-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ Macrina ! 20+, she/her | Hal Jordan and Kilowag approved. NOT officially licensed by the Guardians. Report us and Ganthet WILL shut us down. Separate branch in Keystone City. Endorsed by all three Flashes.
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Café de jengibre | Dick Grayson’s pick
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Café con leche | Barry Allen’s pick
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Café de olla | Hal Jordan’s pick
.ᐟ One Shots
Cafecito | Wally West’s pick
.ᐟ Asks
Horchata | Booster Gold’s pick
.ᐟ Café etiquette & tags
Under no circumstances do I allow my work to be taken for any type of AI use.
i think one of the important things to keep in mind with stark!reader and Dick’s relationship is that, he genuinely finds her shenanigans amusing. He’s a kidder himself, and instigator sometimes, if you will. If you ever land yourself under Bruce’s scolding then Dick is beside you because he definitely had a hand in whatever you were doing, he’s just more concerned with faking a responsible front.
Compelling to me how Hal is a product of the traditional western nuclear family illusion yet a dismantling of it at the very same time. There's a myriad of lenses to look upon this.
If we assume 'family' as one based of biology, then, Hal is born into a system that enforces and encourages it; he had a mother and a father and brothers. By all means, he was expected to uphold those practices. Perhaps at some point it's what he envisioned of himself, but to him now, his family is one that overshot earthly dynamics and is made up of men of various ages and backgrounds. Which, I'm referring to the four horsemen when writing this. John, Kyle, Guy, Hal.
This trajectory of course is in part due to the physical dismantling of Hal's nuclear family due to the death of his father, which left his mother as the sole parent. It's another point to how Hal does not place weight on institutions or traditions, because those things are susceptible to change and are binding so long as people hold them accountable. He challenged the very structure by defying his mother over and over until he was 18, then in the air force where there was no parental unit to adhere to. Hal has always been independent and polarizing.
Furthermore, depending on the comic run and how Hal's father is depicted, it is another reproach on how imposed traditional structures can be challenged, since, when looking in, his family had all the pieces: two parents, the children under them. Yet it led to abuse and oppression. If Martin Jordan is depicted as a good father then this shifts slightly more towards Hal's mother and how she's often shown as having encroached the role of 'being a man' upon him.
In terms of gender roles, it's much the same, I think. The military does breed a very toxic masculine culture, but at the same time, sometimes no one cares about you so long as you do your job. Traits perceived as more aligned to male behavior are encouraged, such as aggression and authority, which Hal does show, but also is continuously stripped down to moments of vulnerability and compassion when written well. That may be the point, that even when he embodies these negative traits, he breaks them down and learns to grow past it.
Hal does not uphold the militant structure. He defies orders over and over and contests against systems that he disagrees with. He does this with the Guardians, he does this with Sinestro. The times he goes along even whilst questioning the morality and outcome of things are when people he trusts (John, Guy, Kyle, etc) ask him for patience and time. His very joining of the Green Lanterns was a debacle because he was human, and rather than agree and preserve their line of thought, he put his foot down and fought against it. He changed the very view of humans in their ranks.
Another reason as to the perception of the nuclear family structure being of little consequence to Hal is that the roles meant to be delegated to the parents in it are just the same performed by a community in the corps. Labor, protection, socialization, economics are not for a mother and father figure. Of course, the Green Lanterns are by no means meant to be seen as a family structure to begin with. Comradery is a bit different. But certainly, you can.
Rounding back, Hal's closest system of a family are his friends. He has never upheld tradition nor institutions and is written with a background that would lead you to think he defends them as a commentary on them.
All of this to say: I don't agree with the iteration of Hal as a rule-following conservative who is a space cop.
I actually love you, I don't think I've ever said this to anyone who's face I haven't seen or directly talked to, but omg your writing and vibes are just amazing!! Cant wait for more updates.
marriage proposal….
no but really, I’m so grateful. I can never articulate the full depth of how wonderful it is to reach other people through one’s own writing, and knowing others enjoy it is so gratifying. So thank you Anon. Glad to also know my absurd self deprived musings appeal to some people lol. No clue what my vibes are but it’s working. Once again, thank you and hope you like my future works!!
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return
hoooooop boy. Dick and Stark!batsis readers relationship. Where to even start?
Introductions were not smooth. You’d figured you'd get by winter break keeping to yourself in the garage/lab, hacking away at the fluid dynamics for a hydraulic cart, only coming out for Christmas dinner and present openings, but lo-and-behold, there was a kid similar in age to you holding out his hand in greeting, eyes so blue you debated the possibility of Bruce having cheated on your mom.
Bruce seemed to know you were thinking this; but reassured with your conclusion that, no, Bruce Wayne was a playboy but not a degenerate. So when the boy introduced himself as Dick Grayson, you were still confused, but calmer. If not fighting off a smirk. Ok, Richard Grayson, but call me Dick. You sure about that?
Grayson. Strange to hear without the title 'Flying' in front of it. They were a local celebrity as far as Gotham fame reached, like how each city had one lawyer that everyone knew and saw plastered all over buses and benches. That's what the Flying Grayson's were to Gotham when they rolled into town. Hell, you knew their name and not the circus they belonged to. Still didn’t answer why there was one in your home, though.
Dick was polite and conscious of the fact you were confused, since, you weren’t one to hide it. He had said he'll be staying temporarily and it's nice to meet you, that he hopes to get along well, and Bruce was placing a hand on Dick's shoulder to tell him to help Alfred clear the table for lunch. It left the two of you alone, and he explained Dick was an orphan now, and it was either that or worse. Made sense. Your father was empathetic, so of course he'd take him in. It's not like you'd be there longer than a few weeks, either. By the time you'd be forced back for another family holiday, Dick would be gone.
But he had made himself known for that sliver of time he had, at last in your assumption. In your lab, your safehaven, he waltzes in (no, he doesn't. If anything, he tried to be as polite and careful as possible) and took an interest in what you were working on. At first, you were forgiving. You explained in a manner you thought he'd understand, clarifying when he asked further questions. But throw a dog a bone and he takes an arm. He became so invested that you thought him a government spy. Overtime, far too quickly, his questions turned far too technical for an acrobat kid that you wondered if the whole circus was a front for the CIA. He might have been trying to kill you with terrible engineering puns.
That's as bad as it gets, for a while. That's the thing about envy and jealousy, for you, they collect and build up like a pile of coins to cash in later and all at once.
Bruce and Dick had been accomplices for a while, but you don't catch it until a long portion into your stay. Everything from the rhythm in which they moved synced together. Once the puzzle pieces clicked, you realized Dick would be a permanent fixture in your life, one way or the other.
It's not that you hated change. Not at all. Change, to you, is as a necessary factor for progress and evolution towards a better, more efficient future. But Dick made you so often stand to the side like a prototype of what Bruce's child should be like. Even with Bruce’s silent demeanor, they bantered, talked about sports, banded against Alfred like a pair of weasels. He was so boyish and kid-like that it forced you to avert your eyes. And you knew the reason you and your father weren’t like that was because of you. Because all that you are.
Too prideful. Too selfish. Not an acrobat. Not an orphan (because Dick and Bruce now hold the same hurt).
Because Bruce did sincerely try to be a good father to you. He inquired about your life even on the days he knew he’d get a dry answer; when you mumbled out loud about a new design, he engaged with you and exchanged ideas; he proposed going to the movies and getting ice cream. But there was a disconnect there that hadn’t been breached yet. Bruce had a hand out towards you, always, but you didn’t take it, in wait for him to reach out further, but he never did out of respect for your independence as your happiness. And it was, but you weren’t one to walk back on a mistake once it's been made.
Bruce was your dad to begin with, so why should you? Dick was there on a timer. He wasn’t a Wayne, no matter how much he dressed the part. Even a new piