’re sitting, utterly comfortable. Safe. Loved. You don’t see the way they watch you now—not with suspicion, not exactly, but with something heavier.
“I never expect there a child like this to become a Wayne,” Stephanie says quietly, arms folded as she watches you from across the Cave. Her voice isn’t unkind—just baffled. “Especially Jason’s.”
Jason shoots her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not an insult,” Tim cuts in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… statistically improbable.” He glances at you again, thoughtful. “Jason doesn’t exactly scream domestic future with a kid who’s this… comfortable. happy (??)”
“Yeah,” Dick adds under his breath, lips twitching despite himself. “I was expecting brooding. Trauma. Maybe a tiny crowbar collection.” He pauses. “Not… this.”
You choose that moment to swing your legs and hum softly, perfectly at ease.
Cass tilts her head, eyes tracking you with quiet focus. “Happy,” she says simply.
Bruce looks at her, then back at you. You’re leaning forward now, talking animatedly to Alfred about snacks, your earlier confidence fully returned. Whatever confusion lingers in the room, none of it seems to reach you.
“Maybe once in a thousand years,” Damian mutters, arms crossed. His tone is flat, but his eyes don’t leave you. “And even then, unlikely.”
“And yet,” Alfred says gently, stepping closer with a tray you hadn’t noticed before, “here we are.”
Jason watches the exchange in silence, jaw set. The idea still sits wrong in his chest—not rejection, not exactly, but something closer to disorientation.
A child like you feels too sudden, too soft, like a future dropped into his hands without warning.
You, meanwhile, remain utterly unaware of the weight of it all. You move through the room with an ease born of safety, untouched by the sharp edges of the life they know so well. Comfortable. Trusting. Loved—without ever having learned that love can be conditional.
_____________________________________
“Why are you sleeping in my room?” Jason asks a few days in, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, confusion edged with irritation.
You blink up at him. “I’ve never slept alone before,” you say softly. After a small pause, “I usually sleep with my dad.” Not a dad. Your dad—the older Jason in the locket, the one with gray in his hair and a tired smile who always knew where you were at night.
Jason exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Do what you want. I’m too tired for this.”
The words aren’t cruel, but they land heavy anyway.
You remain standing in front of his door long after he’s turned away, uncertainty creeping in where certainty used to live.
The dad you know would’ve sighed too—but he would’ve pulled the blanket up around you afterward. This Jason feels… different. Louder. Sharper. Like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
A hand lands on your shoulder. You glance back, unsure, and see Damian behind you.
“Why are you just standing there?” Damian’s voice cuts in, sudden. He’s behind you, having noticed your stillness. “Did you forget which room you were using earlier?”
You shake your head slowly. “No.” You hesitate, then lower your gaze. “I’m just… not used to sleeping alone. I usually sleep with my dad.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You don’t have your own room there?” Damian asks, there—wherever it is you came from.
“I did,” you say quietly. “Grandpa had it ready for me.” Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve. “But the night before I was supposed to sleep there, someone broke in. A thief.” You swallow. “They destroyed everything in the room.”
Damian’s eyes flick, briefly, to Jason’s door.
“So after that,” you continue, voice small, “I kept sleeping with Dad.”
Damian stares at the door a second longer than necessary. A thief, he thinks flatly. Right.
He looks back at you—small, tired, standing outside Jason’s room like it’s the last safe place you remember. And the thought settles in his chest, uncomfortable and sharp:
If you sleep near this Jason, you’ll probably have more nightmares than comfort.
“So you’re just not used to sleeping alone,” Damian says, after a moment. “You’ll have to get used to it. Slowly.”
He clears his throat. “Come on,” he adds, curt but not unkind. “I’ll walk you back.”
You nod, a flicker of relief crossing your face as you follow him down the hall—leaving Jason’s door closed behind you, and a future that still doesn’t quite know where to place you.
'dad.. i want to go home..'
_____________________________________
In the dining room
You climb onto the chair right beside Jason and even scoot it closer, knees bumping his leg. “Dad, I’m eating too!” you announce, tugging lightly at his han, an unspoken signal you’ve used a hundred times before.
“Go ahead,” Jason says, eyes still on his plate, tone flat like he’s talking to himself more than to you.
You pause. “Dad usually… feeds me.” you say softly, not demanding—just stating something that he always do.
He stiffens. “You can eat on your own,” he says after a beat. “You should try.” He doesn’t look at you, and the space between you suddenly feels wider than the table itself. It’s awkward—new for both of you. You’re a child from nowhere, and he’s a father by accident.
You slowly loosen your grip, your hand retreating back to your lap. “…Okay,” you mumble, the word small and heavy, like you’re not sure where to put it once it leaves your mouth.
“Reader.”
You look up to find Tim sitting across the table, an empty chair between him and Duke. He taps the seat lightly, then hesitates, like he’s reconsidering the words even as he says them.
“Over here,” he offers, voice careful. “Do you… want Uncle to feed you?” The word uncle sounds unfamiliar to him, tested cautiously.
Your face brightens at once. “Yes!” You slide off your chair and hurry over, ducking under the table to get to him faster, impatience outweighing any sense of dignity.
By the time you climb onto the seat beside him, you’re already smiling, relief settling in easily.
“Hey, Uncle,” Stephanie cuts in from the side, leaning forward with a teasing grin. “I want some too.”
Tim groans, dropping his head briefly into his hand. “Don’t start.”
“Uncle,” she repeats, clearly enjoying it.
You giggle, already settled and content at Tim’s side, attention fully claimed by the promise of food. Across the table, Jason watches with his fork paused mid-air, unsure why the sight of it all lands heavier in his chest than it should.
_____________________________________
It’s been several days now since you’ve been… stuck here.
“They eat only when someone feeds them, sleep curled up against whoever’s closest, won’t stay alone,” Damian says quietly, eyes fixed on you. “Are they really your kid, Todd?”
Jason snorts under his breath. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. How did I end up spoiling a kid this badly?”
Tim exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as he watches you. “Age, maybe,” he says after a moment. “Or… timing.” His voice drops. “Honestly, I never thought you’d have a kid at all. Let alone one like this.”
Their voices fade as their attention drifts to the couch.
You’re asleep there now, small and slack with trust, curled up against someone without hesitation. Jason watches longer than he means to, something uneasy tightening in his chest. “It’s kind of a miracle,” he mutters, then scoffs quietly. “Or maybe a nightmare.”
Dick glances at him sharply. “Don’t talk like that about your kid,” he says, low and firm. “They’re still little.”
Jason doesn’t reply. His gaze stays on you, fixed and unblinking, he’s bracing himself for the moment he looks away and finds the couch empty.
_____________________________________
You tell them another story, the way you always do—like it’s nothing important, just something that happened.
“Back then, when I woke up in the middle of the night,” you say, voice soft, “I’d go down to the Batcave to look for someone. Anyone.” You pause, remembering. “But if it was really crowded, and you had friends over, You'd tell me to go back to my room.”
A few glances are exchanged.
“You know,” you add helpfully, “some of your friend i am not sure what's their name buat there are the loud ones. The ones with capes. Sometimes the red one. Sometimes the fast one. so many”
That earns a quiet reaction—someone clearing their throat, someone else going very still.
“But sometimes,” you continue, brightening, “when I walk back alone, there’s this really pretty green light.” You trace a lazy line in the air with your finger. “It guides me all the way back to my room.”
“…Green light?” Bruce murmurs.
“Lantern,” another voice mutters under their breath.
You nod, satisfied. “Yeah. That one I guess.”
Bruce studies you carefully. “Did you ever talk to them?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No.” After a beat, you add, “If they ever got close or even just looked at me, usually Uncle Damian or Uncle Tim would pick me up right away.” You lift your arms to demonstrate, like it’s a familiar routine. “They always say, don’t get close to weird people.”
The room goes quiet.
Weird people.
Someone exhales slowly. Because by every standard they live by—masks, secrets, double lives—everyone here is strange.
And yet, somehow, you had been kept apart from it all.
_____________________________________
ending.
It’s been a few weeks since you ended up here, and the feeling has finally settled in. Not fear. Not confusion. Just a quiet, persistent ache. You miss home. You miss the family you know. More than anything, you miss your dad.
You and Damian are sitting in the living room. Everyone else is gone—patrols, errands, the kind of adult business that makes the house feel too big and too empty. Only Alfred remains somewhere deeper in the Manor, footsteps distant and soft, and Damian, who has been firmly volunteered to keep you company.
The silence stretches between you. Not sharp, not tense—just heavy. You curl your knees up to your chest on the oversized armchair, swallowed by cushions, feeling smaller than usual in the wide, quiet room.
“You know, Uncle Damian,” you say at last, breaking the quiet. Your voice is softer now, stripped of its usual brightness. “Back home, whenever Dad goes away for a few days… I always wait in the living room in the afternoon.”
You stare at nothing in particular as you speak. “So when I hear his motorcycle, I can run straight to the door. That way, the moment he opens it, I’m already there.” Your fingers tighten around your sleeves. “I hug him right away.”
Damian glances at you from the opposite couch, posture rigid, hands folded neatly like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “…You miss your father,” he says, more statement than question.
You look at him then, eyes glossy, tears trembling but not falling yet. You nod. “I want my dad…”
Damian stands abruptly, the movement sharp and too loud in the quiet room. “I’ll call Todd—” he says, defaulting to action, solutions, something he knows how to do.
“No!” The word tears out of you before you can stop it. You lunge forward, fingers catching his sleeve, clutching it. You shake your head hard, until your vision blurs and the room tilts.
He freezes completely, caught mid-step. “But you just said—”
“Not him,” you whisper, your grip loosening as you pull your hand back, swiping at your face with the back of your wrist.
Your voice breaks, splintering under the weight you’ve been holding in for weeks. “Not this him.” You swallow, breath hitching. “I want my dad. The one I know. I want to go home.”
For a moment, Damian looks utterly lost, caught between logic and something he was never trained to handle.
Then, slowly, he sits back down. Not across from you this time, but beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to fix it.
He just stays.
And for now, that’s all you have.
_____________________________________
Meanwhile, in your original timeline, Gotham was in chaos.
The Bats hadn't stopped searching, not for a single moment. Day bled into night and back into day again in an endless cycle of desperate hunting.
Oracle's systems ran hot, every camera, every satellite, every piece of surveillance equipment in Gotham turned toward one purpose: find Reader.
The city felt it.
Crime spiked, then vanished entirely in some districts, thugs too afraid to move, others reckless enough to test their luck. Rooftops were never empty. Shadows moved constantly. Gotham knew something was wrong, even if it didn’t know what.
Tim hadn’t left the Batcomputer in over thirty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, fingers flying across the keys with manic precision as he ran algorithm after algorithm, refusing to accept the results.
Barbara worked beside him, her own exhaustion visible in the tightness of her jaw, but neither of them slowed.
“I’m running every scan we have,” Barbara said, voice hoarse. “Every pattern, every anomaly. If there’s a trace—anything—we’ll find it.”
But it was Jason who turned the streets into something else entirely.
He tore through Gotham like a storm with nowhere to break. Every alley, every warehouse, every forgotten corner of the city was searched, then searched again.
Informants talked not because they were paid, but because they were afraid. Doors opened when he knocked. Walls came down when they didn’t.
Because a child was missing.
Jason’s child was missing.
A Wayne was missing.
And every hour without answers fed the worst kind of imagination—the kind that fills the silence with things no one wanted to name.
Were you hurt. Were you scared. Were you calling for him somewhere he couldn’t hear.
No. They couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.
"Oracle, talk to me," Jason's voice crackled over the comms, rough and desperate. "Anything. Please."
Barbara's hands stilled over the keyboard for just a moment, her jaw clenching. "Jason, I'm trying. I'm—we're doing everything we can."
"It's not enough!" The sound of something shattering came through the comm, Jason's fist through a wall, maybe, or something worse. "It's been hours and we have nothing. No body, no ransom, no trace—where the hell is my kid?!"
"We'll find them," Dick's voice cut in, firm despite the strain underneath. "Jason, we will find them. But you need to—"
"Don't tell me what I need to do, Grayson. Don't you dare." Jason's breathing was ragged. "That's my kid out there. Mine. And I—I should have been there. I should have—"
"Jason—"
The comm cut off abruptly.
Back in the Batcave, Tim's eyes burned as he stared at the screens, at the maps with their shrinking search radius, at the temporal analysis that made less and less sense the more he looked at it.
"Come on," he whispered to himself, to the universe, to whatever force had taken you. "Just... give us something. One answer. Please. Are they alive? Are they safe? Just—please—"
The Batcomputer beeped. Another dead end.
Tim's fist slammed down on the console.
And somewhere in the Manor above, Bruce stood in Your empty bedroom, holding a small stuffed animal that had been left on the bed, and allowed himself one moment—just one—to close his eyes and pray.
Some ideas/drafts I had, but they’re not fully written yet. Some are still in progress, and some are stuck at the summary
neglected, platonic yandere, dead.
Neglected reader
1, Stepping Away for Once
Dick watched how you tried to be seen for years—quietly, persistently, hoping it would be enough.
He also watched how you seemed to pull yourself away, how you stopped reaching out, and took it as surrender.
The difference is, you never actually pulled away.
You were simply standing where you’d always been—outside the frame.
2. Perfect Day to Laugh
'Imagine having to hide from your own family because you never quite fit. Imagine.'
Yeah. Couldn’t be me.
Jason watches you stand in front of the mirror, practicing different smiles under your breath, criticizing each one as forced or ugly.
He realizes this isn’t for a gala or an audience—just a family dinner you’re bracing yourself to survive.
You steady yourself, whispering that you only need fifteen minutes before retreating back to your room, unaware that Jason has seen how hard you try just to breathe among them.
3. Best Things to Do
You always forgive them so easily and that’s what scares you the most.
After years of being overlooked and remembered only when the silence grew heavy, they suddenly want to come back and repair what they broke.
But you know yourself—Just a "sorry"
One sincere apology and you’d fall back into the same pattern, into damage that was never addressed again and again.
So you stay away. You don’t want things to be fixed when the cost was always yours alone.
4. Letter from the Hopeful Ones
Neglected child!reader
A child who quietly wishes that someone—anyone—would take them away. Not because they want to disappear, but because they want to belong somewhere else. They imagine being chosen, claimed, loved enough to be kept, believing they would give anything to the person who did that for them, even if that person wasn’t good.
They don’t want a 'good' person. They just want someone who stays.
It’s the same kind of wish some children once had—the belief that a monster in the woods might be kinder than the people who were supposed to care for them.
(Like those children who once thought Slenderman would take them into the woods and look after them.)
Platonic Yandere
1. Under Maintenance
It used to be the opposite.
How you ran to them, calling their names so desperately—pathetic in how easily you believed they would come.
But now, they cling to you so hard that it hurt to even see it.
They stay within reach at all times. Hands appear before you fall, voices answer before you call. Doors are closed for your safety. Paths are chosen for you. Distance is treated as a mistake to be corrected.
You are never alone anymore.
Gently, somehow, there is no need to go anywhere else now.
2. "There Is A Choice Again!"
Will you leave the house? Or.. will you stay..
3. Wanted, Piece by Piece
You were never extraordinary—just quiet, ordinary, and easy to overlook.
Yet for reasons you don’t understand, people keep gravitating toward you, clinging to your calm as if it’s something rare and irreplaceable. Without noticing when it happens, you become the steady center of their lives—wanted slowly, gently, and far more than someone like you ever expected to be.
Dead reader
1. The Sky Reminds Me of Something
In the last moments of your life, you realize something—how long it has been since you last felt calm. Truly calm. Empty in a way that doesn’t hurt, just quiet, as you stare up at the sky.
Time stretches as the sky becomes the only thing you see—day and night passing, stars returning, the world moving on without noticing.
Sometimes, awareness flickers: a quiet pull, an absence where something should be. As you wait to be found, you finally look at yourself—not as who you were meant to be, but as who you have been missing from for far too long.
Time stretches as the sky becomes the only thing you see—day and night passing, stars returning, the world moving on without noticing.
Sometimes, awareness flickers: a quiet pull, an absence where something should be. As you wait to be found, you finally look at yourself—not as who you were meant to be, but as who you have been missing from for far too long.
Yandere Batfam
Evil Step Parent! Reader.
Reader as Bruce Wayne’s partner in name. Sharp-tongued and unapologetically selfish. From the beginning, you make it clear: you want need his money, status, his world—but never his children.
“I am only Bruce’s partner. Not your parent.”
To the Batkids, you are the perfect evil stepparent, distant, cruel, and unyielding. You never pretend to care, never cross the line you draw.
Everything changes when you have a child of your own. The tenderness you show your child is undeniable, a side of you they never believed existed—and it destroys them.
Your love for that child haunts the manor. The more you deny them, the deeper they fall, until one night, bleeding and desperate, one of them calls you mother and begs for what you swore you would never give.
“When you kiss, do your noses bump into each other? And what about teeth? Am I supposed to… pout my lips?”
You threw all the questions at him at once, your brows scrunched, voice almost desperate for clarity. There were so many worries tangled in your words that he didn’t even know where to begin answering.
He blinked at you slowly, processing everything. “Are you… sure you want to try?”
“Yes.” Your answer came quietly but firmly. “I’ve seen so many people our age kiss. And you’re my boyfriend.” You hesitated, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of your shirt. “I just want to try it—properly. With you.”
He stared at you for a heartbeat longer, not mocking your confusion, not laughing—just trying to understand why you looked so earnest about something so simple. Then his expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, almost helpless smile.
“Alright,” he murmured, stepping a little closer. “Then let’s figure it out together.” He leaned in—slowly, carefully—his face inching toward yours. And with pure reflex, you shoved his cheeks back with both hands.
“WAIT!” He froze. You froze.
You sucked in a sharp breath. “I got startled!”
DAG DIG DUG SERR
Author note: my attemp to write 'romance'.
If you know, you know.
If you don't, then you don't know.
Dick Grayson
You hadn’t planned on turning the afternoon into a panic-driven tutorial on kissing, but here you were—sitting on the couch, heart racing, while Dick watched you with a smile that was far too patient for someone who’d just listened to you list every kissing-related fear imaginable.
“So… noses,” you began, struggling. “Do they bump? And teeth? What if I do it wrong? Am I supposed to—” You made a stiff little pout. “—push my lips like this?”
Dick blinked. Slowly. Then bit the inside of his cheek, obviously trying not to laugh.
“I just want to know!” you said, flustered. “Everyone our age has done it and you’re my boyfriend. I want to try it properly. You’ve probably kissed someone before, so now it’s my turn, I mean. I’m just curious!”
“That’s—wow. Okay. That’s a lot of questions at once.”
But his tone wasn’t mocking, it was soft, affectionate, the way someone speaks to a nervous cat they’re trying not to startle.
Dick’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected you to say it so bluntly.
“…Wait,” he said slowly, tilting his head. “You’ve never kissed anyone?”
“No,” you admitted, shrinking a little. “The most I’ve done is a kiss on the cheek. Or the forehead. And, um… holding hands. I’m really good at holding hands.”
Your voice got smaller with every word, and Dick’s expression softened in real time—surprise melting into something warm and achingly fond.
You blinked. “…What?”
He let out a soft breath, shaking his head with a gentle smile.
“You’re adorable,” he murmured, the corner of his lips lifting. “And here I thought you were nervous because you expected too much from me.”
Dick leaned his elbows on his knees, leaning forward just enough to make your heart trip.
“I don’t care that it’s your first. I actually think it’s kind of special,” he said softly. “But you don’t need to rush or compare yourself to anyone. We can go as slow as you want.”
Your face flushed. “Dick—”
Then, teasing lightly, he added:
“And for the record? Being good at holding hands is a great start.”
“Stop complimenting me if you’re not going to help!” you snapped, flustered beyond salvation.
He raised both hands in surrender, laughing under his breath.
Dick’s grin softened into something warmer, something that made your stomach fold in on itself. Then, in a quieter, sincere voice, he said:
“If this is your first, then I want to do it right. Only if you’re comfortable.”
He moved a little closer, knees nearly brushing yours, but he didn’t touch you. Not yet. He waited—patient, steady, almost absurdly gentle for someone capable of flipping off rooftops nightly.
“Do you still want to try?” he asked.
You swallowed hard. “Yeah… but slowly. Really slowly.”
Dick nodded once, as if accepting a sacred mission.
“Slow is perfect,” he said softly.
He lifted one hand—slowly, deliberately—to show you he wasn’t going to startle you again. His fingertips hovered near your cheek but didn’t make contact until you gave the tiniest nod. When he finally touched you, it was light, warm, almost hesitant.
“Okay,” he breathed. “First rule: you don’t have to do anything. Just breathe.”
For some reason, those words made you do the complete opposite—you held your breath the moment his face came closer.
He leaned in an inch—not enough to kiss you, just enough for the space between you to tighten like a thread being pulled taut.
“Tell me if I need to stop.”
You nodded again, small and jerky, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
He leaned in another inch—close enough that your noses nearly brushed, but not quite touching. Close enough for you to feel his breath. Close enough that he was clearly waiting for you to meet him halfway if you wanted to.
Dick’s smile softened.
“Alright. Then let’s go slow.”
And now you felt it. His closeness. His warmth. How real the moment suddenly was.
Your entire body reacted before your mind could catch up.
With pure reflex, your hands shot up and pushed his face away.
“T—WAIT!”
He froze mid-lean, his head tilted back from the force of your shove.
You sucked in a breath, mortified. “I—I got startled!”
“…You pushed my whole face,” he said flatly.
He stared at you for a solid three seconds, absolutely speechless.
Then his shoulders began to shake with a laugh he tried so hard to hide.
You slapped your hands over your own face. “I panicked! You moved too fast!”
“Well, it felt fast!”
“I moved slower than a turtle.”
His tone was unimpressed; his smile was anything but.
Dick waited until you peeked through your fingers before moving again this time even slower, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Okay,” he murmured, voice gentler. “No rushing. No surprise attacks. Just… breathe. And let’s try again, alright?”
He tried again, leaning in slowly, so slowly you could see the rise and fall of his shoulders with every soft breath he took. His face drifted closer, closer, the warmth of him brushing your skin like the beginning of a promise.
And you didn’t shove him this time.
You just froze. Completely still, eyes wide, arms limp at your sides, like your brain forgot how to exist.
Dick stopped instantly, hovering inches from you. His breath fanned your cheek. “…Seriously?” he whispered, half laughing, half suffering. “Are you actually you right now? Or did someone switch you with a statue?”
“I want to try, But..” you squeaked, your lips twitching into an embarrassed smile. “But—maybe if you close your eyes? Let me come to you?”
Dick exhaled dramatically but fondly. “Fine, fine.”
He leaned his back against the wall behind him, relaxing his shoulders, closing his eyes with exaggerated obedience. “There. Eyes closed. But can you really do this?” he teased, mouth curling just slightly.
“He’em…” you nodded—too many times—then stood there staring at him.
The longer you looked, the harder your heart thrashed, your stomach flipping like a gymnast. You lifted your hand, trying to reach his cheek, then pulled back. Leaned in a little, then stopped. Moved half a step—then retreated the same distance.
The soft downward curve of his lashes.
The way his hair fell over his forehead.
The gentle part of his lips as he waited.
Dick sensed the stillness, even with his eyes closed.
“…You’re not moving,” he said, confused.
When he opened his eyes, you were already turned away, shoulders hunched, preparing to escape like a guilty cat.
“Sorry—sorry, love,” you blurted, voice high and panicked. “I can’t do it. I’m too embarrassed.”
You took one step. Dick moved faster. “Sayang! Jangan gitu lah—hey!”
He lunged forward—not harsh, not forceful—just catching your wrist before you could flee the room. You spun slightly from the momentum, ending up facing him again, breath caught in your throat.
And before you could overthink it—
he leaned in, gently but decisively, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.
His lips lingered for half a second before he pulled back, cheeks a little pink, eyes sparkling.
Warm. Soft. Close enough to count.
But not quite the real thing.
________________________________________-
“There,” he murmured, voice low and mischievous.
“A practice kiss. Now you can’t run away anymore.”
Jason Todd
Morning for breakfast. Night for dinner. A strange, quiet pattern that neither of you questioned.
You never planned for Jason Todd to become part of your routine.
But somehow, without either of you calling it a habit, you started seeing him twice a day—every day.
It always began the same way: you waking up to a soft knock and Jason standing at your door, still half-asleep, hair messy, hoodie thrown on over whatever T-shirt he grabbed first.
“C’mon,” he’d mumble, jerking his thumb toward the street. “You eat like a bird. We’re getting pancakes.”
And you went.
Not because you needed pancakes. But because he always looked at you like the morning didn’t start until he saw you.
Evenings were the same. You’d be ready to wind down, maybe already in pajama pants, when your phone buzzed.
Ja: you eaten yet?
J: no? good. I’m outside.
And sure enough, he’d be leaning against his motorcycle under the streetlight, arms crossed, pretending he hadn’t been waiting for ten minutes.
“Dinner,” he’d say. “Non-negotiable.”
You teased him once—asked if he even liked the food or if he just hated eating alone.
Jason didn’t answer. He just held the restaurant door open and muttered, “…Shut up.”
But he kept doing it. Breakfast. Dinner. A beginning and an end, with him right there on both sides of your day.
You weren’t entirely sure how you and Jason ended up this close, sitting shoulder to shoulder on your couch. Maybe it was the late dinner, or the quiet evening, or the way he’d given you a look that hovered between a challenge and something softer.
Whatever the reason, your pulse wouldn’t calm down, especially with how intensely he seemed to be watching you. Even sitting still, Jason Todd radiated a heavy, magnetic warmth.
“Alright,” he said as if preparing himself for a mission, rolling his shoulders as though he needed to loosen the tension there. “We’re actually doing this. No backing out.”
You raised an eyebrow because his tone wasn’t nearly as casual as he wanted it to be. When you pointed out that his hand was shaking, he instantly blamed the coffee—despite drinking tea.
Jason leaned in slowly, bracing one hand behind you on the couch while the other hovered near your cheek like he wanted to touch you but feared scaring you off.
His breath brushed your skin, close enough to raise goosebumps, and his eyes softened into something that made your stomach twist.
The space between you shrank, warm and electric, the world narrowing to just the two of you. Then, for some unfathomable reason, you laughed.
Jason froze and stared at you like you’d personally offended the entire family tree. “You’re laughing?” he asked, sounding both wounded and scandalized at the same time. His expression alone somehow made you laugh even harder.
The more he reacted, the more uncontrollable your laughter became. You clutched your stomach, trying to explain that he looked too serious, but every attempt only made the situation worse. Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like he was praying for patience.
He tried again, cupping your cheek with surprising gentleness, his thumb tracing lightly along your jaw. As he leaned in, your foreheads nearly touched and your noses brushed the faintest amount. The warmth of him made your breath hitch, your laughter fading into a tense silence.
But the moment his lips came close, your shoulders stiffened and your body froze all over again. Jason stopped immediately, pulling back just a fraction to stare at you in disbelief. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, leaning away dramatically. “Why do you do that?!”
You squeaked that he was too close, which only seemed to infuriate and amuse him at once. Jason threw his hands in the air, insisting that of course he was close because that was how kissing worked. The argument spiraled into chaotic tension, and neither of you seemed to know how it got this ridiculous.
When he leaned in again, you blurted, “D-don’t stare at me like that!” and shoved at his face without thinking. His cheek squished sideways beneath your palm, making him look halfway offended and halfway confused. “I can’t not stare! You’re the one getting closer!” he protested, far too dramatic for a man who punched criminals nightly.
He tried again, and again you pushed his face away, this time using both hands and effectively squishing his cheeks.
You were laughing uncontrollably now, while Jason’s voice came out muffled and desperate: “Babe—why are you laughing? I’m trying to kiss you!” His face grew redder by the second, embarrassment showing no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Finally, Jason snapped. He caught your wrists—firm but not rough—and pinned them gently beside your head as he leaned over you.
His elbows braced on the couch, chest hovering just inches from yours, and his warm breath brushed your cheek. The closeness made your laughter falter into quiet hiccups.
His eyes softened but stayed intense, colored with that flustered frustration only you ever managed to pull out of him. “If you wanna stop, just say it,” he murmured, voice low and honest enough to tighten something warm in your chest. Then he dipped closer, his nose brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness, the contact light but grounding.
“N-no—don’t stop,” you managed between shaky breaths, still fighting laughter. “Just keep going. I want you to kiss me.” Your voice cracked with amusement as you added, “Sorry, you’re just—oh my god—so ticklishly serious.”
Jason’s lips twitched, torn between irritation and affection. He leaned closer until your foreheads touched, trying his best to steady himself despite the way your giggles kept shaking your shoulders. “Don’t laugh,” he whispered again, the words barely a breath. “You’re making me more nervous.”
The warmth of his breath ghosted over the corner of your mouth, sending a shiver straight through you. Your laughter softened, dissolving into tiny hiccups as your hands, still pinned flexed beneath his grip.
Jason’s chest rose and fell slowly, as if he needed to gather courage you didn’t know he lacked. He was close enough now that your lips almost brushed.
No matter how hard you tried to calm down, the moment you leaned in toward Jason everything just became funnier. Your shoulders shook from laughing, tears spilled down your cheeks, and your breath came out in broken hiccups. Your face was bright red, but the laughter simply wouldn’t stop.
Jason stared at you like he’d reached his limit, running a hand through his hair in pure frustration. “That’s it—whatever happens, happens,” he muttered. Before you could react, he suddenly leaned in.
“Y-you bit me!” you squeaked, touching your lip in disbelief.
Except he didn’t just kiss you.
He bit the corner of your lower lip first—quick, sharp, and shocking—then followed it with a real kiss. The bite was enough to freeze every muscle in your body.
Jason shrugged slightly, eyes flicking away as if embarrassed to admit it. “Reflex, sweetheart,” he said, voice low. A faint blush warmed his cheeks even as he tried to look cool.
“Don’t laugh while I’m trying to kiss you,” he added, brushing your jaw with his thumb. “It makes me… twitchy.”
________________________________________-
Tim Drake
So when he actually stayed long enough to sit with you, you didn’t waste the moment.
Most days, meeting Tim felt like catching a ghost.
You’d see him for five minutes in the hallway, or at the kitchen counter sipping cold coffee before he vanished again—back into work, back into shadows, back into whatever mystery he’d been tracking.
“I don’t get you sometimes,” you admitted as soon as he settled beside you.
“You disappear for hours, then show up like nothing happened, and I barely know where you go.”
Tim blinked, surprised you jumped straight into honesty.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“…I guess I do that,” he murmured, almost guilty.
You sighed, leaning closer to catch his eyes before he could dart them away.
“It makes everything confusing, Tim. Especially when we’re trying to… y’know. Get closer.”
“That’s exactly why I’m confused.” Your voice cracked a little—not angry, just honest. “I feel like I only get tiny pieces of you.”
He stiffened immediately, shoulders tightening in that familiar oh no I have emotions way of his.
“I’m not avoiding you,” he said softly. “I just… lose track of time.”
“Well… I’m here now,” he said gently. “So tell me what you need.”
You inhaled slowly, heart pounding.
“Tim… I want to kiss you. But I don’t really know how.”
Your voice trembled from embarrassment, but you meant every word.
Your face heated instantly. “All of it.”
His eyes widened, surprise and shyness mixing together like he had no idea how to process either.
He shifted an inch closer, knees brushing yours.
“What—uh… what part don’t you know?”
He blinked, stunned. “…All?”
You nodded helplessly. “I don’t know where my head is supposed to go,” you admitted, gesturing at your jaw. “Do you tilt it? Or keep it straight?”
But you weren’t done.
Tim opened and closed his mouth like a laptop loading a heavy file.
“It—um—depends? You tilt a little. Not… dramatically.”
His blush deepened at every word.
“And what about… your tongue?” you whispered, burying your face in your hands. “Where does it go? Does it move? Does it stay? I sound so stupid.”
Tim practically short-circuited. He choked on air, pushed his glasses up, and stared at you like you’d just asked him to solve feelings instead of code. “Uh—tongue—right—okay—we can… talk about that. Slowly.”
But the questions kept coming.
“And do you smile while kissing?” you asked, honestly confused.
“I’ve seen it in movies. Do people actually smile?”
Tim swallowed so loudly it echoed in the quiet room. His face was blazing red, his posture locking up like he’d been hit with a freeze ray.
“O-okay,” he breathed, voice cracking under the pressure.
“I… might need a moment.”
You shifted closer, catching his panicked gaze before it darted to the floor.
“Tim…” you murmured, your hand hovering near his but not quite touching.
“Are you nervous? Because I am too. And we really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
For a second, Tim didn’t move at all.
Then his eyes snapped to yours—sharp, earnest, and suddenly determined.
He shook his head quickly, breath trembling as he leaned forward just an inch.
“No. No—I want to.”
His voice wavered, but his expression didn’t.
“Let’s do it now… while we’re actually together.”
He exhaled shakily, as though steadying himself before a leap.
“I disappear too much,” he admitted quietly, brushing his thumb over his knee in a nervous loop.
“So if you want this… I don’t want to miss the moment.”
He looked at your lips, then your eyes, then back at your lips, cheeks burning. “I’m… really bad at this,” he confessed in a breath. “But I want to try. With you.”
Tim inched closer—slow, hesitant, like every millimeter took effort.
Your knees touched again, warmer this time.
His fingers twitched near yours, wanting to reach but too shy to commit.
You nodded, though your stomach was somersaulting. “Yeah… I think so.” Your voice was barely a breath.
Tim lingered there for a moment, close enough for his breath to warm your cheek, but not brave enough to bridge the last inch.
His fingers hovered at your jaw like he wanted to touch you but was terrified he’d mess it up.
“…Do I just… lean in?” he whispered, genuinely lost.
You blinked. “I don’t know. I was going to copy you.” Tim looked horrified at the responsibility.
Tim leaned forward—slowly, carefully—like he was afraid sudden movement would break the world in half.
Halfway there, he paused again, eyes flicking up to yours in panic.
“Should I… tilt my head? Is yours supposed to tilt?”
He edged closer, and your foreheads bumped softly—more dorky than romantic. Tim flinched so hard his glasses almost fell off. “S-sorry! Sorry—I miscalculated the angle—”
He took a shaky breath, then tilted his head a very tiny amount—so tiny you had no idea if it even counted. “…Like this?” he asked, unsure.
You nodded again, even though you had no clue either.
But he tried again.
You giggled, your shoulders shaking.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment, cheeks blazing red.
“Don’t laugh,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m trying so hard right now.”
Your noses brushed first, shy and awkward, sending a strange flutter down your spine.
His hand finally touched your cheek—warm, trembling—and your breath hitched from the gentle pressure.
He leaned in slow enough that you felt every centimeter of closing space.
Then he froze again.
“Where’s… where’s my tongue supposed to be?” he whispered, mortified. “Just—just tell me before I panic.”
You nearly burst out laughing again, clapping a hand over your mouth to stop it. “Tim, just—keep it where it is! We’re not even at that part!”
“Oh.” Tim swallowed hard and nodded like you’d given him crucial tactical instructions.
Then, finally—hesitantly, sweetly—he leaned in that last inch.
His lips brushed yours in the softest, gentlest touch, barely a kiss at all, more like a question.
You felt him inhale sharply, as if shocked by the contact he initiated.
His fingers tightened slightly on your cheek, grounding himself.
“Tim, I don’t know if that was right or wrong,” you murmured, breath still shaky from the tiny kiss. A small laugh escaped you, soft and helpless. “We’re both confused.”
The kiss lasted only a second, trembling and feather-light…
but Tim pulled back with wide eyes, red ears, and a stunned, breathless whisper, “…Did I do it right?”
Tim blinked at you, shoulders dropping as tension melted into something almost relieved. “Okay… good,” he whispered, cheeks still burning. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing either.”
Tim let out a quiet, nervous laugh—barely there, but real. His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, steady but unsure. “So… should we try again?”
You nudged your forehead gently against his, a gesture small but comforting. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, voice light.
“We can be clueless together.”
Tim drew closer, this time less rigid and more human—still careful, still soft, but with a bit more courage.
You nodded, heart fluttering despite your attempts to stay calm.
“Yeah. Let’s just… figure it out slowly.” Your smile mirrored his: shy, warm, a little embarrassed.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Round two?” His breath brushed your lips, and he hesitated just a moment.
Then he added, almost whispering against your mouth: “And… please tell me if I tilt my head wrong again.”
________________________________________-
Damian Wayne
Damian’s affection wasn’t loud or flowery; it was direct, simple, and strangely pure. He rarely said your name, barely used it at all, but every soft “beloved,” “habibi,” or “my dear” slipped from him with ease.
Meeting Damian was never difficult—if anything, it was too easy.
All you had to do was text him, “Where are you?” and he would answer honestly, without hesitation. And a few seconds later, he would simply appear beside you, as if distance had never mattered.
Sometimes the nicknames were so casual and natural that you wondered if he even realized he was saying them.
“You required my presence?” he asked, voice calm but unmistakably gentle. There was no irritation; only quiet eagerness he would never admit.
Today was no different.
You had barely hit send on a message when you heard footsteps behind you, light and precise. Seconds later, Damian stood there, arms crossed, expression steady, gaze softening only when it landed on your face.
You nodded, feeling warmth bloom under his intense attention.
Damian stepped closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, familiar—settled around you.
“My beloved,” he said softly, “you should inform me sooner. I will always come.”
He said it with such sincerity that your chest tightened, unsure how to respond to someone who loved you so plainly.
He was so gentle with you, so unguarded in these small moments, that sometimes you didn’t know where to place all the warmth he handed you.
Your heart scrambled for footing every time he spoke like that.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he’d gotten.
“Damian… can I ask something embarrassing?” you whispered, voice shrinking without your permission.
He tilted his head, expression focused and sharp as sunlight on steel.
“You may ask me anything,” he said. “I will not mock you.”
And you believed him instantly.
You exhaled, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve.
“I’ve never done… certain things before. Like kissing.”
Your cheeks burned the moment the words left your mouth.
Damian blinked once—slow, almost too calm—though the faint red blooming at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
“I see,” he murmured, stepping closer with deliberate softness.
“And you wish guidance?”
Damian didn’t blink. He stared at you with the full weight of his honesty. “…Zero.”
You nodded shyly, then attempted to lighten the mood despite your pounding heartbeat. “Yes, if you’re comfortable… but, uh—how many people have you kissed before?”
Your voice lilted teasingly, meant as a joke.
The answer hit harder than any joke you could’ve made.
He held your gaze with unwavering sincerity, tone steady and almost proud. “You would be the first,” he said quietly. “If you wish it.”
Damian’s brows drew together. “Professional?” he repeated, sounding halfway offended. “Beloved, what part of my behavior suggested that?”
You let out a nervous laugh, trying to break the intensity.
“I—I thought you’d be some kind of professional,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “Hah… guess not.”
You shrugged helplessly, cheeks warm. “Entahlah… you always kiss my hand,” you admitted, laughing under your breath. “And I started doing it back! So I assumed you were… I don’t know… experienced.”
Your face went red immediately. “Oh. Well—still. It fooled me!”
Damian blinked again, slower this time, processing your words with utter seriousness.
“I kiss your hand because it is a gesture of devotion,” he said, voice low.
“It is not meant to imply romantic expertise.”
Then, more quietly: “But know this—I wish for my first kiss to be with you. Even if I must learn everything from the beginning.”
He stepped closer, closing the space between you with deliberate gentleness.
“If my affection misled you,” he murmured, “I apologize.”
His fingers brushed yours, warm and steady.
His gaze lowered to your lips, then rose again with startling sincerity. “So… will you teach me?”
Damian leaned in, breath warm against your cheek.His hand cupped your jaw with reverent care, thumb brushing your skin.
He searched your eyes for permission you’d already given.
You tilted your chin up slightly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. Damian moved slowly, as if approaching something sacred. His nose brushed yours, his forehead resting against your temple.
And then— He hesitated.
Just one single centimeter before your lips.
His breath shook as he whispered, “Forgive me. I lack the courage… for that. Not yet.”
Before you could respond, he turned his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek. Then another, lower along your jaw. Then one beside the corner of your lips—close enough to make your breath falter.
Each kiss was warm, careful, impossibly sincere.
“Damian…” you breathed.
He shook his head lightly, still close enough that his lips brushed your skin when he spoke.
“Allow me to learn you first,” he murmured.
His hand steadied your jaw as he pressed another kiss to the high point of your cheek, slower than the last.
You could only stare at him, flustered, breathless. He kissed your cheek once more, softer still, almost like an apology.
When he finally pulled back, his face was flushed, his eyes bright with emotion he didn’t know how to hide.
“I will kiss you,” he said softly, voice steady even though his ears were red. “Truly. When I am certain I will do it with the respect you deserve.”
Then he stepped back half a pace, trying—and failing—to compose himself.
“For now…” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips again, “this is all I can manage.”
Damian looked away first, clearing his throat with more force than necessary.
Silence fell between you right after that last soft kiss to your cheek.
Not tense, just warm, awkward, and unexpectedly overwhelming.
Both of you were frozen, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment.
Color dusted his cheeks and the tips of his ears, betraying the calm expression he tried so hard to wear.
He clasped his hands behind his back, posture suddenly stiff, almost military.
You weren’t doing much better. Your face felt hot, your heart was pounding, and the ghost of his kisses still tingled on your skin.
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a tiny, embarrassing squeak.
Damian’s eyes darted to you, then away again immediately—far too quickly for someone who prided himself on composure.
“I… apologize if that was inadequate,” he murmured, voice soft and unsteady. “Or if I overstepped.”
You shook your head quickly, practically choking on your own breath.
“No—no, it was… it was really nice,” you managed, though your voice wobbled.
The admission only made your cheeks burn hotter.
You laughed—small, breathless, reassuring. “If anyone here is embarrassed, it’s me.”
A rare, fragile smile tugged at the corner of Damian’s mouth before he hid it by looking away again.
“Good,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “I feared I might have embarrassed myself.”
Damian glanced at you then, really looked, and the warmth in his gaze made your stomach flip again. “Then,” he said softly, “perhaps we can be embarrassed together.”
But neither of you wanted the moment to end, either.
You both stood there, blushing, avoiding each other’s eyes, yet unable to fully step apart. The air between you felt different—shy, new, and gently electric.
Neither of you knew what to do next.
________________________________________-
A/N: Siapa yang seumur hidup belom pernah ciuman? sayaa 😔☝️.
You tried to defend your family the same way you always did, confusion tightening your voice.
“I don’t get what you want from me. My dad’s busy — of course I don’t see him a lot. But he provides for me. I have a place to live, food, everything I need. And my siblings? They have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t have to be glued together to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue. They just stared. Tired and slightly annoyed, something in their expressions dimmed.
Gwen spoke first, barely above a whisper.
“Reader… that’s just the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening.
“Yeah. Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
You blinked at them, completely thrown by how deeply the statement hit. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
Their faces shifted again — sharper, more tense — and you still couldn’t see why. The confusion built into irritation, a tired huff forming in your chest.
Sigh. you also feel annoyed now. “This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “I don't know what you want me to say or feel. But, you guys do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this. Especially after how they take care of me when i sick!.”
Gwen’s voice trembled with frustration she was trying hard to hide.
“Reader! your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
"so what? its not matter!"
Pavitr leaned in, his brows drawn.
“When you say ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’ what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
if they couldn’t make you see it…
Then the only path left was to make you question yourself—
to make you doubt the “normal” you’d been surviving on for years.
Maybe that was the first step to learning.
Maybe that was the only way to reach someone who had been blind for so long.
Content : BatSib!Reader x ATSV
You spent the next few days drifting in and out of sleep, your body too heavy to do anything but rest. Most of your hours blurred together—blankets, dim light, and the soft hum of the manor outside your door.
Every time you woke, there was something waiting on the nightstand: medicine, water, and warm food that had only just begun to cool. Someone had been there, quietly, consistently, without asking for thanks.
Sometimes you’d surface from your fever-drowsed haze just long enough to feel the world again. A hand would adjust your blanket, or the chair beside your bed would creak softly as someone stood.
The room always felt cared for in a way you couldn’t explain, as if kindness had been left in small, practical pieces. It never felt intrusive—just steady and impossibly gentle.
Once or twice, you woke because fingers brushed through your hair, slow and careful. The touch wasn’t rushed or awkward, it was practiced, almost rhythmic, like someone soothing a child after a nightmare. But your vision never cleared enough to see the person’s face before sleep pulled you under again. All you caught was the shape of them in the low light.
You noticed their hair—dark, the kind nearly everyone in this family had. Dick, Tim, Jason, Bruce, Duke, Cass, even Damian… any one of them could’ve been standing beside your bed. You tried blinking the blur away, hoping the silhouette would sharpen into someone familiar, but the fever turned everything into shifting watercolor. Before you could form even a single guess, exhaustion pulled you under again.
In those moments between waking and dreaming, you understood only one thing: someone was there, even when you didn’t ask. Someone who stayed long enough to make sure you were okay, even when you wouldn’t have expected it. Someone whose touch didn’t demand anything from you in return. And that, more than the fever, was what left you feeling strangely unmoored.
You never saw the face. Never fully woke for the name. But every time warm fingers brushed your hair, a quiet certainty settled under your ribs. Whoever they were—they cared in a way you hadn’t known to look for. And you fell asleep each time with the same soft, confused thought.
By the fourth morning, the fever had loosened its grip enough for you to stay awake longer. The room looked different—tidier than you remembered, the blankets tucked neatly, your jacket draped over a chair you were sure you hadn’t touched. Someone had been here. More than once.
A small knot tightened in your chest, unfamiliar and fragile.
“…that’s rare,” you whispered to yourself, though the word felt too small for the ache behind it. It had been a long time since anything like this happened. Long enough that it felt foreign in a way you couldn’t name.
It was unfamiliar—like stepping into a room and realizing everything had been rearranged without warning. You pressed a hand to your blanket, grounding yourself as the thought tried to take shape.
Someone checking on you. Someone brushing your hair. Someone staying long enough to make sure you were okay.
All of it felt unfamiliary weird, almost unreal. But then again… Damian’s behavior that day had felt strange, like he was actually worried. Soft. Careful. Present. None of it matched the version of him you thought you knew.
Exhaled slowly, confused by the heaviness settling in your chest. “...Maybe I really was wrong,,” you whispered to yourself, unsure whether you meant it. Because nothing about the last few days fit into any version of normal you understood. And the strangest part was the quiet spark of hope you tried—and failed—to ignore.
_______________________________________
You finally decided to leave your room, the quiet beginning to feel too heavy around you. Your head was still foggy from the fever, a lingering dizziness making every step feel half a beat behind your thoughts. The hallway lights were gentle against your eyes, and for a moment you assumed the manor was empty—it was nearly noon, after all. Everyone had probably already left.
But when you stepped into the main hall, you heard voices.
There were footsteps—several—and Jason’s irritated tone cut sharply through the corridor. Dick, Jason, and Bruce were walking together, speaking in low, urgent murmurs that didn’t match the calm of the late morning. All three of them looked exhausted: dark circles under their eyes, jaws tight, shoulders pulled so stiffly it seemed like they’d been holding themselves that way for days.
Jason’s voice rose just enough for you to catch the tail end of something sharp.
“…last night! I’m telling you, this is exactly why—”
You had no idea what he meant, but the frustration sounded heavy, old, like it had roots stretching far behind the moment you arrived.
Then all three of them turned toward you.
The shift was instant—conversation severed mid-sentence, postures straightened, eyes locking onto you with something tense and unreadable. It wasn’t the silence of surprise. It was the silence of people getting caught talking about something they didn’t want you to hear.
“Ah—Reader!” Dick stepped forward too quickly, almost stumbling over his own words. “Y-you’re out of bed. Are you feeling better?” His smile twitched at the corners, like he wasn’t sure how to hold it. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? I can get it, just… don’t walk around yet.”
You shrugged weakly. “Just wanted to get something from the kitchen.”
“Dick,” Jason snapped, annoyed, “don’t walk away, we’re not done talking about—”
Dick’s elbow hit Jason’s ribs with practiced precision.
“Not now,” he muttered, then turned back to you with a softness that didn’t match the panic you’d glimpsed a moment earlier.
“You should still be resting, okay? Damian’s going to lose it if he sees you wandering around.”
You blinked at him, thrown off.
Damian? Lose it? Why?
“It’s fine, Dick,” you said gently. “I just want to grab something from the kitchen. I won’t be long.”
You tried to move past them, already stepping toward the hallway.
“You guys keep talking. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You tried to walk past them, but a hand closed around your shoulder—firm, steady, warm. Bruce.
Not harshly—just firm enough to stop you in your tracks. Bruce stepped closer, guiding you to turn so he could see your face properly. His hand rose without hesitation, brushing against your forehead to check your temperature, the gesture instinctive and careful in a way that felt almost parental. The warmth in his touch felt strange—gentle in a way your instincts didn’t know how to process.
Then, with a controlled, almost gentle pressure at your shoulder, he steered you back toward the stairs—toward your room.
“Reader,” he said, voice low and steady, “your fever may have dropped, but your body is still recovering. You need to rest.” His tone softened by a fraction, the kind of softness he rarely let slip.
“If you need anything, message us. Someone will bring it up.”
You stared at him, stunned.
Message us.
The words echoed strangely. You thought of the unread chats, the unanswered calls, the dozens of quiet check-ins you’d stopped sending because no one responded. Since when did they answer messages? Since when did they care if you got up?
Something in your chest tightened—not quite pain, not quite warmth—just something confusing.
You stood there for a heartbeat, thrown off by how easily he said it—how naturally he expected you to ask for help. The hallway felt too still, too warm, too unfamiliar. Sepertinya percuma kalau terus disini..
“…Alright,” you murmured. “If you insist, Father.”
You turned toward the stairs, letting yourself be guided back to your room, not because you were convinced you needed rest—but because resisting suddenly felt too complicated.
You could still feel all of their eyes follow you as you walked away. Their conversation didn’t resume. Their footsteps didn’t move. They just stayed there, watching, silent, until the hall curved and their presence slipped out of sight.
_______________________________________
You walked back to your room with slow, measured steps, the leftover fever still pulling at your balance and making the hallway feel a little too bright around the edges.
The manor’s quiet pressed in gently, the kind of familiar stillness you’d grown up with—no footsteps, no voices, just silence settling over everything like a thin sheet of dust. For a moment, you told yourself the strange tension downstairs must have been your imagination. Fever made everything feel heavier, after all.
Yet something about the way Bruce’s hand had steadied your shoulder, the way Dick’s voice cracked when he insisted you rest, the way Jason’s jaw had locked—none of it matched what you knew about your family.
You reached your room and closed the door softly behind you. The familiar space should’ve grounded you, but instead it only made the memory sharper. Bruce checking your forehead. Dick panicking. Jason cutting himself off mid-argument.
They didn’t act like that—at least, not with you. Not usually. The manor always ran on separate orbits: Bruce buried in paperwork, Dick bouncing between responsibilities, Jason disappearing into his own world.
They didn’t hover. They didn’t fuss. And they certainly didn’t pause conversations just because you walked in.
“Fever-brain,” you whispered, rubbing at your temple. “I’m overthinking.”
But the doubt stayed anyway—small, quiet, sitting somewhere behind your ribs like it belonged there.
You sat on the edge of your bed, pulling the blanket into your lap, trying to explain it all away. They were exhausted. They were arguing about something unrelated. They were surprised to see you up. Simple explanations. Logical, even.
A soft knock nudged the silence, barely loud enough to pull you from the edge of sleep. Before you could answer, the door eased open—slow, cautious, nothing like the usual heavy-footed entrance you expected.
Jason stepped inside with a tray balanced in both hands, his movements strangely careful, almost deliberate, as if he were afraid to wake you fully. Water, medicine, crackers, a small bowl of fruit—more attention than you were used to seeing from him.
You blinked at him, confused by the unfamiliar gentleness. Jason didn’t do quiet entries or soft gestures or anything that required this level of patience.
He stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before setting the tray on your nightstand with an unexpected precision. Something in his expression tightened, like he was wrestling with words he wasn’t used to saying.
“Hey,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Brought you stuff.” His gaze flicked away immediately, the apology forming before he seemed ready for it. “I kinda snapped earlier. Thought maybe you felt weird about it. So… yeah. Sorry.” its feel weird.. its look weird..
Jason Todd, apologizing.
To you.
It didn’t fit him at all.
You shook your head, startled by how wrong the apology sounded coming from him. “Jason, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
He exhaled lightly, relieved, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that the tray was no longer there. “You’re sick,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t be walking around like you’re about to pass out. If you need anything, text one of us. Someone will come.”
The words landed heavier than you expected—warm and unfamiliar, stirring something you couldn’t name. You remembered again the unread messages, the calls that never returned, the quiet spaces where your voice usually disappeared.
But Jason looked earnest, grounded, as if this time you were meant to believe him. You offered a small smile. “Okay. Thanks, Jay.”
He hesitated at the door, lingering for a breath as though deciding whether to add something more, but the thought stayed unspoken. With a stiff nod, he slipped out, the soft click of the door returning the room to its quiet stillness.
Slowly, you eased back into your pillows, letting the warmth of the blankets sink into your skin as the earlier tension began to fade.
'See?' you whispered to yourself, letting your eyes drift half-shut. 'Everything’s fine. They’re just tired.' You repeated the thought gently, convincing yourself with each breath that nothing was strange about any of this.
People think differently when they are sick. Stress did odd things. Exhaustion explained the rest.
One by one, the doubts dissolved, softened by the haze of fever and the comfort of believing life was returning to its usual rhythm.
Jason bringing you water wasn’t unusual, not really. Dick fussing wasn’t unusual. Bruce checking your forehead wasn’t unusual.
Your mind smoothed each moment into something ordinary, layering familiar explanations over cracks you refused to look at too closely.
Sleep pulled at you again, warm and heavy, and you let it take you.
The questions that lingered—small, soft, insistent—blurred into the haze.
And by the time your eyes drifted shut, you had almost convinced yourself completely:
And as sleep tugged you under, the explanation settled over you like a blanket—
comfortable, familiar, and entirely unchallenged.
Because believing things were fine
was easier
than asking yourself why they suddenly weren’t.
_______________________________________
You weren’t sure how long you slept—minutes, hours, something in between. Fever made time feel slippery, stretching and shrinking until nothing held its shape.
The room was dim when you blinked awake, afternoon light filtering weakly through the curtains. Your body felt heavy, your breath warm, but the fog in your mind had thinned just enough for you to hear it:
You heard the soft click of your bedroom door opening.
You didn’t move right away—didn’t sit up, didn’t speak—just turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes half-opening through the haze of lingering sleep.
Damian stood in the doorway, his school bag still slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair slightly messy as if he had walked home faster than usual. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes yet. For a moment, he only looked at you—quiet, still—his gaze moving over your flushed cheeks, the blankets tangled around your legs, the untouched glass of water beside you.
A quiet exhale slipped from him, so soft you almost thought you imagined it.
He stepped inside. Slowly. His footsteps were measured, gentler than usual—not the confident, clipped stride he typically carried, but something hesitant, almost careful, as if even the sound of his approach might be too much for you in your state.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, blinking.
“Oh,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “You’re back.”
Damian froze mid-step, startled by the simple acknowledgment—as if he hadn’t expected you to notice him at all.
“…Yes,” he replied, voice softer than its usual sharp edge. “Alfred informed me you were still unwell.”
“I’m feeling a bit better…” you said, though your voice wavered.
He placed his bag quietly on your desk, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the leg of the chair—something he shouldn’t realistically know, yet somehow did. It struck you as odd. Damian never adjusted himself for others. But now, he moved through your room like someone afraid of disturbing a fragile balance.
“Did you eat?” he asked, organizing your scattered medicine bottles into a neat line. “Or drink anything? Your fever was high this morning.”
You watched him straighten each label with precision.
“…You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware,” he said simply.
But he kept doing it.
The silence that followed was strange—quiet, tense, filled with an awkwardness neither of you knew how to cut through. Eventually, Damian sat at the edge of your bed.
Not too close, not too far. He sat like someone unused to soft furniture, posture stiff, hands resting rigidly on his knees, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“You look tired,” you said softly.
Damian’s head snapped toward you, caught off guard by the observation.
“…I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. You could see it—the faint redness under his eyes, the slight slump in his usually perfect posture, the exhaustion clinging to the edges of his expression. You wondered if school had been difficult. Or if something else—something heavier—had kept him awake.
“You didn’t have to come check on me,” you murmured.
And for a fleeting second, something in Damian’s expression cracked.
Not dramatically—just the faintest flicker of hurt, subtle enough to miss if you blinked. He masked it quickly, but the shift lingered in the air.
“I wanted to,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
You blinked at him, unsure how to respond.
Damian looked away first.
The atmosphere shifted into something delicate and uncertain. Damian kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, as though making sure you were still breathing, still conscious, still there.
You weren’t used to this kind of attention, and he wasn’t used to giving it, yet neither of you seemed willing to break the moment. It felt unfamiliar, fragile, like touching the air around a candle flame.
“Is it… really that bad?” you asked, brushing your warm cheek. “The fever?”
Damian turned fully this time, his gaze sharp but trembling around the edges.
“You nearly collapsed at school,” he said softly. “And you told no one. Not me. Not Father. No one.”
Your breath caught, but the confusion in your chest outweighed the embarrassment. “…I didn’t know who to tell,” you admitted quietly.
Damian lowered his eyes to his hands, his jaw tightening.
“Before I arrive at Gotham,” he asked, the words quieter than you’d ever heard from him, “who took care of you when you were sick?”
The answer slipped out before you could think.
“No one. I took care of myself. I’m used to it.”
The moment the words left your mouth, Damian’s posture stiffened as though something inside him had gone quiet all at once.
He drew a sharp breath, not loud, but deep enough to betray how deeply your answer landed. The stillness around him changed—tightened—like he was holding together a reaction you weren't meant to see. When he finally spoke, his voice was steadier than his expression, but the tremor beneath it was impossible to miss.
“If you’re sick,” he said carefully, each word deliberate, “you should call someone.”
He paused, swallowing once, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the next sentence required effort simply to exist.
“You should call me.”
The air in the room seemed to stop moving, caught on the weight of that single, fragile admission. You stared at him, stunned, unsure if you were supposed to feel relieved, confused, or unsettled by how much his voice softened around those words. Something tightened inside your chest, not painful, but unfamiliar enough to make you sit perfectly still.
You wanted to ask him 'why he cared, why he sounded like he meant it, why hearing him say call me felt like it scraped at a part of you you'd never acknowledged before.'
The questions formed and dissolved too quickly, leaving only a warm, aching confusion behind. You didn’t know if this feeling was happiness, or sadness, or simply the fever playing tricks on your heart.
Damian kept his gaze lowered, hands curled loosely against his knees, as if afraid the moment would shatter if he met your eyes. He looked prepared for rejection, prepared for you to brush it off the way you brushed off most things you didn’t know how to feel.
And for the first time, you felt something shift—soft and tremoring—like a thin crack forming in the certainty you’d built your entire life around.
You watched him, breath caught, unsure how to respond.
Damian’s ears flushed a faint pink, barely visible under his hair, and he turned his head sharply to the side, hiding the expression that had almost surfaced. His voice stayed trapped in his throat, as though he instantly regretted letting you see even a fragment of whatever he had been holding back.
He rose to stand, his movements stiff and too controlled, like he was afraid any softness might undo him. “I’ll bring you soup,” he muttered, already walking toward the door. “And water. And—whatever else you require.” The words sounded practical, but everything beneath them felt raw.
“Damian, wait—”
You didn’t even know what you meant to say until he stopped. He didn’t turn around, just stood there, shoulders squared, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. Something warm and heavy pressed against your ribs, a feeling you couldn’t name even if you tried.
“…Thank you,” you whispered, the words slipping out quieter than you intended.
His shoulders lifted with the smallest breath—barely noticeable, but enough to tell you he heard it. Enough to tell you it reached him.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said at last.
But his voice betrayed him.
It shook—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the tremor tucked beneath the edges.
And then he left your room, closing the door with a gentleness that felt almost impossible coming from him. The latch clicked softly, a sound too careful, too protective, lingering long after he was gone.
_______________________________________
You sat quietly on the bed, the room dim and still, unsure how long Damian had been gone. Fever made time stretch and fold in strange ways, turning minutes into something soft and slippery. Yet his words lingered with perfect clarity, looping in your mind with a sweetness that felt both comforting and unbearably sharp.
You tried to brush it off, to blame the warmth in your chest on the fever, but the feeling didn’t fade. It sat there—strange, heavy, and impossible to decipher—leaving you unsure whether you were relieved, confused, or something in between. You were half-asleep again when the door clicked open, quiet but certain.
Damian stepped inside carrying a tray. Not Alfred. Not Dick. Damian. His presence filled the doorway with that familiar stillness he carried everywhere, though something gentler threaded through it now, softening the edges you were used to.
He walked toward you with careful steps, the tray balanced and neat, as if he had planned every part of this moment. Soup, water, medicine—arranged with precision you weren’t sure he’d ever used for himself. You pushed yourself up slowly, blinking at him in disbelief.
“Why didn’t you ask someone else to bring that?” you murmured. “Isn’t it… heavy?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, his posture tightening in a way you almost missed. He shifted the tray slightly, not out of strain but out of hesitation, as if choosing his words mattered more than the weight he carried.
“I didn’t want anyone else to do it,” he said, voice low and steady.
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything dramatic could have. He set the tray down beside you with quiet precision, making sure nothing rattled or spilled. Even then, he didn’t step back immediately; he lingered near the edge of the bed, close enough that you could feel his warmth.
And in the small, trembling space between you, something shifted again—subtle but undeniable.
A crack in the familiar.
A warmth you didn’t know how to hold.
A feeling you weren’t sure you were meant to have.
He balanced the bowl of soup with one hand and a glass of water with the other, moving more carefully than you had ever seen him move. For someone trained to leap across rooftops, the sight of him walking slowly so the broth wouldn’t spill felt strangely… tender.
He set the tray on your nightstand, adjusting it twice until it sat perfectly straight. Then he turned to you.
“Sit up,” Damian said quietly. The words didn’t land like an order this time—they hovered somewhere softer, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase concern without disguising it. You pushed yourself upright, muscles tightening in protest, and Damian’s hand moved toward your back before he could stop himself. It hovered there—warm, steady, almost touching—until he realized what he was doing and pulled away sharply.
“You’re still weak,” he muttered, trying to force annoyance into his voice but failing to hide the tremor underneath.
You tried a small smile. “Maybe. I thought I was fine this morning, though. I tried going to the kitchen, but Dick, Jason, and Father practically jumped like I set off an alarm. They stopped talking the second they saw me. It felt… strange.”
Damian’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and searching, the tension in his jaw tightening. “What were they talking about?” he asked, but the question sounded less like curiosity and more like suspicion—like he was checking a wound he already expected to find.
You shrugged. “I don’t know. Work, I guess. Jason was upset about something, but he apologized later. He didn’t need to.”
Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he picked up the bowl of soup, blew across the surface with more gentleness than he would ever admit to, then handed it to you carefully—both hands, palms steady, as if he were passing you something fragile. Your breath caught for a moment, not because of the soup, but because it was him.
“Eat,” he said, sitting on the edge of your bed—not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a quiet, controlled storm. His posture remained rigid, knees together, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles paled.
You lifted the spoon slowly, still drowsy. The first swallow warmed your throat, settling heavily in your stomach. Damian watched every movement, jaw tight, shoulders tense, as if each breath you took had to be measured and verified.
“You should have told someone,” he said suddenly.
The spoon froze halfway to your mouth. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet with frightening precision.
“About what?” you asked.
“That you were sick,” he replied. “That you were dizzy. That you were alone.”
You frowned, unsure why he kept circling back to this conversation. “You’re talking about it again. Calm down. I wasn’t really alone. I had Miles and Gwen, remember?”
“That’s not the same,” he snapped—sharp, immediate, almost instinctive.
You blinked at him, startled by the intensity that flared in his eyes.
Damian exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to breathe through something he didn’t dare let slip. When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thin around the edges, frayed in a way that didn’t match the Damian you knew.
“You almost collapsed,” he said quietly. “You didn’t eat properly. You didn’t sleep properly. And you didn’t tell us.”
His hand curled on his knee. “You didn’t tell me.”
It was strange hearing him like this—honest and unguarded, the vulnerability barely hidden beneath his control. You weren’t sure how to respond, because you had never imagined Damian caring enough to sound like this.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said softly. “I get sick sometimes. It’s normal.”
Damian’s eyes snapped to yours—sharp, startled, wounded.
“Stop saying that.”
The sentence wasn’t cold or angry. It sounded afraid, like each time you called it normal, something in him pulled a little tighter and threatened to snap.
You stilled, unsure what part of your words had set him off.
“Stop calling it normal,” he repeated, this time quieter, like the word itself tasted bitter to him. His gaze didn’t leave your face, and the rawness in it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t understand.
You looked down at the bowl, trying to find something steady to anchor yourself. “I just mean… it happens. People get sick. I can handle it.”
Damian shook his head once—small, disbelieving, almost pained. “Not like this. Not until you can’t stand. Not until you nearly faint. Not without anyone noticing. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
Your throat tightened, though you still couldn’t explain why. His tone pressed against something you didn’t usually let yourself feel, a soft corner of your chest you rarely touched.
You wanted to ask 'why he cared, why he sounded afraid, why this felt strangely warm.' But the questions tangled before they reached your mouth.
When he whispered, “I should’ve noticed,” you stiffened.
The words were so gentle they felt like they weren’t meant for you at all, like he’d slipped and revealed something he usually kept buried. It didn’t make sense, 'how could he regret something that was never his responsibility in the first place?'
“You barely know me,” you said, trying to laugh but failing halfway. “I’m not your responsibility.” Your voice cracked in a way you hoped he didn’t hear. “Damian, why are you acting like this?”
He didn’t look away this time. “You’re my sibling.”
It wasn’t dramatic, or emotional, or loud. But the quiet certainty felt heavier than anything he could’ve yelled.
The word sibling curled strangely inside you, not painful, just unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s sweater. You’d always had siblings before him, so why did it feel different when he said it? Why did it echo the same heaviness you’d seen on Miles and Gwen’s faces when they said your life didn’t make sense?
You held the bowl a little tighter, steadying yourself with the warmth in your hands. Something inside you fluttered—uneasy but not unpleasant. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe the fever was still making everything feel softer than it should.
“Damian… listen,” you said slowly. “I’m grateful. Really. But you don’t have to act like this. I’m sick—of course everyone’s being extra nice. Once I’m better, it’ll go back to how things always are.”
His jaw flexed.
There it was again—the word that always seemed to hurt him more than anything else you said.
Normal.
Damian drew a controlled breath, shoulders lifting then falling with quiet resignation. “If that’s what you believe,” he murmured, “then… fine.” His voice didn’t match the word. It sounded like someone giving up on an argument they weren’t ready to lose.
You weren’t sure why it made your chest ache. Maybe because he suddenly looked younger. Maybe because you couldn’t understand why he cared. Or maybe because—just for a moment—you wondered if normal was supposed to feel like this.
But you shook the thought away quickly.
No.
This was simply how families reacted when someone was sick. Anyone would do the same. You’d seen it in movies and books—siblings checking on each other, parents hovering. It wasn’t strange. You were the strange one for not being used to it.
You forced a smile, grounding yourself back into the narrative that made sense. “Damian… do you care about me?” The question slipped out before you could pull it back, sounding small and foolish.
Damian stood abruptly, masking whatever emotion had flickered across his face. “Finish your food,” he said, steadier now, slipping back behind a wall he knew well. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I told you,” you whispered, “I don’t want to bother you. Aren’t you busy?”
He paused in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though the question rooted him in place. Slowly, he lowered his hand from the doorknob, and when he spoke again, the words came out softer than anything you’d ever heard from him.
“You never bother me,” he murmured. “I always have time.”
The gentleness didn’t suit him, yet it wrapped around you with a warmth more disarming than the fever itself. Then he slipped out, closing the door with a care that made your heart stutter in your chest. Silence settled in the room again, but it didn’t feel empty this time—only full of things you weren’t sure how to name.
You stared at the door long after he left, trying to steady your breathing around the unfamiliar warmth spreading through you. A part of you wanted to question the softness in his voice, the way he watched you, the quiet tension in his eyes. But you forced the thoughts down, reassuring yourself that nothing was out of the ordinary.
Families acted like this when one of them was sick.
If it felt strange, then maybe the strangeness belonged to you—not them.
The ache in your chest loosened as you leaned into that familiar logic. Everything was normal. Everything had always been normal. And for the first time in a long while, you felt… genuinely cared for.
When the door clicked shut behind Damian, the room didn’t feel cold the way it usually did. It felt warmer, as if his presence had left something behind—an echo of care, a small imprint in the air, something soft and steady. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d missed that feeling until it found you again.
You looked down at the bowl in your hands, letting the heat soak into your palms. A quiet fullness bloomed in your chest, gentle and unexpected, easing the heaviness that had lingered through the fever. It didn’t feel overwhelming anymore; it simply felt good.
You told yourself there was nothing unusual happening here. Your family was attentive because you were sick. That was natural. That was expected. It wasn’t something to analyze or question. It was just… nice. Comfortably, beautifully nice.
And for once, you allowed yourself to believe it without resistance.
You weren’t ignored.
You weren’t overlooked.
You were wanted here—plainly, clearly, undeniably.
Damian’s earlier words settled softly over you, no longer sharp or confusing.
“Stop calling it normal.”
“You’re my sibling.”
“You never bother me.”
Instead of tightening your chest, the phrases soothed something old and hidden inside you. Maybe this was what care looked like. Maybe this was what closeness felt like. Maybe this was normal—your normal.
A quiet certainty wrapped around you as you sank deeper into the pillows. Everything was fine. Your family cared. There was nothing left to question.
This warmth—your family gave it to you.
This attention—meant you mattered.
This softness—felt like something you were finally allowed to have.
You set the bowl aside and closed your eyes, a small, genuine smile touching your lips.
For the first time in a long, long while, you didn’t have to convince yourself.
You believed it.
They loved you.
You were safe.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
_______________________________________
You woke up that morning feeling lighter than you had in days. The fever was gone, your body finally steady, and the moment you stepped outside the manor, the world felt clearer—brighter, even. For the first time in a long while, you felt almost… whole.
Seeing your friends only strengthened that feeling. They greeted you with warm smiles and relieved laughs, Gwen tugging you into a careful hug while Miles hovered like he might catch you if your balance wavered. You basked in it—the ease, the warmth, the sense that people wanted you near.
And beneath it all was a quiet certainty:
My family took care of me. My friends are here. Everything is finally good.
Pavitr spotted you first and practically teleported into your space.
“Oh thank the multi—, you’re alive!” he declared, thrusting a small wrapped bundle into your hands. “I brought you get-well candy. I sorted them by color. The purple ones have healing properties—emotionally, I mean.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Pavitr, these are Skittles.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “Emotional medicine.”
Peni circled you once, inspecting you like a malfunctioning machine.
“You look alive today,” she declared with mock seriousness. “Much better than ‘cryptid half-dying in the hallway’ yesterday.”
Her deadpan tone made you snort, and she grinned in triumph.
Then Miles turned to you—soft smile, warm eyes—and lightly flicked your forehead.
“Look at you,” he said, “walking on your own. I was ready to turn into a full-time nurse yesterday. Nearly carried you down the hallway again.”
You groaned into your hands. “Miles, stop reminding me.”
“Hey, in my defense, you were basically melting. I thought I’d have to drag you like a sack of potatoes.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Miles, please—never bring that up again.”
He laughed softly, the sound light and steady, nothing like the strained tension of the day before.
Gwen arrived last—quiet smile, soft laugh, the kind that pulled tension out of your shoulders.
Without a word, she took your hands and flipped them over, checking your fingers for any sign of tremor.
“You look way better today,” she said gently. “No fever. Good breathing. And you’re not swaying like a sad little tree branch.”
“I don’t sway,” you protested weakly.
“Yes, you do,” she said, and Miles, Pavitr, Peni, and even someone in the back of the hallway all nodded.
But the shift came gradually—soft at first, familiar in a way you wished you didn’t recognize.
It began with Gwen’s smile dipping for just a fraction too long, the kind of hesitation people have when they’re trying to choose the right words. Pavitr kept glancing at you between sentences, as if checking for something beneath the surface. Miles’s laugh thinned out mid-way, leaving a quiet he didn’t intend. Peni fidgeted with her sleeves, her usual brightness pulled inward like a dimmed light.
You felt the atmosphere change before anyone spoke, but you pretended not to notice.
Then Gwen finally broke the silence, her voice gentler than normal.
“So… how are things at home? After you got sick, I mean.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Good. Really good. They helped me a lot.” Warmth crept into your voice without you meaning it to—Damian’s careful movements, Jason’s apology, Bruce checking your forehead. “It felt… nice. Different, but good.”
Miles exchanged a glance with Pavitr—quick, subtle, but obvious enough that you caught it this time.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah? Different how?”
You shrugged, smiling a little. “I mean… they were really attentive. It was… comforting, I guess. I didn’t know they could be like that.”
Peni’s expression softened, but something in her eyes tightened.
“And you’re sure that’s… normal for them?”
The question brushed past your ear like a cool breeze—light, but enough to raise goosebumps.
“Of course,” you said quickly. “People get worried when someone’s sick. It happens.”
Gwen nodded, though slowly, like she wasn’t fully convinced.
“It sounds like you really needed that,” she murmured. “Being taken care of.”
Your shoulders stiffened—for a moment, brief enough that you hoped they hadn’t noticed.
“I didn’t need it,” you insisted. “It was just… nice. That’s all.”
Miles stepped a little closer, lowering his voice.
“And before this? When you weren’t sick?”
You hesitated—not long, not loudly, but long enough that the silence around you sharpened.
You forced a laugh. “Guys, seriously, it’s fine. Everything’s fine now. My family was there when it mattered. Isn’t that what counts?”
The silence that followed wasn’t angry; just heavy in a way that pressed against your ribs. Pavitr tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor. Gwen folded her arms lightly across her chest. Miles watched you with a softness that felt too direct. Peni pressed her lips together like she was trying not to say something.
Heat crept up your neck—annoyance, embarrassment, something mix of both.
“We don’t have to talk about this again. Really. My family is great. I’m great. Everything is… perfect.”
They nodded, but the gesture wasn’t agreement—it was resignation.
Gwen offered a thin smile, the edges tired.
“If you say so.”
Miles added quietly, “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
There was something in his voice—gentle, strained—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You pushed it away, plastering on a brighter smile.
See? Everything was fine. Your family cared. Your friends cared.
What more were they looking for?
Yet as you walked beside them, listening to half-hearted jokes and the small sighs they tried to hide, a faint thought slipped into your mind—uninvited and unwelcome:
If everything was truly perfect…
why did they still look at you like something was broken?
Your chest tightened, irritation and confusion tangling together.
“What is that supposed to mean? They helped me when I needed it. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what matters?”
Miles’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer.
“We’re not saying they’re bad,” he said softly. “We’re saying you deserve more than being noticed only when you’re burning up with fever.”
Your stomach dropped a little.
There it was again—that doubt they kept pushing, those little cracks they kept trying to widen.
You steadied your breath.
“What else am I supposed to think? They were there. They cared. That means they love me.”
Your voice trembled just slightly, but you hoped no one heard.
“I don’t get what you want from me,” you continued. “My dad’s busy—of course I don’t see him much. But he provides for me. I have a home, food, everything I need. And my siblings have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t need to be attached at the hip to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue.
They just stared—quiet, tired, a little defeated.
Finally, Gwen spoke, barely above a whisper.
“Reader… that’s the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening with a quiet frustration he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
The sentence hit harder than you expected.
You blinked at him, caught between confusion and a faint sting you didn’t want to acknowledge. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive curling into every word. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
But their faces shifted again—sharper now, their concern folding into something heavier. Gwen’s lips pressed thin, Pavitr’s brows dipped, Miles’s shoulders sagged like he was bracing for impact. Even Peni had gone still, her hands twisting nervously.
You didn’t understand any of it.
And the confusion building inside you twisted—slowly, painfully—into irritation.
You let out a tired huff. Sigh.
“This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple as if the conversation itself was giving you a headache. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Or feel. But you do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this.” Your voice rose, thin and strained. “Especially after how they took care of me when I was sick.”
That did it.
Gwen’s breath hitched. Her voice trembled—not weak, but strained, like holding back too much emotion at once.
“Reader,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
You stared at her, hurt flickering through your chest—sharp, unwanted, defensive.
“So what?” you snapped quietly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Miles said, stepping in before Gwen could speak again. His voice cracked with a frustration that was more fear than anger. “You’re acting like one moment of care erases years of them not being there for you.”
Peni’s voice joined in—soft, hesitant, but trembling with urgency.
“You’re… forgetting everything they didn’t do. Just because they showed up once.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. A strange pressure tightened around your ribs.
Gwen swallowed hard, looking like she hated the words she was about to say.
“This is harsh, I know,” she whispered, “but your family only notices you when you’re sick. And now you’re treating that like it’s enough. Like it’s love.”
It felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under you.
But before you could speak—before you could reject it or defend it—Pavitr leaned in, expression gentle but painfully earnest.
“When you say things are ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’” he asked quietly, “what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
The question lingered between you—quiet, careful, but uncomfortably precise. It settled somewhere under your ribs, not painful at first, just strange, like brushing against a bruise you hadn’t realized was there. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
You looked between them slowly, searching their faces for something sharp or accusing, but found none. They weren’t angry. They weren’t frustrated. If anything, they looked… worried. Too worried, in a way that made something inside you tense.
You swallowed, your voice slipping out before you fully understood what you were saying.
“I… don’t know,” you murmured. “I don’t really think about it. Things are just… the way they are.” The words felt thin even to your own ears, and for a moment you froze—caught between confusion and a denial you couldn’t quite hold onto.
The silence that followed made your chest tighten. You didn’t know why. Maybe because you suddenly felt exposed. Maybe because the question had struck deeper than you expected. Maybe because a part of you realized you didn’t have an answer—and that scared you more than you wanted to admit.
Pavitr’s question hung in the air like something too gentle to hurt and yet somehow heavy enough to make your breath falter. The moment your eyes dropped, he seemed to realize it instantly. His expression softened in panic, and he leaned forward with both hands raised as if trying to catch the words before they hit you. “Wait—Reader, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound harsh.”
Gwen stepped closer, her voice dropping into something careful and warm. “Yeah… we came on too strong,” she murmured, rubbing her arm as guilt flickered across her face. “We’re not trying to overwhelm you. We just care more than we know how to handle sometimes.”
Miles let out a slow exhale, the tension draining from his posture. “I thought we were helping,” he said quietly, eyes lowering as if he didn’t trust himself to meet yours. “But I think we ended up pushing too hard. We didn’t mean to make things confusing or painful.”
Peni tugged gently at your sleeve, her usual brightness dimmed into something small and earnest. “You don’t have to answer everything right now,” she said softly. “We can slow down. You can take your time understanding all of this.” She offered a shy smile. “We’re not going anywhere.”
From his place against the wall, Hobie finally lifted his head. He pushed off the surface with a lazy grace, his hands tucked into his pockets as he approached the group. “Oi,” he muttered, clicking his tongue lightly. “We’re bein’ right idiots, yeah?”
He tilted his chin toward you, eyes steady but warmer than his tone suggested. “You lot can’t expect someone to unlearn their whole worldview in one afternoon,” he said, the words blunt but softened by the gentleness beneath them. “Let ’em breathe. Let ’em feel safe first.”
Hobie stopped just close enough that you could sense his presence without feeling crowded. His voice lowered into a rare, steady sincerity. “We’re not here to judge you, luv. We’re just worried. That’s all.” He shrugged lightly, the motion small but genuine. “Sorry if we made it feel like somethin’ else.”
The others nodded almost immediately, like the apology gained weight once Hobie voiced it. Pavitr offered you a small, hopeful smile. “We’re really sorry, Reader. We’ll be more careful.” Gwen touched your elbow, her expression soft and open. “You don’t owe us answers. Not today.”
Miles stepped closer, his gaze steady again, though the softness in it held far more restraint than before. “Take your time,” he said simply. “We’ll figure things out together… whenever you’re ready.” Peni bobbed her head in agreement, whispering another quiet apology that felt more like a promise than a regret.
Their faces held no frustration now—only tenderness and a kind of earnest concern that made your chest ache in a gentler way than before. They weren’t pulling away. They were stepping back just enough to make space for you. And somehow, that hurt and comforted you all at once.
Their apologies drifted toward you one by one—gentle, honest, careful—and yet they only made your heart twist tighter. You stood there for a beat too long, torn between wanting to accept their comfort and wanting to retreat into the solid safety of nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine.
“…It’s okay,” you managed, though your voice shook. “Really. I just… didn’t expect that question.”
You tried to smile, but it wavered. The denial rose quietly in your chest like a shield you hadn’t realized you’d built.
And still—every one of them watched you with the kind of worry that made you wonder, for the first time, if maybe they saw something you didn’t.
Their reassurance wrapped around you like a warm coat you weren’t sure you could wear yet.
And even in your denial, even in your confusion…
you didn’t feel alone.
Not today.
_______________________________________
note: Honestly, Chapter 3 took forever. I wanted the emotional shift to land: the reader feeling loved, cared for, protected—only to be confronted a moment later by a question that shakes everything loose again. Getting that balance right was harder than I thought.
And wrapping it up was even trickier. I don’t want anyone to be the “bad guy” here. at the end of the day, i decided to not check and just post this.
I thought I saw your face today,
But i just turned my head away
After an unexpected incident, you wake up in a body that feels wrong, reshaped, unfamiliar, and nothing like the one you remember.
The world believes you’re dead, and returning home should be impossible.
But the hardest part isn’t hiding, it’s realising that even if you stood right in front of the people you love,
they still wouldn’t see you.
Author note : This one is… weird. I genuinely don’t even know anymore.
The idea started as “what if you can’t recognize yourself anymore, physically or emotionally” And somewhere along the way it turned into a story about how you can’t go back to the past. Not when the past is searching for someone you can’t become again.
During the mission, everything unraveled so quickly that your mind couldn’t keep up with what your eyes were seeing. One second you were moving with the team, and the next the air around you warped—bending, twisting, shuddering like reality itself was breaking open.
The force that pulled you wasn’t like an explosion or a blow; it was as if the space beneath your feet suddenly collapsed and swallowed you whole. You didn’t feel pain, only the terrifying sensation of slipping out of the world entirely.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but weightlessness and a ringing silence that felt too big, too empty. Colors smeared together, your body stretched and folded in ways you couldn’t comprehend, and time itself seemed to hesitate as if unsure what to do with you.
You reached out for something—ground, air, someone’s hand—but everything slid away before you could grasp it. It felt like being erased in slow motion.
Then the confusion swallowed everything else.
Your thoughts scattered, memories flickered like broken film, and you couldn’t tell if you were falling for a second or a lifetime.
The world didn’t push you away; it let go of you gently, horribly, like dropping something it no longer recognized. And in that brief, impossible moment, you felt yourself slip out of your own life as if it had never belonged to you at all.
When you woke up, the hospital ceiling didn’t look like any Gotham medical wing you knew. The lights hummed softly, too soft for a place that should’ve been busy or loud. The sheets felt stiff against your skin, and even the air smelled unfamiliar, clean, but strangely sharp, like medicine you didn’t recognize.
Before you even sat up, something felt wrong in your body. There was a strange weight in your shoulders and an odd tightness around your ribs, like everything inside had shifted while you were unconscious. Your heartbeat sounded uneven in your ears, not painful, just… different.
You lifted your hand slowly, almost afraid of what you would see. The sight made your stomach twist. It was your hand, but also not your hand—close enough to fool a stranger, but wrong enough that your mind rejected it instantly. You didn’t need anyone to point out the differences; your body felt them on its own.
Your gaze slipped downward. Your torso, your arms, even your legs carried subtle changes that didn’t belong to you. As if someone had copied you from memory, but didn’t get the details right. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t monstrous—but it was painfully, deeply wrong.
Then you saw your reflection.
Not in a mirror, not even in anything meant to show a face—just a distorted glimpse in the curve of a metal tray resting beside you. It wasn’t even a full view, just a sliver of light catching on a surface and throwing back a shape you didn’t recognize. But it was enough to stop your breath cold.
Your throat tightened instantly.
The jawline was wrong—too sharp, too unfamiliar—like someone had redrawn you with a different hand.
The eyes sat differently on the face, deeper or wider or simply not where they should have been, the kind of difference that wasn’t obvious at first but impossible to unsee once noticed. It was your face, in the technical sense… but not the face you’d lived with, laughed with, grown into.
“I… look nasty,” you whispered, the words slipping out of you raw and unfiltered. Tears stung your eyes before you could blink them back, blurring the warped features into something even harder to bear.
A choked sob tore from your chest, messy and unsteady, followed by a gag you couldn’t control. Your hands flew to the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets hard enough to shake as your stomach twisted violently.
You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the image away—wishing yourself away.
But the truth clung to you like a second skin:
the reflection wasn’t wrong.
It was you now.
And that realization made your whole body tremble.
You couldn’t imagine returning home like this.
Couldn’t imagine standing in front of them—Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—while wearing a face that didn’t belong to you anymore. Even thinking about their reactions made your stomach twist harder.
When you finally stepped outside the hospital, your legs felt unsteady, as though they still hadn’t learned how to carry this new version of you. You walked because you didn’t know what else to do.
Street after street passed, filled with people who didn’t look twice at you—maybe because you were just another stranger in their city. Maybe because you looked like no one they recognized.
A small TV in a convenience store caught your attention. you heard the news about the explosion in Gotham months ago—the mission you were on. They said there were no civilian casualties. Only one hero lost: you.
Even though the report said your body hadn’t been found, everyone seemed to agree on one thing: you were gone. Lost. Another name added to a quiet list of heroes who never made it home.
Hearing your own name treated like a dead person’s felt unreal.
The broadcast mentioned small vigils, nothing dramatic—just quiet gatherings on corners of streets you once walked. A few people had left flowers, candles, folded notes written in shaky handwriting. It was simple, understated, the kind of grief that comes from people who cared but didn’t know how to mourn someone who vanished.
Some of your old teammates had given short statements, voices steady but thinner around the edges. They spoke in the measured tone people use when they’re trying not to break on camera. The world treated your disappearance like a sacrifice made with purpose, a noble ending to a life they believed had burned bright.
Hearing your name paired with words like “memorial” and “tribute” carved a strange, echoing ache in your chest. It felt unreal—like they were talking about someone fictional, someone you vaguely remembered but could no longer claim as yourself. They mourned you. They let you go. They released the idea of you into the world as if the story had ended neatly.
And maybe—quietly, painfully—maybe that was kinder than the truth.
Kinder than them seeing what your body had become.
Kinder than watching their eyes search your face and find nothing familiar.
Kinder than knowing they would hesitate, confused, unsure whether to reach for you or step back.
A hollow discomfort settled deep beneath your ribs, too heavy to ignore.
They mourned you.
They moved on.
And part of you whispered that maybe this version of events was easier for everyone—remembering a hero instead of discovering someone broken, changed, and unrecognizable even to yourself.
You never sent a signal back.
Couldn’t.
Your fingers hovered over your comm more times than you wanted to admit, trembling at the thought of pressing it. But every time your mind conjured their faces, how they might look at you now, how their expressions might shift from hope to uncertainty—your throat tightened until you couldn’t breathe. The idea of them seeing you like this made your vision blur all over again.
So you let the silence stand.
And in doing so, you let them believe the lie that hurt less.
_________________________________________________
Starting over was harder than you ever thought possible.
You had nothing—no ID, no history, no face that matched any records.
You took small jobs, whatever you could find: mopping floors, wiping tables, cleaning small shops late at night when no one was around to look too closely at you. The kind of work that didn’t require a name.
Nights were the worst.
You would lie awake in your dim, rented room, staring at the ceiling as your new heartbeat thumped with an uneven rhythm you still weren’t used to.
The silence only made it louder, made every unfamiliar sensation in your body feel sharper, more real. Sometimes you traced the changed lines of your skin, hoping the shape of your old self might surface beneath your fingertips.
There were moments—brief, fragile—when you could almost recall your old face clearly, like a memory preserved behind glass. But more often, the image blurred the moment you reached for it, slipping through your mind like someone else’s reflection.
It was terrifying how quickly a person could fade, even when that person had once been you. Some nights you wondered if you were grieving a stranger—and whether that stranger had ever truly existed.
Some mornings, you found yourself staring at the mirror longer than you meant to, trying to convince yourself you could grow used to the stranger staring back.
The face wasn’t grotesque—not in the way nightmares were—but it wasn’t yours either. It felt like a mask fused to your skin, something you could neither remove nor accept, no matter how long you stood there wishing otherwise.
You learned to avoid eye contact with people on the street. Not because they stared at you—most didn’t—but because you were terrified one of them would give you a second glance, tilt their head, and see the wrongness you felt every time you breathed.
You never lingered near reflective surfaces anymore. Windows, shop doors, even shallow puddles on rainy days—anything that caught your shape made your stomach twist in quiet panic. Every reflection felt like a reminder that you didn’t fit inside your own skin, that the person walking around in your body wasn’t someone you recognized.
Work helped numb it, in its own small way.
Scrubbing floors, hauling trash bags, wiping down dusty shelves—each repetitive motion kept your hands moving and your mind quiet enough to get through the day.
No one asked for your name or your story; no one cared if you spoke or stayed silent. You were just another worker doing the jobs people avoided, blending so easily into the background that you sometimes forgot you were there.
But the isolation settled deeper than you expected.
In your old life, even the quiet moments were filled with connection—someone always checking in, asking if you were safe, calling your name through the comm with a mixture of annoyance and concern.
Now there was nothing but the low hum of the city and the distant chatter of people who didn’t know you existed. Their lives moved around you like a river you couldn’t step into, no matter how much you longed for the feeling of belonging again.
Sometimes, when exhaustion pressed too heavily on your shoulders, your hand drifted toward your comm out of old habit. Your thumb would hover over the button, trembling with the memory of what it felt like to hear one of their voices on the other end.
For a heartbeat, you imagined the relief of hearing someone say your name—the way it used to sound when spoken with warmth, irritation, or quiet worry. Not your old name, not whatever new one you were supposed to answer to now, but simply you. Just the feeling of being recognized, being known, even for a moment.
But then your reflection flashed through your mind—sharp, unfamiliar, merciless in its honesty. The jawline that wasn’t yours, the eyes set just a little differently, the face that felt more like a stranger wearing your memories. The thought of anyone seeing that version of you made your stomach twist. And your hand, once hovering with fragile hope, always fell uselessly back to your side.
You weren’t ready to be seen—
not like this.
The hope faded a little each day.
Not suddenly, but quietly, like a candle burning lower without anyone noticing.
You told yourself you were surviving—that surviving was enough. You had a roof, however small. Food, however simple. Work, however tiring. It was a life that kept you breathing.
But late at night, when the sounds of the city went still, you felt it again: that ache beneath your ribs, the one that reminded you that someone out there still thought you were gone. And for a moment, you wondered which version hurt more—the one where you died… or the one where you lived like this.
And even then, part of you whispered that maybe this was all you deserved now.
A quiet existence.
A borrowed face.
A life rebuilt from scraps, far away from the people who would no longer recognize you.
_________________________________________________
Sometimes you caught yourself wondering what would happen if you went back. If you walked into Gotham again, stepped through the Manor doors, and let them see you—this new, unfamiliar version of you. Maybe the world wasn't as cruel as you imagined. Maybe you were the one making it worse in your own head.
But every time that small hope appeared, something old and heavy dragged it down again.
The way people used to look at you—not unkind, just complicated.
The weight of expectations sitting on your shoulders, the tired flicker of disappointment when you fell short, the pressure that squeezed your chest until breathing felt like something you had to earn.
You remembered how your mistakes always seemed louder than your victories. The quiet sighs. The long pauses. Conversations that stopped the moment you walked in, or your voice being talked over like it didn’t belong. All the times you tried to fit, only to feel like a mismatched piece in a puzzle already complete.
Even the people who cared—truly cared—could forget you in the noise of their world. Missions, crises, responsibilities… you slipped through the cracks more often than you wanted to admit. Sometimes you wondered if you mattered at all, or if you were just a slot they didn’t know how to fill.
Those memories stung sharper than your changed body ever did.
Because they were real.
Because going back didn’t just mean facing them—it meant risking falling back into the same patterns, the same doubts, the same quiet loneliness disguised as family.
You pictured yourself standing in front of them now—altered, damaged—and tried to guess which would hurt more: their shocked silence or the pity in their eyes. The possibility that they might not recognize you… or worse, that they would, and simply wouldn’t know what to do with you.
So the idea of returning always died halfway.
Hope rose, warm for a moment, before the past cut it down. You weren’t ready to test the chance of being unwanted again—not in this body, not in this life, not when you could barely look at your own reflection.
And every time the question came—what if I go back?—the answer settled quietly in your chest.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Not like this.
But even with all the bad memories, every harsh tone, every disappointed stare, every moment you felt too small in a house full of legends—there were things you couldn’t forget. Things that made your chest tighten in a different way.
You remembered how Bruce would rest his hand briefly on the top of your head after a long mission. He never said much, never needed to, yet those quiet gestures meant more than any praise. On rare days, he even said “Good work,” and those two words carried enough warmth to last you for weeks.
You remembered how Cass watched over you in her own silent, intense way. The way her brows pulled together whenever you got hurt, how she would guide your hand when you patched your wounds wrong, how she always seemed to sense when you were overwhelmed. Her quiet worry was something you felt, not something she ever needed to say.
Your brother—Damian—your difficult, sharp-tongued little demon. He’d scold you with all the pride of a tiny general, complain that you were careless, roll his eyes at your mistakes. But when cleaning your wounds, his hands were surprisingly steady. Gentle. He’d mutter “Be more careful, idiot,” but linger just a moment longer to make sure the bandage stayed secure.
Tim always noticed things you missed.
He’d tap your shoulder and remind you to check a corner, reload properly, eat something before patrol. He remembered your weaknesses even when you tried to hide them and quietly compensated for them without making you feel small.
And then there was Jason—the one who always showed up in the split seconds that mattered. Jason grabbing your vest and pulling you away from a tripwire you were milliseconds from stepping on, swearing under his breath even as his eyes scanned you for injuries. His anger was loud, but underneath it was fear—fear of losing someone again.
Dick was different. He worried with a softness that made you feel seen in ways you didn’t always know how to accept. He’d pull you behind him with instinctive protectiveness, shouting your name with a kind of panic that stayed long after the fight was over. A
nd later, when things were quiet, he’d squeeze your shoulder, check in with a simple “Hey, you okay?” in that gentle tone that made you want to believe everything was. He had a way of looking at you that felt like home, even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.
Those memories stayed.
They didn’t erase the hurt, but they didn’t let it be the full story either.
They reminded you that it wasn’t all cold.
That they had cared—messily, imperfectly, but honestly.
And when you sat alone in your dim little room, staring at your unfamiliar hands in the soft glow of the lamp, that truth hurt the most. Because you missed them—with a deep, aching pull that pressed into your ribs and refused to leave. You missed the warmth under the chaos. The presence. The feeling that someone stood behind you, no matter how badly you stumbled.
But missing them didn’t erase the fear.
It didn’t stop your stomach from twisting when you imagined their faces seeing what you’ve become. Missing them didn’t suddenly make you brave enough to go back.
If anything, it only made the distance feel heavier.
And the loneliness sharper.
Because the truth was painful but simple:
you weren’t just grieving your old body.
You were grieving the version of yourself who once belonged in their world.
_________________________________________________
That days..
You weren’t paying much attention to the TV at first. It was just noise filling the shop while you cleaned—voices blending with the hum of the lights, nothing important enough to listen to.
But then the anchor said a name you hadn’t heard spoken aloud in months, a name that felt like it belonged to someone else now. Your old name, echoing faintly through the quiet room like a ghost tapping your shoulder.
Made you turn toward the screen even before your mind caught up. You froze when the familiar photograph appeared—a younger version of you, whole and steady, standing in a uniform that no longer belonged to you.
The face on the screen looked nothing like the one you saw in mirrors now, yet the world displayed it as if it still belonged to you. It was unsettling—watching the version of yourself from before, smiling easily in a photograph that felt farther away than any place on earth.
The anchor glanced briefly at her notes before continuing.
“Authorities have released an update regarding the disappearance of Reader Wayne, who was last seen several months ago during a private trip outside Gotham City. According to official reports, contact with Wayne ceased shortly after departure, and no verified communication has been received since.”
Your old photograph appeared again in the corner of the screen—clean, poised, untouched by everything that happened later.
“Investigators state that the circumstances surrounding the disappearance remain unclear. There were no signs of foul play at the location where Wayne was last confirmed, and no evidence suggesting voluntary departure. The search has since expanded beyond the initial region after multiple unconfirmed sightings were reported across several cities.”
The anchor continued in that calm, practiced tone reporters used for delicate subjects.
“The Wayne family has intensified their efforts, funding additional private searches and coordinating with local authorities in neighboring states. A family representative reiterated earlier today that they remain committed to bringing Reader Wayne home.”
Then, with a smooth transition, the anchor continued,
"In a separate matter, officials reaffirm the closure of the investigation into last building explosion, which resulted in the presumed death of an unidentified vigilante. Although both incidents occurred within the same week, authorities state there is no connection between the cases"
Her voice was even, practiced, untouched by the weight of the words she delivered. To anyone else, it was just another segment in a long broadcast—one story among many, meant to be heard and then forgotten.
But something in you tightened, as if a hand you couldn’t see had closed around your ribs.
The broadcast didn’t say it directly, but you heard it between every careful sentence—your family refused to accept your disappearance as the same thing as death. They had lost the vigilante the world knew, but they were still looking for you, the civilian beneath the mask. They hadn’t let either version of you go.
They weren’t searching for a hero or a mask or any persona the world once attached to you. They were searching for someone they cared about, someone whose absence left a shape they still hadn’t learned to live without. They were searching for Reader Wayne—the person frozen in the photograph on the screen, preserved exactly as you once were.
But to you, that face felt like a stranger. The features were familiar only in the sense that you remembered owning them once, like an echo wearing your history as a costume. You knew the person in the picture, yet you no longer recognized them as yourself.
Somewhere beneath the confusion, something flickered—small, unwanted, sharp. It wasn’t hope, not quite, but the ache of realizing someone still searched for you when you no longer knew how to claim the name they called. Their insistence on holding onto you stung in ways you weren’t prepared to feel.
You had spent so long believing you were easy to overlook, another voice swallowed by larger lives and louder presences. You told yourself that if you disappeared, the world would shift around the empty space without much trouble.
Yet the posters and broadcasts proved otherwise, and their refusal to let you vanish unsettled you more deeply than your altered reflection ever had.
Each sentence from the anchor’s calm, practiced voice struck with surprising precision. She spoke as if reviewing any ordinary missing-person case, but to you, every word pressed into a bruise you hadn’t realized was still tender. They were clinging to a face you no longer wore and a presence you could no longer inhabit.
You felt questions you’d avoided for months rising, unsteady and sharp. Why were they still looking? Why hold on so fiercely to a version of you that had already slipped away? The world had every reason to let you fade quietly, yet they hadn’t—and the ache of that lingered stubbornly in your chest.
Standing under the dim store lights, you felt the weight of a truth you couldn’t name. They weren’t searching for the person you’d become; they were reaching toward a memory, a silhouette that once fit easily into their world. That version of you no longer lived in your bones, no matter how desperately they believed otherwise.
It had been long enough for grief to soften and names to blur, yet they kept looking as if time had changed nothing. As you stared at your reflection in the window—your altered angles, your unfamiliar lines, the scars that didn’t belong to the person on the screen—the distance between past and present felt impossibly wide. You couldn’t bridge it, even for yourself.
The realization settled cold in your chest. They were searching for someone who didn’t look or move like you anymore, someone whose life had ended the moment yours changed. They searched for a ghost while the living version of you stood unnoticed, even by the parts of yourself that still tried to remember who you were.
You looked away from the TV, unable to endure the contrast any longer. The photograph showed a life untouched by everything that had broken and rebuilt you into someone new, someone foreign. Walking toward the back room felt like leaving behind a truth only you could see—that the person they wanted back no longer existed in any world you still belonged to.
By the time your hand touched the door, your thoughts had twisted into a tight, breathless knot. Their search wasn’t meant for the person standing here now; it was meant for the echo of who you used to be, the outline left behind when time tore you apart. And the question pressed quietly beneath your ribs, persistent and aching: Why are they still looking for me… when I’m not me anymore?
Days slipped by in a quiet rhythm, each one blending into the next as you tried to convince yourself that life had settled into something steady.
But the search didn’t fade the way time usually softens things. Instead, it pressed outward, reaching places farther than you ever imagined anyone would bother looking. You felt it creeping closer in the way the air tightened whenever your name appeared, even indirectly.
You kept your head down, telling yourself this city didn’t care who you were or who you used to be. Yet the world had stubborn ways of brushing your past against your new life—a half-heard name on a passing radio, a newspaper headline glimpsed through glass, the faint murmur of recognition that never quite reached you. Each reminder arrived quietly, chiseling at the parts of you that tried to forget.
The posters were the next blow—simple sheets of paper carrying a weight you weren’t prepared to face. The first one fluttered at a bus stop, almost shy in the wind. Then they multiplied, spreading across café windows, community boards, lampposts, and newspaper stands. Everywhere you went, your old face stared back at you with a clarity your reflection no longer held.
It was the old you—untouched by the fracture that broke your life in two. The smile was relaxed, the eyes steady, the features familiar in a way that once felt like home. But as you stood there, staring at that picture, you realized with a slow, unsettling ache that you didn’t recognize that person anymore. The face in the poster felt more like a stranger you used to know than someone you had ever been.
And the distance between that version and the one you wore now was unmistakable. Your bone structure had shifted subtly but irrevocably; your jaw set differently, your cheekbones changed shape, your eyes holding a weariness that never existed before. Even without the scars, the difference was stark enough that no one would place the two of you on the same timeline. Not even you.
Something in your chest dropped quietly, like a stone sinking out of sight. Someone had printed these flyers. Someone had carried them through streets, taping them carefully with hope tucked into every edge. Someone still believed this face—your old face—was out there waiting to come home.
But they weren’t looking for you.
They were searching for the memory of who you used to be.
Your reflection in the glass beside the poster confirmed it with merciless clarity. The person staring back at you now carried new angles, new shadows, new marks carved from places no one else had survived. You tried to line up the features—poster to glass, past to present—and nothing connected. It was like comparing two people who had lived entirely different lives.
The cruelest part.
You could walk a crowded street without lowering your head.
Hair messy, clothes worn, eyes tired—and no one would give you a second glance.
People brushed past without recognition, unaware the person they were searching for was right there.
You could stand inches from a poster with your old face on it… and still go unnoticed.
Sometimes you even tested it—lingering nearby as strangers studied the printed image.
They stared, frowned, then walked on, searching for someone familiar.
Someone whose features belonged to memory.
Not the unfamiliar shape you had become.
You no longer resembled any of it—not in face, not in presence, not in the way the world had once known you.
You should have felt relieved—safe behind the anonymity your new features granted you. But relief stayed far away. Instead, a quiet ache settled beneath your ribs, shaped by the realization that they could search every street and never find you, not because you were hidden, but because the person they wanted no longer existed.
It hurt in a soft, strange way to realize the version of you they longed for existed only on paper now.
The posters multiplied with each street you walked.
Some crisp, some worn by rain, some crooked and fading.
All reaching toward someone who had disappeared the moment time tore you apart.
as you walked past yet another row of flyers, your old smile staring back like a ghost you couldn’t bear to confront, one truth settled deep and unyielding in your chest:
They’re searching for someone you can no longer become.
They’re searching for someone who has been dead for a long time.
_________________________________________________
It didn’t happen all at once. The city didn’t suddenly shift or darken, and there were no alarms to warn you. Instead, the change crept in quietly—soft as a draft beneath a closed door, subtle enough to ignore until it was too close to dismiss.
At first, it was the way unfamiliar faces lingered on street corners a little too long. They weren’t locals—you could tell by the way they scanned the sidewalks, eyes flicking from poster to passerby with a focus that didn’t belong in such a sleepy town. Their attention felt searching, not curious, and it made something in your chest tighten with an old, unwanted awareness.
People began studying the missing posters more intently too. Commuters paused with thoughtful frowns, whispering before glancing around the street as if expecting someone to step out from behind a doorway. Their eyes skimmed across faces, including yours, but never long enough to see the wrongness beneath your skin.
Then came the patrol cars, looping the same streets with an odd, practiced rhythm. They didn’t question anyone or turn on their lights, but the pattern felt too intentional—like the street grid had become a map for something other than traffic. The sight triggered a faint flicker of recognition in your memory, the sensation of surveillance disguised as routine.
Store owners you’d never spoken to began watching the street with quiet alertness. Some stood in their doorways even during slow hours, their gazes drifting over every passerby with the patience of observers waiting for a particular shape to appear. Others smoothed the corners of posters on their windows as if preparing for someone important to actually read them.
Even the air shifted. The everyday hum of buses, chatter, and rustling newspapers carried a subtle tension, as though the whole town was holding its breath. You caught yourself glancing over your shoulder, not out of fear but because instinct urged you to—instinct you thought you’d buried with your old life.
The alley behind the shop grew stranger as well. Footprints appeared where no trucks had driven, and the dumpsters sat at odd angles, nudged by hands that didn’t belong to your coworkers. Small details, easy for anyone else to overlook, but your body recognized the pattern before your mind dared confirm it.
By the end of the week, the town no longer felt like a quiet refuge. It felt watched—not with hostility, but with intent, as though dozens of unseen eyes combed through its corners searching for someone who wasn’t supposed to be found. Even though no one ever looked at you twice, the pressure settled around you all the same.
The strangest part wasn’t the strangers or the surveillance. It was the familiarity threading through it—the unmistakable patterns of a hunt you once knew how to conduct. And somewhere beneath your fear, something old stirred in your bones, whispering a truth your mind wasn’t ready to voice:
They were getting closer.
_________________________________________________
It started subtly, the kind of detail you would’ve ignored if you weren’t already on edge. One evening, a soft thud traveled across the rooftop—steady, controlled, nothing like the clumsy footsteps you’d grown used to in this city. Something in the rhythm of it tugged at a buried instinct, a piece of your old life your body still remembered even when your mind tried to forget. The familiarity made your heart stutter before logic could stop it.
But that familiarity made no sense. No one from your past should be anywhere near this town, not this far from Gotham, not standing above the tiny shop where you hid in plain sight. You told yourself it was coincidence, a ghost of old instincts replaying patterns where none existed. Yet the sound lingered in your chest long after the rooftop fell silent.
The next day, you found a faint scuff on the ledge behind the building—a clean print in the dust, too precise to belong to anyone local. You crouched down, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, as memories flickered behind your eyes. You’d seen that shape countless times on missions long before your disappearance. Yet your thoughts scrambled for denial: It can’t be them. They wouldn’t come this far. They wouldn’t know where to look.
That night, a drone glided quietly across the sky, almost hidden among the streetlights but moving with a smoothness that made your pulse jump. Civilian models didn’t fly like that—too silent, too steady, too purposeful.
For a moment, hope and dread tangled painfully in your throat. But then your mind snapped back: No. Please no... They’d never send something like that out here. Not for you. Not this far.
And yet the feeling lingered long after the drone vanished. Each passing day brought another sign—a flicker of a shadow that moved with deliberate intent, the whisper of fabric brushing against metal, a distant click of a grapnel too faint for anyone else to notice. They were things your body reacted to before your mind caught them, instincts sparking like live wires under your skin.
But every spark of familiarity clashed with twice as much disbelief.
It was impossible. Irrational.
If they were truly this close, if they had followed the search this far beyond the city you once called home, then the world had shifted more than you realized. The thought sent a cold shiver down your spine—a strange mix of fear, confusion, and a small, fragile ache you didn’t dare name.
It made no sense for them to be here.
It made no sense for them to even consider reaching this city.
And yet with every new sign, denial became harder to hold onto.
It felt as though someone out there still knew you—knew your patterns, your instincts, the paths you’d choose even in a body the world no longer recognized. The familiarity was unmistakable, terrifying, and heartbreakingly precise.
And the truth whispered at the edge of your thoughts, quiet but undeniable:
They are here.
_________________________________________________
A ghost you tried to escape.
A memory you shouldn’t have hoped to see again.
You were simply walking home from work, slow, tired walk you’d done a hundred times since arriving in this town. Your mind was numb from the long shift, focused only on the weight of the grocery bag in your hand and the ache in your shoulders. Nothing about the moment felt unusual. Nothing suggested your world was about to tilt.
But as you rounded the corner near the bus stop, three figures appeared in your path. At first, they were just shapes in the crowd—three strangers talking softly, their voices blending with the hum of traffic.
You would have kept walking, would have looked past them like anyone else, if not for the way they moved. Something in their posture tugged at your attention, pulling your gaze up before your mind had time to understand why. And that was all it took.
Dick’s laugh—soft, brief, painfully familiar—was the first thing that hit you. Jason walked beside him with that same steady, guarded posture you could recognize even in another lifetime. Damian kept pace on the other side, his small frown fixed on every storefront as though quietly judging the entire town. They looked exactly as you remembered them… and that truth rooted your feet to the ground, as if the world had slipped sideways.
Your steps faltered before you could stop them. It felt like seeing ghosts—except ghosts didn’t breathe, didn’t cast shadows, didn’t walk toward you with warm sunlight on their shoulders. Your mind scrambled to insist this wasn’t real, that exhaustion was playing tricks on you. What were the odds they’d be here, in this tiny city, at this exact moment? Impossible. Absurd.
And yet your body recognized them before your thoughts did. You turned your head the slightest fraction, watching from the corner of your eye. Even with the glare of the setting sun behind them, even in civilian clothes, even at this distance—everything in you knew them instantly. The familiarity slammed into your ribs, a violent echo of a life you buried but never fully outran.
Then Dick’s gaze drifted across you—nothing more than a casual sweep of the street. Not a pause. Not a flicker. Not even half a heartbeat of hesitation. Just the passing glance you give a stranger you’ll never think about again.
It lasted less than a second, but your heart reacted like the sky had cracked open. Recognition surged through you, followed immediately by the sharp, hollow ache of being unseen. You didn’t realize how much of you had been bracing—waiting, wishing—for something until it shattered quietly in your chest.
His eyes didn’t widen.
They didn’t sharpen with suspicion.
They didn’t return for a second look the way they once did whenever something felt wrong.
There was no spark of familiarity.
No small frown.
No hesitant “wait—” hovering on his lips.
To him, you were no one now.
Just another weary face blending into a quiet town he’d forget by the end of the day.
Your throat tightened painfully, but you forced your expression into something flat and forgettable. You shifted your bag to the other shoulder and stepped out of their path with a quiet, practiced ease, the kind that came from years of learning how to move without drawing attention. Every part of your body settled into old habits—small, controlled, invisible.
You kept walking, blending into the crowd as if nothing inside you had cracked. You didn’t look back—you couldn’t. Even turning your head felt dangerous, like granting your heart permission to hope for something it no longer deserved. So you stared at the pavement instead, letting your legs carry you home while each step grew heavier than the last.
By the time you reached your building’s door, your breathing had steadied, at least on the surface. Your pulse still stumbled wildly beneath your ribs, and your fingers trembled as you fought with the lock. When the door finally clicked shut behind you, the dim hallway wrapped around you like something both safe and suffocating.
You leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to your chest as if that could quiet the ache spreading through you.
No… please. Do you… really not recognize me?
The thought slipped out unbidden—small, stunned, almost childish in its desperation. You didn’t say it aloud, but it echoed in your mind with a sharpness that made your eyes burn.
The worst part was how unfair it felt.
But.. you had wanted this, hadn’t you?
You had begged for anonymity, for distance, for a chance to disappear into a face no one would ever connect to your past. You told yourself over and over that them not recognizing you would be easier, safer, cleaner.
But standing there, alone in the quiet path, you realized how wrong you’d been.
Their indifference cut deeper than any wound.
Not because they didn’t care—no, you knew they did.
But because their eyes had passed through you like you were nothing more than a stranger, and that truth settled in your bones with a coldness you weren’t prepared for.
You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled close, hands curled weakly at your sides. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly, casting a pale glow across your altered features—features you could barely stand to look at. Their blank stares had reminded you, brutally, of how different you’d become.
You lingered on the floor longer than you meant to, waiting for your heartbeat to calm. When you finally pushed yourself up, your body felt heavier than before, as if the encounter had added weight to your limbs.
You walked toward the small mirror near the entryway, not because you wanted to look, but because some part of you needed to confront what they had seen—or rather, what they hadn’t. Your breath faltered the moment your reflection stared back at you.
You slept poorly that night—if it could even be called sleep. Every time you drifted off, you jolted awake again, heart pounding at the memory of their silhouettes passing you on the street. You kept expecting to hear footsteps outside your door, to hear a knock, to hear your name spoken with urgency. But the hallway stayed silent, and your phone remained dark.
_________________________________________________
When morning came, you pushed yourself through your routine, even though everything felt slightly off—as if the air itself remembered something you were trying hard to forget. You dressed, tied your shoes, and moved mechanically through motions you no longer felt connected to. Your body worked on habit while your mind lingered stubbornly on the street corner where your world almost came undone.
Before leaving, you hesitated by the old cabinet where you’d shoved everything from your past life. Your fingers brushed the back of the shelf until they found the small device you had sworn never to touch again. The comm blinked weakly when you pulled it out—alive, responsive, loyal in a way that made your stomach twist.
It must have been signaling this whole time, faint pulses searching for receivers you never meant to reach. You felt stupid for not realizing it sooner, stupid for thinking distance alone would be enough to sever every connection. Questions spiraled through you—why now? why here? why had they found you only after months had passed?
And yet, beneath all the confusion, one truth rose like a bitter taste on your tongue:
this device had been calling out for you long after you stopped answering back. You tightened your grip around it, feeling the weight of everything it represented—your past, your failures, your face that no longer matched the one they still searched for.
You made a decision, quiet and fearful and necessary.
You slipped the comm into your pocket, determined to throw it away somewhere far from your home, far from the life you were trying to build. Distance hadn’t saved you, but maybe erasing the last tether might.
But the moment you reached the main road, your steps slowed.
The world refused to let yesterday fade.
Because they were still there.
You spotted them across the street, walking slowly as they looked over maps on a phone—clearly scouting something out. Dick pointed toward a row of buildings farther down, Jason shook his head at whatever he saw, and Damian stood with his arms crossed, surveying the area with sharp, calculated eyes. Nothing dramatic. Nothing suspicious. Just… them. Existing in your town like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You slipped into a side street before your heartbeat could betray you, head ducked low as though the pavement were the only safe place to look. The world suddenly felt smaller—tighter—pressing in around the edges of your vision as your quiet new life folded under the weight of their presence. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to disappear, to make yourself smaller than the air you breathed.
Because if they were here yesterday.
and they were still here today.
how long until their eyes finally landed on yours?
As you hurried deeper into the narrow street, a faint murmur drifted from behind you—just enough to catch a few familiar words. “…signal… still active…” Dick’s voice, low and serious. The realization struck you like a blow: the comm you’d meant to throw away, the one blinking weakly in your coat pocket, had led them straight into town.
Your throat tightened painfully as the truth settled, heavy and unforgiving. They weren’t wandering; they weren’t following rumors; they weren’t entertaining desperate hope. They were tracking something precise—something alive—and without even noticing, you had put yourself directly in their path.
You kept moving, faster now, heart hammering hard enough to shake your breath loose. The alley blurred at the edges as fear tunneled your vision, and by the time you pushed through the back door of your workplace, your hands were trembling too badly to hide.
Because they were close.
Too close.
And sooner or later, they would stop searching for the person you used to be…
and start looking at the stranger you’d become.
_________________________________________________
You worked with restless hands that morning, wiping down counters too quickly, stacking boxes with more force than necessary. Your thoughts kept circling the same dread: finish fast, go home early, get rid of the comm before it led them straight to you. Every time it buzzed faintly in your pocket, you flinched as though it were a ticking bomb. Money was tight, travel impossible, but distance felt safer than keeping it near.
You stepped outside to arrange the small display of goods, forcing your breathing to steady. But then footsteps approached—calm, steady, too practiced to belong to a passerby. You froze mid-motion, unable to look up, because your body already knew exactly who had stopped in front of you. The air shifted the way it used to on rooftops, right before backup arrived.
A shadow fell over the crates, and a familiar voice cleared its throat.
“Excuse me,” someone said—warm, polite, unmistakably his.
Your heart lurched so sharply it almost knocked the box from your hands, a reflex you hadn’t felt in months.
When you finally lifted your gaze, Dick stood there. Jason and Damian hovered a few steps behind, scanning the street with sharp, sleepless focus. They looked worn, strained around the edges, like people who had spent too many nights chasing a thread of hope—but none of them looked like they expected to find you standing here.
Dick’s expression softened into something friendly, apologetic.
“We’re looking for someone,” he said, pulling out his phone with careful gentleness. “Have you… seen anyone who might resemble this?”
When you finally lifted your gaze, Dick stood in front of you.
Jason and Damian hovered just behind him, scanning the street with quiet precision, and you saw them up close for the first time in months. They looked tired, sharpened by worry, like people who hadn’t slept properly in weeks—but absolutely none of them looked like someone expecting to find you here.
Dick’s expression was gentle, apologetic in the way he reserved for strangers.
“We’re looking for someone,” he said, pulling out his phone with slow, careful movements.
“Have you… seen anyone who might resemble this?”
Your breath broke cleanly in your chest.
Your old photo stared back—bright-eyed, steady, confident, untouched by everything that had ruined and rebuilt you. The difference between that face and the faint reflection behind you in the shop window felt crueler than anything you had ever imagined.
For one impossible second, you wondered if something—anything—might give you away.
A flicker in your expression, a remnant of your old posture, a recognizable tilt of your head.
Something that would make one of them hesitate.
But nothing happened.
No widening eyes, no sharp intake of breath, no suspicion.
Just polite, hopeful patience waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.
Your mouth opened, but your voice wouldn’t come.
Instead, you shook your head once—small, quick, almost reflexive, the safest answer in the world.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak without everything spilling out.
“Ah. Sorry to bother you,” Dick said gently, offering a nod filled with gratitude he didn’t owe you.
He didn’t press. Didn’t linger. Didn’t look twice.
You stepped back automatically, hugging the box to your chest like a shield.
Your legs moved before your thoughts caught up, carrying you toward the doorway with a speed that felt like panic wearing a calm mask.
It wasn’t running, but it felt like it.
Jason called a polite “Thanks” as you retreated, his tone distant but sincere. And Damian.. looked at you a fraction longer, eyes narrowing just slightly in assessment. A moment too sharp. A moment too close. But he said nothing… and finally dismissed you entirely.
Inside the shop, the door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, the sound small yet devastating in the quiet. You stood frozen for a moment, staring through the glass as their figures drifted farther down the street. They didn’t look back—not once—and the distance made it painfully clear that they truly hadn’t recognized you.
The realization settled slowly, like cold water rising past your ribs. You had imagined a thousand versions of this encounter: watching from a rooftop, ducking into an alley, holding your breath as they passed. You had even imagined the terror of being recognized. But not this—not the emptiness of being a stranger to the people you once loved.
You had stood there in front of them, close enough to hear Dick breathe, close enough to see the faint smudge of exhaustion under Damian’s eyes. Close enough for everything in you to ache with familiarity. Yet none of that reached them—not a spark, not a flicker, not even a hesitation.
And somehow, without meaning to, you had helped them stay lost.
You had shaken your head, lied with your silence, and let them walk away.
_________________________________________________
ending
The comm wouldn’t stop pulsing.
By afternoon, its weak blinking had sharpened into a steady, insistent light—stronger than anything it had shown in months. It was unmistakable: someone on the other end had boosted the signal, amplifying it, reaching for you with every tool they had left. You felt the vibration through your pocket like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you.
There was no time to flee the city.
No time to pack, no money to buy a ticket, no place far enough to outrun what was closing in. So you chose to sever the last tether with your own hands. You walked quickly, breath tight in your chest, heading toward the one place where your actions would disappear into the noise: the evening rush.
The streets were crowded with people heading home, carrying bags, talking on phones, lost in their own weariness. No one looked twice when you stepped into the gathering flow of bodies. No one cared about the small object shaking in your fist or the tight way your jaw was set. To them, you were just another stranger swallowed by the hour.
You reached the edge of a plaza—a messy overflow of food stalls, commuters, and children tugging their parents’ sleeves. It was loud, chaotic, thoughtless in all the ways you needed it to be. With a shaky breath, you slipped the comm from your pocket and let it fall. It hit the pavement with a small clatter that vanished instantly beneath dozens of footsteps.
For a moment, you stared at it—your past lying face-down on the concrete like something discarded. Then you nudged it with your foot, harder than necessary, dragging it across the ground until the casing cracked. The blinking light stuttered, flickered, then died entirely. A faint grind of plastic under your shoe marked the final break. No signal. No trace. No way back.
You straightened slowly, your fingers still trembling, and stepped away from the ruined device. The noise of the crowd pressed around you like a wall, giving you anonymity you no longer knew how to appreciate. All you wanted was distance—just ten seconds to breathe before the weight of everything returned.
But when you turned to go, they were there.
Dick was the first figure you recognized, weaving through the crowd with the purposeful grace you used to follow across rooftops. Jason moved beside him, broader, tense, eyes scanning every moving shape with restless precision. Damian trailed slightly behind, shoulders squared, his focus sharp enough to cut through the evening light. They looked determined, exhausted, almost frantic beneath the calm they tried to project.
And they were walking straight toward you.
Your breath caught painfully, your heart seizing like it didn’t know whether to stop or run.
You kept walking.
You lowered your gaze and slipped into the thick flow of commuters, forcing your steps to stay steady even as your pulse thundered beneath your ribs. Shoulders brushed yours, bags bumped your legs, and the noise of the city blurred into a distant hum you could barely register. Every movement felt mechanical, like you were borrowing a body that didn’t quite fit you anymore.
The distance between you and them closed quickly—until the air itself felt tight, thin, hard to swallow. You hugged your coat closer, pretending you were just another tired worker heading home after a long day. Pretending your entire world wasn’t about to collide with the past you’d been running from. Pretending you could still control what happened next.
They passed you.
Dick’s sleeve brushed your arm, the lightest whisper of contact in the crush of bodies. Jason’s shadow stretched across your path an instant later, long and sharp against the pavement as he strode ahead. Damian’s footsteps clicked beside you, crisp and unmistakable, before slipping back into the rhythm of the crowd. None of them slowed. None of them turned. None of them even considered looking at your face.
You didn’t let yourself breathe until their silhouettes blurred into the stream of people, swallowed by movement and noise. The relief that should’ve come never arrived; instead, your chest ached with something raw and sickeningly familiar.
You had crossed paths with them so many times in the last few days—far too many for coincidence—and every time they walked past you without recognition, the same quiet ache spread deeper.
How many times has this happend?
Four? Five? More?
Enough that your heart learned the pattern: a flicker of hope, a spike of fear, and then that hollow, sinking sadness when their eyes slid past you like you were no one at all. Each encounter chipped something loose inside you, something fragile you hadn’t realized was still holding on.
You kept walking with the evening crowd, blending into a world that had no reason to remember your face, your voice, your existence.
The posters on the walls called for someone who had died long before you learned how to live like this, and the people searching for you were chasing a ghost you could never become again.
But you didn’t realize that the price of being forgotten was learning how to forget yourself, too.
I tried to imagine a full backstory, but honestly? I can’t put it into a version that actually 'makes sense' yet 😭
Because whatever decided for their past is going to affect everything that happens next in the story, tone, behavior, lore, even how the Batfam handles them.
So for now, I’m sprinkling little hints here and there:
some lines that sound like backstory, some that are just chaotic conversations, and a few real pieces of lore hidden between them.
Rage, hunger, and the faintest flicker of understanding crashed together the moment those hands forced your face still.
Fingers held your eyes shut, pinched your nose closed, pried your jaw open like you were something wild and dangerous.
They didn’t give you room to breathe, didn’t give you time to think—only pushed mouthful after mouthful past your teeth.
No matter how you thrashed or choked, they forced the blood in, ignoring every panicked sound that broke out of you.
Force feeding
It had been days, and your mind felt like it was fraying thread by thread. Hunger gnawed through every thought, turning even the faintest sound or scent into something sharp—anger, irritation, a simmering desperation you could no longer swallow down.
Yet even as your body screamed for blood, your mouth refused every drop they tried to give you. Stored blood tasted like poison now, and the closer they came, the more unbearable everything became.
They knew something was wrong, of course they did, but none of them wanted to admit how quickly you were unraveling. Every time someone lingered too close to your door, you snapped—your voice cracking with anger, fear, and something feral clawing up your spine.
No matter how many times you told them to stay away, their worry dragged them back, and every return visit made the air heavier, tighter, as if the whole house was a single spark away from burning.
The scent in your room thickened until it felt like drowning in someone else’s emotions. Stress, worry, sleeplessness—every feeling they carried seeped through the walls and into your lungs.
You warned them again and again not to come near you when you were like this. You told them your senses were too sharp, your nerves too raw, your control too thin.
But they didn’t listen. They hovered, stubborn and anxious, footsteps scraping across your skull, whispers in the hallway slicing down your spine.
Everything feel blurred. Hunger and noise twisted together until you couldn’t tell where your thoughts ended and instinct began. You were losing the separation between danger and concern—everything became pressure, noise, heat, hunger.
And then the door cracked open.
Someone stepped into your room.
Your vision tunneled instantly. A surge of instinct slammed through you, violent and immediate, snapping your body into motion before you even registered who it was.
You grabbed the closest object—book, lamp, whatever your hand found—and hurled it with a snarl that didn’t sound entirely human. It didn’t matter who it was. It didn’t matter why they came.
All you knew was that they were too close.
“YOU!” you snapped, pointing a shaking, furious finger at the figure in the doorway.
Damian froze mid-step, eyes wide. But you didn’t care—not about the shock, not about the flicker of fear. Those emotions didn’t reach you anymore. All you felt was the need for distance, for silence, for space to breathe before you shattered.
“Get out.”
He hesitated, stubborn even now, but your voice cut sharper the next time, raw and trembling.
“OUT!”
You didn’t wait for obedience. You were already glaring past him, vision burning as you spotted Cassandra, Duke, Alfred hovering behind him—too close, all of them, suffocatingly close. Your hand lifted again, the gesture jagged and desperate.
“All of you,” you snarled. “Out. Get out. And don’t come near this room. Please.”
The words slurred with exhaustion and a splitting headache, but the meaning was unmistakable. You didn’t care if they understood your fear or your fury. You didn’t care if they were startled, if they were hurt, if they stepped back out of instinct or worry.
You only needed them gone—out of your nose, out of your space, outside the fragile thread of control you were barely holding.
The dizziness swelled so hard your vision flickered at the edges. They hesitated for a breath, worry anchoring them in place, but the wildness in your eyes made them take a step back. That alone told you how close you were to losing yourself.
When the door finally shut, relief hit like a slap—sharp, momentary—but it did nothing to quiet the pounding in your skull or the way the hunger scraped deeper, clawing at the center of your mind.
The scent—their scent—was too strong.
Their scent lingered in the room, thick and overwhelming. Your hunger twisted —something hateful, something you feared becoming.
Your body was teetering at the edge of something you couldn’t undo.
And you needed them gone before you snapped—before you did something none of you could take back.
_______________________________________________
Bruce locked the door himself after leading the others away, his face unreadable, because someone had to keep you in and everyone else out.
Once the hallway was empty, the discussion finally erupted, voices overlapping in confusion, frustration, guilt.
Downstairs, the living room was filled with tension so thick it felt like smoke. The argument began, sharp voices, hushed voices, overlapping concern—as they crowded into the living room, trying to make sense of the situation.
Damian was still arguing—loudly—desperate to be included despite everything he’d just witnessed. Bruce barely responded, hands steepled, jaw clenched in a way that meant he was thinking about every horrible possibility at once.
Damian insisted he should help, pacing like a caged animal, insisting he wasn’t afraid of you. “We must help them,” he insisted, his voice pitched just slightly higher than usual, “They are suffering. We cannot leave them like that.”
Cassandra disagreed quietly. Stephanie argued that locking you up wasn’t a plan. Duke kept trying to pull everything back toward logic, but emotions kept crashing over the conversation like waves. Someone always raised their voice. Someone always cut in. Nothing settled.
Then Tim finally spoke the words no one wanted to say. He set his tablet on the coffee table, rubbed both hands over his face, and didn’t look up when he spoke.
“If they’re feral…” Tim began, voice low and tight, “then we’re the last thing that should be anywhere near them. A starving vampire doesn’t recognize faces. Or voices. Just scent.”
The room fell silent. No one questioned his assessment.
You had always been honest about what hunger turned you into.
They tried to come up with alternatives, anything that didn’t involve pushing you further than you already were.
They tried to offer alternatives. But the blood bags stacked outside your door remained untouched, not even a shift in it scent indicating your interest, as if the very idea of touching them repulsed you on instinct.
Cass was the one to break it, her voice soft but firm. “Blood bags don’t work. They won’t even glance them.” The way she said won’t made it clear she’d tried more than once.
Bringing you an animal was dismissed almost immediately—someone would get hurt, and the chaos alone would tip you further over the edge. “Animals are off the table,” Dick added with a grimace. “They’d smell it from the hallway anyway. They’d know we were trying to trick them.”
Silence settled over the living room. Every option they discussed only seemed to make the situation worse, tightening the knot of dread in all their chests. And with Damian still poised to speak, ready to insist on helping no matter what, the sense of impending disaster only grew heavier.
No one wanted to admit it out loud, but the truth was already pressing on all of them:
You weren’t refusing out of stubbornness. You weren’t rejecting their help because you were dramatic or difficult.
You were refusing because everything made you sick.
Your senses were sharpened to the point of pain—every smell, every heartbeat, every draft of air swirling through the Manor had become too much. Even the walls felt loud—Everything overwhelms you.
That truth hung heavy in the room… until Duke finally spoke, slow and deliberate, like someone testing thin ice. “They never said they can’t drink blood from a bag,” he murmured. “Just that they don’t like it.”
All eyes turned toward him.
The distinction hovered in the air, quiet but undeniable. You hated blood bags—but you could survive on them. Not happily, not willingly, but if someone forced you and things were desperate enough… you wouldn’t die. The realization settled like a cold weight across the room.
Bruce finally lifted his head, his expression shifting into something grim and resolved.
Jason noticed it first, his eyes widening a fraction in recognition before he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, great. This is gonna suck. For everyone.”
Dick winced, shoulders tensing. “Yeah… they’re absolutely going to hate us.” He opened his mouth to suggest something gentler, but Bruce only shook his head once, and the argument died before it began.
Tim rubbed at his temples, exhaustion and dread written across every line of his posture. “We’re running out of time,” he murmured. “If we do nothing, they’ll either starve… or the next person who tries to help will end up drained.” His voice cracked around the last word, the fear too logical to ignore.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. It was the smallest shift, but in this family it was as decisive as a slammed fist. Something had been chosen—something none of them liked.
“Prepare it,” he said quietly.
No one argued. No one even breathed wrong.
They all understood that whatever came next would be the thing you despised most.
But letting you starve was no longer an option.
_______________________________________________
You had been alone for hours. Long enough for the fog in your mind to thin, long enough for the animal panic to dull into something sharp and calculating.
You weren’t calm — not even close — but the edges of your thoughts finally stopped tearing themselves apart. For a moment, you believed you might be able to think, move, maybe even break the lock and slip out before anyone noticed. The room still swayed around you, but at least your mind felt like it belonged to you again.
But then you heard it—those damn footsteps again.
You heard them long before they reached the hallway. Not hesitant this time. Not cautious. Their footsteps were heavier, more determined—an entire wall of stubborn human will marching straight toward you.
You didn’t need sharpened senses to recognize them; the weight of their presence pressed into your skull like a warning. A pressure that throbbed behind your eyes, blooming into a migraine you could feel in your teeth. Of course they were coming again. Of course they wouldn’t listen.
Stubborn. Reckless. Human.
The kind who didn’t understand the meaning of stay away, even when you begged.
You didn’t bother hiding your frustration. “Don’t come any closer!” you snapped, voice raw enough to crack. You hurled something toward the door—whatever your hand landed on—just to make sure they understood. “I said stay away! Go!”
But they didn’t leave.
They stood there, unmoving, their breathing a dull roar against your senses. You could taste their tension, bitter, acidic, far too close. It made your teeth ache. It made your vision flicker. It made the room shrink around you.
The handle turned.
You barely processed the muttered “Sorry,” before the door burst open and everything descended at once.
Three figures charged inside with one purpose, and your instincts didn’t have time to choose a target. Rough hands grabbed your arms, your shoulders, your legs — too many points of contact, too fast to fight off.
A blindfold was yanked over your eyes first, cutting the world away in a single, suffocating sweep of darkness. You jerked back, snarling, panic spiking as the room disappeared. The loss of sight made everything louder: their breaths, your pulse, the blood pounding in your ears.
Hands forced you down — strong ones, coordinated ones. Jason’s grip crushed your shoulders to the floor. Dick pinned your legs even as they kicked violently. Bruce held your upper body still with the kind of steady pressure that didn’t strain, didn’t falter. You felt each of them without needing to see them.
“Hold them — just hold—” someone gritted out.
Your snarl ripped through the room, sharp and feral, vibrating in your teeth. The blindfold made every sensation explode against your nerves, turning the darkness into something suffocating and violent. The air thickened around you, their scent slicing through whatever focus you still had. Hunger clawed up your throat like broken glass.
Then fingers clamped over your nose.
Your breath cut off with brutal suddenness, panic detonating through your lungs before you could even fight it. You gasped—desperately—and something was shoved past your mouth, hot and metallic and pouring too fast to swallow. The taste hit you like an impact, sharp enough to make your eyes sting beneath the blindfold.
Another hand forced your jaw wider, fingers digging into your cheeks until your bones ached. Your fangs sank into the skin holding you still, piercing by accident, tasting a brief flash of real blood. The person flinched—but they didn’t pull away. They held you there, letting you bite, letting you hurt them, just to keep you from thrashing free.
Bag after bag flooded your mouth—too fast, too much, drowning rather than feeding. The blood spilled over your tongue, down your chin, crawling down your neck in hot, sticky rivers that soaked into your clothes. The floor beneath you grew slick as it spread, pooling beneath your body like a crimson shadow. The smell, thick and metallic, filled your throat until you couldn’t tell where breathing ended and suffocation began.
You tried to twist away, to spit, to breathe, but the grip on your jaw only tightened, relentless and cold. Every attempt to move was met with another hand pinning your limbs, pressing your body into the floor like they were holding down something dangerous. Your own heartbeat thundered against your ribs, frantic and wild, trapped inside a body that couldn’t escape the drowning tide being forced into it.
The blood burned down your throat, scraping raw, each swallow jagged and unwilling. Your stomach lurched, bile mixing with iron, but the stream never slowed. You gagged against it, shaking, choking on the metallic rush that tasted more like betrayal than sustenance. You didn’t want this. You had begged them not to do this.
And still—they didn’t stop.
Only when the last bag ran dry did the pressure finally ease. Hands unlatched from your wrists, from your jaw, from your face, releasing you inch by inch like someone lowering their grip on an animal that might still bite.
You collapsed onto the floor, coughing violently, blood splattering from your mouth in harsh, wet bursts. Each breath trembled, heavy with exhaustion and the taste still coating your tongue like poison.
The room reeked of blood—yours, theirs, the bags—splattered across your skin and soaked into your clothes, dripping off furniture in dark streaks.
You lifted your head with trembling fury, vision blurring even through the blindfold. “IDIOTS!” you screamed, voice raw and cracking. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” You pushed yourself up with shaking arms, rage trembling through your voice.
Someone murmured, small and pleading, “We’re sorry… it was for your own good.”
“For my—good?” you choked, nausea twisting as another mouthful of blood forced its way up. You vomited onto the floor, shaking, your body rebelling against everything they’d poured into you.
But even as you retched, something shifted deep inside your mind—slowly, painfully, like fog peeling away from broken glass. “I’d rather die than—than that again!”
Your heartbeat steadied. Your breath evened. The haze that had swallowed your thoughts began to thin, revealing shapes where chaos had been. Anger still trembled in your bones, cold and sharp, but beneath it—beneath the humiliation and rage—clarity began to return.
You hated them for doing this. For pinning you down as if you were something wild and rabid. For forcing your jaw open, forcing blood down your throat, forcing you to exist when all you wanted was silence. Every bruise, every gasp, every choke felt like a betrayal carved into your skin.
But beneath the fury, something colder throbbed in the hollow of your chest. A truth you wished you could spit out as violently as the blood they poured into you. A truth you didn’t want to name, because naming it made it real. You knew exactly why they had done it.
If they hadn’t restrained you—
If they hadn’t forced blood into your starving mouth—
If they hadn’t dragged you back with their own hands—
Someone would have died.
Not because you wanted to kill.
But because hunger had already taken your mind apart, thread by thread, until instinct was all that remained. You were seconds away from sinking your teeth into the first warm pulse that crossed your path, tearing it dry without ever waking up from the haze.
You hated them.
You hated them with every shaking breath, hated the taste they forced into you, hated the helplessness, the humiliation.
But you also needed them—needed the restraint, the intervention, the brutal mercy they had given. And the contradiction settled in your chest like a bruise that pulsed with every heartbeat, dark and aching and impossible to ignore.
_______________________________________________
You didn’t look at them.
You couldn’t.
Your gaze stayed glued to the floor because the moment you even felt their eyes on you, that awful mix of shame, anger, and raw adrenaline flared under your skin like a fresh burn. Your breath stuttered in your chest, every inhale trembling, every exhale tasting like blood that wasn’t yours.
The room around you was a disaster—drenched in red, slick and shining under the dim light. Blood clung to your clothes, pooled beneath your palms, streaked across the walls from your struggling. Even the air felt sticky with it, metallic and suffocating, a reminder of every moment they held you down.
You wiped your mouth with a shaking hand, smearing another line of crimson across your skin. The trembling wouldn’t stop—your fingertips buzzed, your limbs weak, your pulse erratic beneath your ribs. You felt sick, raw, split open from the inside out.
They hovered at a distance, unsure, guilty, afraid. No one stepped forward. No one dared to touch you. The silence between you all was jagged, sharp enough to bleed on if anyone breathed too loudly. You could feel them staring, but you refused to lift your head and give them anything more.
You dragged yourself upright only halfway before your arms nearly buckled, palms slipping on the wet floor. A choked sound escaped you, half frustration, half exhaustion. The room tilted, but you clenched your teeth and steadied yourself anyway—because collapsing in front of them now would feel like another loss you weren’t ready to give.
When you finally spoke, your voice was low and shaking, scraped raw from coughing and screaming.
“Don’t look at me.”
Your shoulders curled inward, instinctive, protective, as though you could hide the parts of you that felt too exposed. The blood on your face dried sticky and warm, the sting of your bitten lip reminding you exactly how desperate the struggle had been. Every inhale pulled in the overwhelming scent of blood—yours, theirs, the bags—they all blended into something nauseating.
For a moment, your vision blurred again, panic swelling at the edges of your ribs, but you forced it down. Forced yourself still. Forced your gaze to stay locked on the stained floorboards.
Because if you looked at them—
if you saw their faces, their fear, their pity—
your fragile control would snap, and you weren’t sure what would come out next.
Dick was the first to speak, voice breaking around the edges. “Hey… hey, look at me,” he murmured, but he didn’t dare step closer. “You’re okay. You’re safe. We didn’t—”
“Don’t,” you hissed, the word scraping out raw. Your gaze stayed glued to the floor. “Don’t come near me.”
Jason exhaled through his nose, shoulders tense. “We were trying to help,” he said, but even he sounded unsure. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” you said sharply, even though your voice shook. “And you chose this.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Tim swallowed hard, guilt sinking into his features. “If we hadn’t… you would’ve hurt someone,” he whispered. “You told us once what would happen if you got too hungry. We couldn’t let that happen.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you whispered back. Your fingers curled into fists, streaking red across your palms. “Not like this.”
Duke took a slow step forward, then stopped when he saw you flinch. “We didn’t want to scare you,” he said gently. “But you were already scared. We couldn’t just stand there.”
Your jaw clenched, the tremor in your frame worsening. “Don’t—look at me,” you breathed. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“We already did,” Jason said softly, unexpectedly gentle. “And we’re still here.”
Bruce stepped forward at last, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You don’t have to look at us,” he said, voice low and steady. “But hear me.”
You didn’t answer, but you didn’t tell him to stop either.
“If we hadn’t intervened,” Bruce continued, “someone would have died tonight. Maybe one of us. Maybe you.” His words were quiet, heavy, unflinching. “We didn’t do this to control you. We did it to save you.”
Your breath hitched—just once, sharp and shaky. Blood clung to your lips and chin in dried streaks, pulling painfully when you moved. Your fingers curled weakly in your lap as you stared at the floor, forcing your gaze anywhere but on them.
“I know…” you whispered, the words slurred from exhaustion. “I know.” You inhaled slowly, the drag of air ragged in your chest, trying to steady yourself against everything twisting inside you.
You shifted back a little, shoulders curling inward, retreating into yourself. “I just…” Your voice broke, thin and quiet. “I want to be alone.”
Silence followed—not judgmental, not angry. Just thick. Heavy. A room full of people who wanted to help but didn’t know if they were allowed anymore.
A soft, steady shuffle approached—lighter than the others, familiar in a calmer, older way. “Let me help you, dear,” Alfred said quietly, stopping just close enough for you to sense him without feeling cornered. His tone held no judgment, no fear, only tired concern shaped by decades of cleaning up Bat-related disasters far worse than blood on hardwood floors.
You didn’t answer, but you didn’t pull away when he knelt beside you, either. His hands were gentle, practiced, moving with the kind of patience that came from seeing far too many wounded creatures try to pretend they weren’t hurting.
He wrung a warm cloth over the basin, then touched your cheek with the lightest pressure, wiping the blood from your skin in slow, careful strokes.
The warmth stung at first—not painful, but sharp, a reminder you were still here. You blinked hard, looking past him, refusing to let your eyes lift toward the others still hovering by the door.
Alfred didn’t ask you to talk. He didn’t ask you to forgive. He simply cleaned you the way he might patch up any of them: quietly, respectfully, with unwavering steadiness.
“Let’s move you to a different room,” he murmured after a moment, voice lowered as though afraid of startling you. “This one… has become rather distressing.”
You swallowed weakly, throat raw, but nodded. Your limbs trembled when you tried to rise, and Alfred supported your weight with a strength far steadier than his age suggested.
He didn’t rush you, didn’t comment on the blood still dripping from your jawline or the way your knees nearly gave out.
Behind you, the others remained silent, unsure if they should follow or stay away. Their worry hung thick in the air, but for now, none of them moved.
Alfred guided you toward the hallway, one slow step at a time. And as you crossed the threshold—leaving the ruined room behind—you felt something sharp in your chest loosen just slightly.
The walk out of the room felt surreal. You kept your eyes down, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, refusing even the idea of being perceived. The others stepped aside silently as you passed, giving you a path without a single word. Their scents still pressed at the edges of your senses, but Alfred kept them at a distance, shielding you with nothing but presence.
He led you down a hallway you rarely used—quieter, darker, untouched by recent footsteps. Here, the air was finally clean. No lingering traces of stress, no heartbeat pounding against thick walls, no scent sharp enough to scrape at your nerves. Just silence.
“This room should be more comfortable,” Alfred murmured as he unlocked a door further down the corridor—far from the living quarters, far from the chaos. “And more importantly, undisturbed. No one comes through this wing unless absolutely necessary.”
You stepped inside slowly.
The space was dim, untouched, and mercifully empty of everything that overwhelmed you. You couldn’t smell anyone here—not fear, not stress, not curiosity. Just stillness. For the first time in days, your shoulders lowered, even if only an inch.
Alfred set clean towels and a basin nearby, then moved toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said softly. “But if you need anything—anything at all—just call for me.”
You didn’t trust your voice enough to respond.
So you just nodded.
He paused one last moment, his eyes full of a grief he wouldn’t name. “You’re safe now,” he promised quietly. “Rest.”
Then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a kindness you could feel rather than hear.
And finally—finally—you were alone.
No footsteps.
No scents.
No eyes.
Just you, your breath, and the slow, aching return of your own mind.
_______________________________________________
Dick leaned over the back of the couch with that bright, eager curiosity only he could make look harmless. “So you’ve lived for… centuries,” he said, eyes sparkling. “How did you control yourself all that time?”
You gave him a slow, almost bored shrug. “I hibernated.”
Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “Like in movies? In a coffin? In a gothic mansion on a cliff somewhere?”
You turned your head toward him with the exact tired patience of someone who had, in fact, lived too long. “How do you even jump to that conclusion? Do you know how fast an abandoned mansion gets discovered? Humans can’t leave anything alone.”
“…oh,” Dick muttered, deflating slightly.
You let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. “I go back into the ground,” you said, the words matter-of-fact. “There’s another world beneath it. One you don’t need to know.”
_______________________________________________
Damian placed a plate in front of you with the confidence of someone delivering a grand solution. The smell hit you a second later—cold, metallic, unmistakably raw.
“…Damian,” you said slowly. “This is raw meat.”
He didn’t even blink. “You’re a vampire.”
You stared at the plate, then back at him, deadpan settling over your face like a shadow. “I’m a vampire, Damian,” you corrected, “not a feral raccoon.”
Damian stiffened, clearly offended. “I was trying to help.”
You pushed the plate back toward him with one finger. “Help me by cooking that. Or by eating it yourself.”
Dick nearly choked on his drink trying not to laugh.
Jason leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Kid, they drink blood, not steak tartare.”
Damian huffed and walked off, mumbling under his breath.
You sighed, sinking back into your chair.
“This family is going to be the end of me.”
_______________________________________________
Stephanie peeked over the counter, holding a plate like she was presenting evidence. “Okay, serious question — can you eat garlic bread?”
You blinked at her. “...Yes?”
She frowned, confused. “But the movies say—”
“Garlic smells strong,” you said, lifting a shoulder. “But once it’s cooked and drowned in butter, it’s basically harmless.”
Steph brightened instantly. “So you can eat it.”
You lifted a brow. “I’m not built for human snacks.”
Stephanie grinned and handed you the plate. “Congratulations, tonight you are.”
You took it reluctantly, grumbling, “If I combust, I’m haunting you first.”
_______________________________________________
Damian approached you with the kind of thoughtful expression that always meant trouble. His hands were behind his back, posture straight, eyes sharp with calculation. You barely had a second to brace.
“If you bit Father,” he began, completely serious, “do you think he’d finally get proper rest?”
You closed your eyes for a long moment, already exhausted by the direction this was going. “Damian,” you said slowly, “please stop.”
But he only shrugged, unbothered. “I’m simply trying to optimize his lifespan.”
“By turning him into what? A sleep-powered vampire?” you asked, staring at him.
Damian blinked once. “If it works, it works.”
You sank deeper into your chair, wondering—not for the first time—how this child wasn’t the one driving Bruce to sleeplessness in the first place. Dick snorted from across the room, covering his mouth badly. Tim muttered, “Please don’t encourage him,” while Jason yelled, “Do NOT let the gremlin near Bruce’s neck.”
Damian frowned at all of them, then at you again. “So… is that a yes or a no?”
You groaned into your hands. “Damian, for the love of everything—no.”
_______________________________________________
Jason lounged against the doorway with the most obnoxious grin you’d ever seen. “So, be honest should I call you grand-grand, ancient, or vintage?”
You stared at him, slow and unimpressed. “…What?”
He shrugged, still smirking. “I mean… you’re old-old. Like museum-catalog old.”
You blinked once. Twice. Then let the silence do all the violence. “…Jason, I am deciding right now whether to bite you out of spite.”
Jason brightened instantly. “See? Vintage has bite.”
You groaned. “Please never speak to me again.”
Jason: “Love you too, fossil.”
"prett lah"
_______________________________________________
Damian lingered in the doorway far longer than usual, hands clasped behind his back like he was preparing for a debate. When he finally approached you, his voice was quieter than normal. “Can you… bite Father? Or teach me the ritual instead?”
You stared at him, not understanding whether he was joking or plotting. “Why do you keep asking me to do that?” Your tone carried more exhaustion than accusation.
Damian’s gaze flicked away the moment you asked, his posture tightening just slightly. “It is a simple question,” he muttered, but the edge of his voice sounded almost… worried. “I just want to know.”
You tilted your head, waiting.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tiniest admission of truth. “So he could live longer,” he said, barely above a whisper. “So he… stays.”
The room fell quiet.
You softened, not enough to reassure him, but enough to understand. “Damian,” you said gently, “that’s not how immortality works.” You didn’t reach for him, but the restraint alone was a kind of mercy.
He crossed his arms again, as if trying to rebuild the armor he’d accidentally dropped at your feet. “I was only asking,” he muttered, defensive but too late to hide how exposed he felt. His chin lifted, but his eyes didn’t meet yours.
You sighed, a quiet sound heavy with understanding rather than frustration. “And I’m only answering,” you replied, letting the softness linger. You tilted your head toward him, voice lowering into something calm and steady. “Come here. Let me tell you something.”
Damian glanced away again, jaw tight, defensive, embarrassed, and more scared for his father than he’d ever admit. And even without touching him, you felt it:
that small, sharp fear of losing someone he loved too much.
After they return, the very first thing they do is check Gotham— and it hits them how much has changed without them. Things broke, shifted, decayed. They’re too late. Too late to fix anything, too late to reclaim the years they missed, too late to pretend nothing happened.
And then they look at you.
You were a child. Now you’re an adult.
Inside the manor, the silence felt heavier than any of them remembered. It stretched through the halls like a second skin, clinging to the walls and floorboards in a way that made even their footsteps sound too loud. They moved slowly, almost cautiously, trying to understand how a home once overflowing with noise had become something fragile and still.
Duke paused first, his hand brushing lightly over the banister as he scanned the foyer with quiet focus. He had always been attuned to the emotional shape of a room, and this one felt uneven—settled in some places, hollow in others. The house carried a loneliness that wasn’t dramatic or chaotic; it was steady, practiced, and worn into the structure over years.
Cassandra drifted ahead without a word, her eyes tracking small details the others might have missed. She noticed the tension in the air around you, the way your shoulders tightened when they entered certain rooms, the quiet flinch when you passed by the family portrait you had turned to face the wall. To her, the house read like a body—and every corner told a story of someone who had learned to survive in silence.
Stephanie stepped into the living room and faltered slightly, her expression softening as she took in the mismatched details of your life. She saw the blanket draped over the armrest, worn at the edges from years of use, and the single mug on the coffee table that had clearly been washed and reworn dozens of times. The version of you she had last known had been bright and loud; seeing the muted traces of your adulthood made her chest tighten.
Dick lingered in the hallway, tracing faint pencil marks on the wall where heights had once been recorded. He saw his own childish scrawls, Jason’s tilted marks, Damian’s neater lines—and then nothing beneath them. The space where your measurements should have continued was blank, and the absence hit him harder than the presence of any decay in the city.
Tim examined the worn patterns on the stairs, recognizing immediately that the rhythm of footsteps had changed. The family used to create noise here—chaotic, half-awake mornings and rushed descents for patrol. Now the steps showed a single pattern, consistent and solitary, a reminder that you had been the only heartbeat inside these walls.
Jason stood in the kitchen, staring at the careful organization that didn’t match Alfred’s methods or anyone else’s. The dishes were arranged with a kind of meticulousness that spoke not of order, but of someone trying to control one of the few things in their life they actually could. He glanced at the second mug left upside down beside yours, and something inside him twisted painfully.
Damian found himself at the dining table, fingers grazing the small scratches carved into the surface. Some were old and familiar, but hundreds more had appeared in the years he missed—subtle marks from restless hands sitting alone night after night. He imagined the quiet of those dinners, and for a moment, he couldn’t swallow past the tightness in his throat.
Bruce entered the living room last, and the sight before him made him pause. The table was set for six, but only one setting showed signs of use, the faint wear in the placemat and the subtle shine of repeated cleaning. The rest were untouched, almost ritualistically preserved, as though part of you had refused to stop believing someone would eventually sit there again.
When he turned, he found you standing behind him, watching with a tired understanding.
“I stopped doing that a while ago,” you murmured, your eyes drifting to the empty chairs. “But sometimes it was easier to pretend I wasn’t eating alone.”
No one spoke.
Not because they didn’t want to—because every word felt too small for what they were seeing.
Cassandra’s gaze lowered, reading the heaviness in your stance without needing further explanation. Stephanie pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard as guilt rose like a tide. Duke shifted his weight, offering you a steady, quiet presence—one that didn’t demand anything, simply acknowledged the reality of what you had endured.
Bruce stepped closer, placing a careful hand on your shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have had to live like this,” he said softly, though his own voice wavered with something close to grief.
You only shrugged, offering a small, strained smile.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
The truth was plain, unembellished, and devastating in its simplicity.
As they looked around the room—really looked—they began to understand what you had endured. This wasn’t just a house waiting. It was a house that had learned to survive on your presence alone, reshaping itself around your solitary life while the world outside grew harsher and heavier. And you had grown with it, not in the way children do, but in the way survivors learn to adapt without ever truly recovering.
Your adulthood was everywhere.
Your loneliness was too.
And for the first time, they understood why you looked both familiar and impossibly distant.
___________________________________________
The longer they walk through Gotham, the more reality sinks its claws into them. When they first returned, their steps carried them outward almost automatically—toward the streets, the skyline, the broken pulse of a city they once knew. It wasn’t intentional, not a conscious choice made over you; it was instinct, the kind born from years of running toward danger before anything else. And Gotham, wounded and staggering, pulled them back into its orbit before they had a moment to breathe.
The city is not simply damaged—it is exhausted, stretched thin, rotting in places no vigilante work could ever patch. Systems they once trusted have collapsed, relationships they built have shattered, alliances they relied on no longer exist. Every street corner is a reminder that their disappearance didn’t just leave a gap—it destabilized everything. And as they move through the ruins, the truth becomes impossible to ignore: this Gotham isn’t one they can fix.
Only when the weight of the city becomes too heavy for even them to hold do their steps finally turn back toward the manor. Their shoulders are tight, their movements slower, each one marked by the dawning realization that the world they left behind is gone. The quiet of the manor feels strange to them—too still, too unchanged for a world that has shifted so violently. And then they step inside.
Then they look at you,
and the devastation hits even harder.
You stand there—older, steadier, carrying years they never lived—and for a moment they see a stranger where a child should have been. The lines on your face, the quiet exhaustion coiled in your posture, the way your eyes seem softer but heavier—everything speaks of a life they weren’t present to witness. Something familiar flickers, yes, but it’s buried under layers of time they never shared, time that reshaped you into someone they don’t quite recognize.
And somehow, despite all of that, you still manage to smile at them. It’s small, tired, but real—an instinct you never lost, even when the world gave you every reason to. Your hand reaches out for whoever stands closest, fingers curling around theirs with a trembling kind of hope. When you whisper, “please don’t go again…” your voice is so soft, so fragile, it nearly breaks them.
They don’t see you the way they did before. It’s not that they don’t want to—it’s that they can’t. The memory of the child you once were clashes painfully with the adult standing before them now, older even than Dick, carrying burdens none of them prepared you for. They search your face for the little you they remember, but the years have rewritten too much.
The ruins of Gotham were overwhelming.
But seeing you like this—grown, changed, foreign in ways they don’t know how to name—
hurts in a way the city never could.
___________________________________________
Inside the manor, the silence felt heavier than any of them remembered. It stretched through the halls like a second skin, clinging to the walls and floorboards in a way that made even their footsteps sound too loud. They moved slowly, almost cautiously, trying to understand how a home once overflowing with noise had become something fragile and still.
Duke paused first, his hand brushing lightly over the banister as he scanned the foyer with quiet focus. He had always been attuned to the emotional shape of a room, and this one felt uneven—settled in some places, hollow in others. The house carried a loneliness that wasn’t dramatic or chaotic; it was steady, practiced, and worn into the structure over years.
Cassandra drifted ahead without a word, her eyes tracking small details the others might have missed. She noticed the tension in the air around you, the way your shoulders tightened when they entered certain rooms, the quiet flinch when you passed by the family portrait you had turned to face the wall. To her, the house read like a body—and every corner told a story of someone who had learned to survive in silence.
Stephanie stepped into the living room and faltered slightly, her expression softening as she took in the mismatched details of your life. She saw the blanket draped over the armrest, worn at the edges from years of use, and the single mug on the coffee table that had clearly been washed and reworn dozens of times. The version of you she had last known had been bright and loud; seeing the muted traces of your adulthood made her chest tighten.
Dick lingered in the hallway, tracing faint pencil marks on the wall where heights had once been recorded. He saw his own childish scrawls, Jason’s tilted marks, Damian’s neater lines—and then nothing beneath them. The space where your measurements should have continued was blank, and the absence hit him harder than the presence of any decay in the city.
Tim examined the worn patterns on the stairs, recognizing immediately that the rhythm of footsteps had changed. The family used to create noise here—chaotic, half-awake mornings and rushed descents for patrol. Now the steps showed a single pattern, consistent and solitary, a reminder that you had been the only heartbeat inside these walls.
Jason stood in the kitchen, staring at the careful organization that didn’t match Alfred’s methods or anyone else’s. The dishes were arranged with a kind of meticulousness that spoke not of order, but of someone trying to control one of the few things in their life they actually could. He glanced at the second mug left upside down beside yours, and something inside him twisted painfully.
Damian found himself at the dining table, fingers grazing the small scratches carved into the surface. Some were old and familiar, but hundreds more had appeared in the years he missed—subtle marks from restless hands sitting alone night after night. He imagined the quiet of those dinners, and for a moment, he couldn’t swallow past the tightness in his throat.
Bruce entered the living room last, and the sight before him made him pause. The table was set for six, but only one setting showed signs of use, the faint wear in the placemat and the subtle shine of repeated cleaning. The rest were untouched, almost ritualistically preserved, as though part of you had refused to stop believing someone would eventually sit there again.
When he turned, he found you standing behind him, watching with a tired understanding.
“I stopped doing that a while ago,” you murmured, your eyes drifting to the empty chairs. “But sometimes it was easier to pretend I wasn’t eating alone.”
No one spoke.
Not because they didn’t want to—because every word felt too small for what they were seeing.
Cassandra’s gaze lowered, reading the heaviness in your stance without needing further explanation. Stephanie pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard as guilt rose like a tide. Duke shifted his weight, offering you a steady, quiet presence—one that didn’t demand anything, simply acknowledged the reality of what you had endured.
Bruce stepped closer, placing a careful hand on your shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have had to live like this,” he said softly, though his own voice wavered with something close to grief.
You only shrugged, offering a small, strained smile.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
The truth was plain, unembellished, and devastating in its simplicity.
As they looked around the room—really looked—they began to understand what you had endured. This wasn’t just a house waiting. It was a house that had learned to survive on your presence alone, reshaping itself around your solitary life while the world outside grew harsher and heavier. And you had grown with it, not in the way children do, but in the way survivors learn to adapt without ever truly recovering.
Your adulthood was everywhere.
Your loneliness was too.
And for the first time, they understood why you looked both familiar and impossibly distant.
___________________________________________
You were a child.
Now you’re an adult.
The realization hits them like cold water, sharp and disorienting. They search your face with growing confusion, the years carved into you refusing to match the memory they’re holding onto. For a heartbeat, none of them can speak—they can only stare, stunned by the life you lived beyond their reach.
And then the questions slip out, barely above a whisper.
“…who are you?”
“…what happened to you?”
“…how did you survive all this time?”
Each question trembles, not accusing but aching—because even they don’t recognize the adult standing before them. Not the way you stand. Not the weight in your eyes. Not the quiet strength wrapped around something tired and bruised.
They try to understand you.
They listen to every word you say as if collecting pieces of a puzzle they lost years ago. They study the way you speak, the way you move, the way your shoulders tense when the silence stretches too long. Each little detail feels like a note from a song they used to know, one played in a key they no longer recognize.
They walk through the manor, quietly taking in the life you built here alone.
Rooms once filled with laughter and footsteps are touched only by your presence now. Cabinets reorganized, routines shifted, small systems created out of necessity. Everything in the manor has grown around you—because there was no one else for it to grow around.
The house itself feels like a monument to your loneliness.
And then they find the digital trail—news clips, interview recordings, archived broadcasts documenting your life after they vanished. They watch as the world turned its cameras on you again and again, desperate for answers you never had. They see your hands shaking in boardrooms, your voice cracking under pressure, your smile faltering as you stood alone in front of flashing lights.
Some recordings show you barely holding yourself together.
Some show you not holding together at all.
There are images of you crying during interviews you tried to finish anyway. Videos of you stumbling through explanations the world refused to believe. Headlines tearing you apart for things that were never your fault. And through all of it, your face changes—grows older, thinner, more tired, more fragile.
By the time they finish watching, the room feels colder.
It’s terrifying.
Truly terrifying.
Because they’re not just watching evidence of your suffering.
They’re watching the years they were supposed to protect you.
They’re watching the consequences of their absence unfold frame by frame.
They’re watching a version of you they never met—
a version shaped by pain they never witnessed,
in a world they left behind
without meaning to.
___________________________________________
They thought Gotham was the worst of it—the broken systems, the fractured alliances, the city hollowed out by chaos.
After walking through the manor and feeling its strange, quiet weight, they gathered in the Batcave simply because that was where they had always ended up when something didn’t make sense. No one spoke. No one suggested checking anything. They were just… there, standing in a room that remembered a life they had abandoned.
But everything they saw out there felt distant the moment they found the old phones sitting under layers of dust. When the devices finally powered on, the manor fell into a silence so heavy it seemed to press against the walls. Every notification was your name. Every log was another attempt to reach them.
The earliest messages were painfully normal.
"Where is everyone? Did you go somewhere? Should I wait for dinner"
There was no fear, no urgency, just the everyday questions of someone expecting their family to return at any moment. You still lived in a world where leaving without notice was something temporary.
Dick let out a breath that wasn’t quite steady. He remembered you being small then—your handwriting messy, your voice always soft when you asked questions. Seeing those early messages now made something deep inside him twist.
Another batch of messages loaded, the timestamps jumping forward by weeks.
“Did I miss a memo?”
“No one told me there was a trip.”
“Can someone just text me real quick?”
Your tone was still calm, but the confusion bled through in the way you sent them—spaced apart, hesitant, like you didn’t want to bother anyone but needed answers anyway.
Then came the irritated ones.
“At least tell me something.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“You could’ve just left a note.”
Jason stiffened at that. He could almost hear your voice—trying to sound annoyed when you were actually scared. He looked away, jaw tight, because he knew exactly how it felt to think you weren’t worth an explanation.
Your writing became disjointed, your punctuation uneven, the kind of texts sent too late at night by someone trying not to panic.
“Its been days,"
“Are you okay? Please tell me if you’re okay.”
“I can’t sleep. The house is too quiet.”
Cassandra lowered her gaze, shoulders softening. She didn’t need to hear your voice to understand how frightened you must have been. The fear was in the rhythm of the texts, the pauses between them, the way your words tried to stay composed even as you unraveled.
Weeks later, the messages tightened.
You tried not to sound scared, but fear leaked through every line.
"I keep checking the driveway. The house feels too big without you. Did I do something wrong?"
"i am sorry if i did, but please just tell me what is it?"
"i will fix it, i promise"
It was the kind of question only a child would ask—one that broke them more than any ruined street in Gotham.
Months passed in the message thread.
Your tone shifted again, heavier now, shaped by responsibilities you should never have carried.
"The company needs decisions. I don’t know how to do this alone. Everyone keeps asking where you are."
“Dad… how do I do this? I don’t understand…”
“Tim, if you see this… please help me. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
The messages were short, but every word carried the weight of someone trying to keep a world upright with shaking arms.
They painted a picture none of them wanted to acknowledge: you, sitting alone in boardrooms far too large, drowning in choices you were never meant to make, reaching out to people who were no longer there to reach back.
Then came the late-night messages.
Clusters of texts sent minutes apart, marked at hours when no one should be awake.
"I can’t sleep. It’s too quiet. Please come home."
Years later, the messages softened into something quieter.
You sounded older, tired, as though you were learning how to fold yourself around the silence.
Your messages became small, fragile, almost whispers on a screen.
“If you ever come back… I’ll still be here.”
“I’m doing my best. I hope that’s enough.”
“Goodnight. Wherever you are.”
But nothing prepared them for the voicemails.
Your voice in the early ones was soft, questioning, still hopeful enough to sound like the child they remembered.
As the recordings played on, your voice shifted—older, thinner, unsteady in ways that came from years of unanswered calls.
And your final voicemail barely rose above a whisper: I don’t know why you left… but if you’re alive, please come home.
Dick lowers the phone first. His breath stutters, and he presses his lips together as if holding back something sharp inside his chest.
Tim goes still. He doesn’t cry, but the color drains from his face, and he sets the phone down like it’s something fragile he’s terrified of breaking further.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He turns his head slightly, trying to hide the way his expression cracks open for just a moment.
Damian doesn’t speak. He only stares at the screen with wide, stunned eyes, as if he’s seeing something he has no right to see.
Bruce is still staring at the phone, frozen in the glow of the screen.
Your messages keep scrolling past his eyes—years of them, layered like sediment, each one heavier than the last. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, because every line is proof of just how deeply you shattered while he was gone. And he knows, without anyone telling him, that your worst moments happened in the silence he left behind.
....
None of them notice you at first.
At some point, quiet and unnoticed—you’ve settled yourself between them.
You sit there calmly, knees drawn close, watching their faces as they struggle to process the life they abandoned. Your eyes flick toward Damian, who is still reading every message with stunned focus, thumb scrolling slowly as if trying to understand the person you became through each line.
You breathe out, soft and tired.
“You can delete them if you want,” you say, voice gentle in a way that makes every head lift. “Those messages don’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”
You give a small, tired smile—as if you aren’t the one who wrote every desperate word. “There’s no point looking back.”
Then, almost instinctively, you lean against Bruce.
Your shoulder settles into him like you’re trying to remind yourself of something old, something soft, something safe. His body tenses for a heartbeat—because you feel different now, heavier, older—but he doesn’t pull away.
Your voice drops to a whisper, almost fragile.
“…Dad,” you murmur, glancing up at him with eyes that carry too many years. “You’re still my father… right?”
The question hangs in the air, trembling.
You remember every message you ever sent him—every “please come home,” every “I need you,” every lonely call that never received an answer. And now that he’s here, now that he’s real in front of you, a part of you can’t help fearing that the world moved on without you—that maybe you changed too much for him to recognize.
Bruce doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
He simply looks at you, and you can see it—the guilt, the grief, the quiet terror of realizing he left a child behind and returned to find an adult he doesn’t fully know.
But he lifts a hand, slowly, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
His fingers brush your cheek, tracing the lines time carved without him.
Bruce doesn’t answer you right away. The silence stretches, slow and heavy, filling every corner of the room.
He keeps his hand on your cheek as if afraid you’ll pull away the moment he lets you go, his thumb brushing lightly over a line time carved into your skin. It’s the first moment he allows himself to truly see how much older you are now—older than he expected, older than he was ready for, older in a way that’s no one’s fault except his.
The others watch you quietly, each of them carrying their own guilt in different shapes. Dick’s fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for you but no longer knows if he’s allowed. Jason lowers his gaze, jaw tight, unable to look directly at the way you lean into Bruce as if grounding yourself after years of drifting. Even Damian, who prides himself on control, can’t hide the flicker of pain in his eyes; he doesn’t understand how so much time slipped past without him noticing you grow.
It’s Damian who breaks the silence, his voice sharper than he intends.
“Why did you do all this? Why didn’t you leave? You could have gone anywhere.”
You turn your head toward him, your expression soft but tired, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from a single night. “Leave?” you echo, almost gently. “Where would I go?”
Your eyes drop for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “This was… everything you all built. I couldn’t walk away from it.”
Bruce stiffens slightly at your answer, but you continue before anyone can speak.
“I kept thinking you’d come home,” you say, voice quiet but steady—steady in the brittle way dried leaves hold their shape before crumbling. “Even when it didn’t make sense anymore. Even when waiting hurt.” You release a small breath, almost apologetic, as if you’re the one who should be sorry for hoping. “I believed you’d return, so I stayed. I waited… for a very long time.”
The cave falls silent again—deeper this time, denser, as if the air itself understands the weight of your words. It sits heavy on them, suffocating in its clarity: your loyalty had outlasted their presence, your devotion stretching across years they never lived.
You inhale, a soft, trembling breath you try your best to steady. “I waited,” you murmur, and the simplicity of the admission cuts sharper than any accusation. “Every day, I thought you’d walk through the door. I kept telling myself to be patient, that maybe tomorrow would be different.” Your voice wavers—not with tears, but with exhaustion woven through old hope that had been stretched past its breaking point.
Bruce moves first.
He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for you with a slow, deliberate care, his hand cupping the back of your head as though reacquainting himself with a child who no longer fits the memory. His other arm slips around your shoulders, hesitant, fragile, as if he’s terrified that holding you too tightly might break the person you became without him.
You feel his breath tremble where it touches your hair, a small, uneven exhale he can’t hide. For the first time since his return, he lets himself feel the full weight of what those years did to you—what his absence carved into your life.
“I’m here now,” he whispers finally, and his voice cracks in a way none of them have ever heard, soft and unsteady, a promise shaped by guilt more than certainty. It isn’t an answer to anything you asked.
But it is the closest thing he knows how to offer.
A vow wrapped in fear—fear that it’s too late, fear that he no longer deserves to be your father, fear that you survived without him and might not need him anymore.
You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into him.
Your body remembers this warmth even if your mind no longer knows how to trust it. The years of loneliness begin pressing up all at once, memories swelling behind your ribs until they ache. For a moment, you think you might break down right there in his arms, but something steadier anchors you—you’ve spent too many years surviving to collapse easily now.
Around you, the room remains painfully quiet.
No one interrupts. No one rushes forward. They simply watch—caught between relief and heartbreak, unsure of how to reach the version of you who learned how to live without them.
And then, gradually, your voice returns—smaller, softer, like you’re afraid speaking too loudly might push them away again.
“But you’re staying… right?” you whisper into Bruce’s shoulder.
“I don’t think I can do this again. I don’t think I can lose you twice.”
The words land like a blow.
You feel Bruce’s hand tighten just slightly in your hair, a barely-there tremor running through him, as if your fear physically hurts him. The others lower their heads, not out of shame this time, but because they realize something far more frightening than guilt.
___________________________________________
There comes a moment—quiet, almost imperceptible—when the weight of everything finally settles on them. Gotham is broken, the world is unstable, and you… you are older, tired, shaped by wounds they never witnessed.
They watch the way your head rests against Bruce’s shoulder, the way exhaustion clings to you like a second skin, and something inside them twists with a grief too deep to voice. A thought drifts through the room, soft but sharp enough to hurt.
If only… if only there were a way to calm you down and.. to fix everything.
They study the world for hours, moving through reports and projections with growing dread.
Gotham is not just damaged; it is fundamentally altered, its systems worn thin and its stability fractured beyond recognition. Every map they open reveals another failure, another collapse that spiraled during their absence.
Crime patterns have changed completely, alliances they once relied on no longer exist, and the global balance has shifted in ways they never anticipated. The conclusion comes slowly, but unmistakably: they returned to a world that no longer has a place for them.
Their disappearance created fractures, but their return would create shockwaves. If they reappeared without explanation, the world would not welcome them—it would recoil. Governments would demand answers they cannot give, old enemies would rise from the cracks, and civilians would panic at the impossibility of heroes returning untouched by time.
And in the chaos of that reaction, you would be the one caught in the center.
Questions would turn to suspicion, then to blame, and the spotlight that already bruised you once would only grow harsher. Their reappearance wouldn’t just destabilize Gotham—it would unravel the fragile stability you fought so desperately to build.
And quietly, without meaning to, they begin circling the same unspoken thought.
Jason leans against a console, crossing his arms with a kind of bitter resignation. “Then the only option is undoing the disappearance.”
The words slip out before he fully grasps them, but the moment they land, the room freezes. His expression tightens as understanding catches up to him. He knows exactly what he just implied.
Bruce stands before the holographic map with a stillness that unsettles them more than any alarm ever could.
The projection’s glow spreads across his face, illuminating lines carved not by age but by realization—those deep, unmistakable grooves of someone confronting a truth too heavy to ignore. Dick watches the shift happen, sees resignation bloom in Bruce’s eyes like something inevitable.
Damian studies the projections with rigid posture, though the tension in his jaw betrays him. He sees the decay mapped out in glowing red: systems beyond repair, alliances broken beyond recovery, a city that no amount of vigilante work could lift back into balance. Even if they resumed their roles, the world would recoil from their sudden return—it would unravel even faster. And for the first time, he understands what Bruce has silently accepted: coming back might do more harm than disappearing ever did.
Then, slowly, their eyes drift toward you.
You’re curled in the corner of the cave, half-asleep, wrapped in exhaustion rather than rest. You refused every attempt to send you upstairs, unwilling to be separated from them even for a moment—as if blinking might cause them to vanish again. Your body leans faintly toward Bruce’s direction, your breathing uneven, your shoulders tight from years spent bracing against silence.
And in that moment, the idea that once felt impossible begins to take shape.
Not chosen.
Not spoken aloud.
But undeniably present.
If the world cannot hold them now…
If Gotham has grown twisted in their absence…
If you have suffered into adulthood for a mistake not your own…
Then maybe the only way to fix anything
is to return to the moment before everything broke.
___________________________________________
Bruce doesn’t confirm the idea,
nor does he deny it.
He simply watches you—half-asleep and curled near him as if rest is something you no longer trust unless they are within reach. Your fingers rest loosely on his sleeve, a small, unconscious gesture that says more than spoken words ever could.
There is something unbearably fragile in the way you lean toward him, as though your body remembers comfort even when your mind has forgotten how to ask for it.
As they look at you, the truth settles heavily: you grew older waiting for them. You carried burdens meant for someone else, stepping into roles you were never meant to fill, aged by responsibility rather than time.
Every line on your face marks a year they missed, every slow breath echoes the world’s weight pressing down on you alone. And suddenly, the city’s devastation feels shallow compared to the quiet ruin sitting at Bruce’s side.
Damian stiffens with realization, his voice barely a murmur.
“This version of them… shouldn’t exist.”
The words aren’t cruel—they hurt because they’re true. “They grew alone. In a world we didn’t protect.”
Steph looks from the holograms to your resting form, guilt tightening her features. “But if we go back,” she whispers, “we erase everything they survived. Everything they became.” Her voice trembles. “Is that really saving them?”
The silence that follows is raw and suffocating.
Silence stretches across the cave—soft, suffocating, impossible.
It is in that silence that Bruce feels the first stir of a thought forming between guilt and helplessness.
If this world cannot sustain their return, and you barely survived their absence, then perhaps the fracture lies not in the present but in the moment they vanished.
If time moved forward without them, maybe time can be coaxed to move backward—to a point where none of this suffering existed.
The idea is fragile at first, too dangerous to hold, yet it deepens the longer he studies you.
But as Bruce studies the exhaustion beneath your eyes and the heaviness in your posture, it settles deeper.
You shouldn’t look like this—not yet, not like someone who carried Gotham alone. The world you endured is not the world that was meant for you.
Tim senses the shift without a word spoken. He sees the tremor in your hands, the heavy rise of your breath—signs he recognizes from people stretched past their limit.
You were never meant to be shaped by loneliness or forced into a battlefield of corporations and collapsing systems.
You were meant to grow beside them, not in the shadow of their absence. And if resetting time could save you as surely as it could save Gotham, how can he ignore the possibility?
Even Damian feels the idea rooting itself inside him.
He sees a stranger wearing the outline of a child he once knew. Your eyes carry years he never witnessed; your voice holds a depth he doesn’t recognize. He realizes he didn’t just lose time—he lost the version of you he could have grown up beside.
The idea takes full shape then—quiet, tempting, terrifying.
Resetting the timeline would heal Gotham.
Restore the balance the world lost.
Erase the years of abandonment carved into your bones.
Bring them back to the moment before everything shattered.
But with that hope comes the cruelty none of them want to admit.
To save the world, they may have to erase the version of you sitting beside them.
Your scars, your strength, the survival that shaped you—gone.
The adult you became would disappear in favor of the child you once were.
They stare at you, asleep against Bruce’s shoulder, unaware of the storm forming around you.
One path saves the world and restores what was lost.
The other preserves the person you fought so hard to become.
And in the center of that impossible crossroads,
time itself waits—still, silent, ready to be rewritten.
___________________________________________
They choose their moment carefully.
The room is quiet when Bruce finally speaks, his voice low and steady in the way people sound when they’ve already accepted the consequences of their thoughts. He begins with the facts—Gotham’s instability, the fractures in the global systems, the irreversible damage their sudden return would trigger. His words move slowly, almost reluctantly, like each explanation scrapes against something raw inside him.
“And even if we tried to resume our roles,” Bruce continues, gaze fixed on the holograms instead of you, “the world wouldn’t absorb it cleanly. Our disappearance created fractures… our return could create collapse.” He exhales shakily. “We can’t just walk back into a world that evolved without us.”
You listen, confused, your fingertips curling slightly where they rest against your knee.
Then, gently—almost painfully soft—he shifts the topic, each word measured with caution.
“There is… another possibility,” Bruce says.
A single beat of silence.
“A way to return the timeline to the moment before we vanished.”
Your breath stutters, but Bruce doesn’t stop.
“It wouldn’t be simple,” he murmurs, “and it comes with consequences. But it could repair what broke. Gotham could stabilize. The world could regain the years it lost.” His eyes finally lift to you, and something in his expression tightens. “And you…”
He swallows.
“You would never have had to carry this alone.”
Dick steps in softly, as if trying to soften the blow. “We’re not saying it’s what we want. We’re saying… it might be the only way to save everything.”
Jason shifts his weight, voice rough. “We’re not trying to erase you. That’s not—” He stops, jaw tightening. “We just don’t see another path. or any other best path”
Steph’s voice is almost whisper-thin. “It’s only an idea. Nothing decided.”
Tim speaks last, quieter than all of them. “But it could save you,” he says, eyes lowering. “It could give you the childhood you should’ve had!”
The air feels heavier around you, pressing in from all sides.
And in that crushing silence, you finally understand:
They’re planning a world where your suffering never happened—
but also a world where you, the person shaped by it, might never exist at all.
.....
At first, you don’t react.
The words settle around you like dust—slow, weightless, unreal—drifting through the air before you can grasp what they mean. You blink once, twice, trying to understand why everyone has gone so still, why Bruce’s face looks carved from something brittle and breakable.
'Time travel? Resetting everything? Undoing years?'
For a moment, it doesn’t feel like they’re talking to you at all. It feels like you’ve stumbled into someone else’s story, someone else’s tragedy, because surely they can’t be asking this of the person who spent half a lifetime alone in this house, waiting for shadows that never came back.
Then the implications hit you all at once.
They slam into you with the force of years collapsing in on themselves.
They’re not talking about repairing the world you live in.
They’re talking about erasing it.
Erasing every moment that happened after they vanished—every panic, every breakdown, every interview where your voice cracked.
Erasing the wounds you hid behind forced composure, the responsibilities you carried when no one else would, the nights you waited for footsteps that never returned.
Erasing the person you became in their absence, the adulthood shaped by survival rather than guidance.
Your life, as fractured and imperfect as it is, is still yours—the only version you’ve ever had.
And now they’re asking you to consider letting it disappear.
Your breath tightens, your chest constricting as panic begins to rise.
“So you’re saying…” You swallow hard, unable to steady your voice. “You want to go back to a time where none of this happened? Where I…” The words catch in your throat, fragile and splintered. “Where I was still a child?”
No one answers right away, and that silence confirms everything you feared.
Your hands curl slightly, nails digging into your palms, grounding you in a pain that suddenly feels safer than the thought of losing yourself. The room feels too large, too empty, too much like the early months after they disappeared. You push yourself upright, putting a small distance between you and Bruce, as if the space might help you breathe again.
“So all the years I lived… all the things I went through…” You force the words out slowly, each one heavier than the last. “All of that just—gets erased? Like it doesn’t matter?” Your voice cracks in a way it hasn’t in a long time, raw and thin. “Is that what you want?”
Dick steps forward as if to reassure you, but stops mid-motion when he sees the look in your eyes.
Jason flinches, not from anger but from recognition—he’s seen this kind of vulnerable disbelief in himself before. Damian’s lips press into a thin line, unable to justify the idea now that he’s faced with your reaction. Even Tim lowers his gaze, guilt pinching his features in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Bruce tries to speak, but you cut him off before he can soften the blow.
“You think fixing the timeline will fix me.” Your breath shudders, grief rising like a tide. “But you’re not fixing me. You’re erasing me.” The truth spills out before you can stop it, sharp and trembling. “You’re choosing a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. A version I can never go back to.”
The room tightens around you as emotions churn violently in your chest.
Part of you wants to scream, part of you wants to break, and another part, almost understands why they’re considering it. A world without your suffering. A Gotham that never collapsed. A life where you never had to wait alone. It’s a cruel kind of mercy, and the cruelty of it hurts more than anything.
You sink back onto the couch, hands trembling as you run your fingers through your hair.
“I survived all of this,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “I didn’t ask for any of it, but I survived it. And now you’re asking me to disappear because the world would be better if I hadn’t?” Your eyes burn, not with tears, but with a deep, steady ache. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to hear that from the people who left me behind?”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Because they do understand—at least now.
And they also understand the truth: whether they reset the timeline or not, someone will be lost. The world. You. The people you became. The child you once were. There is no version where everyone survives untouched.
You look at them—not as heroes, not as family, but as people capable of breaking you in ways you never imagined.
“Tell me,” you say, voice trembling with hurt that cuts deeper than any wound, “If you had come back sooner… would you still be thinking about erasing me now?”
The question hangs there, trembling, sharp, impossible to outrun.
And in the silence that follows, something inside you begins to ache in a way that has nothing to do with loneliness—and everything to do with the fear that the answer might be yes.
___________________________________________
In the end,
Your words aren’t enough to stop them.
Not your fear, not your anger, not even the way your voice breaks when you swear you’ll hate them forever if they do this. They listen—God, they do—but every passing hour only pushes them further toward a decision shaped by consequences far larger than either you or them.
You try logic first, then pleading, then raw desperation, your voice trembling as you beg for the life you fought so hard to keep upright.
But the more you speak, the more you see it: the hesitation has already drained from their eyes. What remains is guilt, not doubt. Regret, not reconsideration. They’re past the point of being swayed, and the realization makes your heart feel painfully, sickeningly hollow.
Your panic rises sharp and frantic.
You shout. You shake. You say things meant to wound
“I’ll never forgive you,”
“I’ll hate you forever,”
The words scorch your throat on their way out, so bright with fear they almost sound like truth.
But even as you say them, you know you’re lying.
You could never hate them.
Not the people you searched for in every empty room.
Not the family you waited for through birthdays and nights you cried alone.
Not the silhouettes you kept hoping would appear in the doorway.
And they know that.
That is what makes this so unbearable.
Bruce looks at you like he’s holding something fragile in his hands—something he desperately wants to protect but somehow keeps failing.
Damian avoids your gaze entirely, jaw tight, because even looking at you threatens to shatter the resolve he has left. Dick’s hands tremble; Jason won’t unclench his jaw; Tim can barely get air into his lungs between explanations.
They aren’t choosing this because they don’t care.
They’re choosing it because they are terrified—terrified of what staying will do to Gotham, terrified of what staying will do to you, terrified of repeating a mistake that already stole half your life.
Your desperation only sharpens the cold in the room.
Because no matter how tightly you cling to the years you survived, no matter how loudly you scream for the life you carved out alone, they keep searching for a way to undo the moment everything splintered.
Even if it means unmaking the version of you who grew from those years.
Even if it means losing the person who waited.
Even if it breaks your heart right in front of them again.
....
In the final hours, when the plan has shifted from speculation into certainty, they try to hold you.
Not to soothe you—comfort is long beyond reach now—but because they know this version of you might be gone soon. The room feels unnaturally quiet as they step toward you, one by one, as if even the cave understands a farewell is forming in the air.
Dick reaches you first, pulling you into his arms with a gentleness meant for wounds he can’t name. His breath stutters against your shoulder, but your arms hang limp at your sides.
Jason follows, his grip firmer, voice rasped with something that’s almost an apology.
Tim hesitates before pressing his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight, memorizing the shape of a life he never got to witness.
Damian stands frozen for a moment—anger, grief, and guilt battling beneath his eyes—before he steps in and presses his forehead briefly to your collarbone.
Cass holds your head between her palms with heartbreaking care, fingers whispering through your hair in a silent apology.
Stephanie hugs you with trembling arms, clinging to you like she’s afraid the world will snatch you away before she lets go.
Duke’s embrace is steady, grounding, as if he’s trying to keep you anchored to this moment.
Then Bruce gathers you last.
His arms come around you slowly, almost reverently, as if he’s afraid that touching you too firmly might shatter whatever fragile steadiness remains in you. You don’t push him away—not when you’ve dreamed of this embrace for years—but you don’t melt into him either. You stand there suspended between longing and grief, held but not comforted.
“Father… please,” you whisper, the word cracking under its own weight.
It’s not an argument anymore. It’s not even a plea. It’s the soft, terrified hope of someone who has nothing left to bargain with except the truth of how badly they want him to stay.
Bruce’s hand comes up to your head, fingers combing gently through your hair in a motion so familiar it almost hurts.
He lowers his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breathing you in like he’s memorizing a version of you he already fears losing. “It will be alright,” he murmurs, though you feel the tremor in his voice—the uncertainty he’s trying, and failing, to hide. “I promise… this will make things right.”
But the reassurance lands hollow, settling against your skin without easing the tightness in your chest.
Because you know he isn’t promising it for you.
He’s promising it for the world that needs saving.
For the timeline that needs repairing.
For the child you once were, the child he’d rather save than the adult standing before him now.
And as his thumb brushes your cheek, tender and steady, you realize something devastating:
Bruce is holding you like he loves you…
and letting you go like he believes he must.
You simply stand there—quiet, emptied out—letting them hold a person you’re no longer sure exists.
They murmur apologies that brush past you like wind. Promises you no longer trust. Soft reassurances that feel too light to bear the weight of what’s coming. When they tell you it’s “only temporary,” that they’ll “find you again,” that they’ll “make it right,” you stare past their shoulders at nothing.
None of it feels real.
None of it feels meant for you.
When the last embrace slips away, they linger, staring at you with faces carved by grief and determination.
You don’t move.
You don’t speak.
You don’t cry.
You only watch.
You watch as they turn from you, as they walk toward the device—the impossible mechanism that promises to rewrite the world you survived. You watch the cave bathe in a rising glow, shadows stretching long across cold stone. Their silhouettes blur at the edges.
And when the light grows too bright to look at directly, you still do not reach out.
Your hands stay at your sides.
Your throat stays silent.
You just stand there, exhaustion etched into every line of your body, watching them prepare to erase the years that shaped you.
You watch them go—
not with rage, not with hope,
but with a hollow, steady quiet that says you have nothing left to give.
And as their figures dissolve into the blinding light, into the impossible fold of time itself,
the last thing they see is you.
Standing perfectly still. Eyes open. Watching them leave you
all over again.
Thank you so much for wanting a part 2!! I’m honestly still a little shocked, because the idea I had for it always felt… uncool? Maybe even pointless? But in my head, it made sense, cause i choose the best option (no scarifice needed??)
the ide was simple and uncool:
they turned back time because the damage was too severe. to you, to gotham, even to themself.
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
izzy806
janainaart
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner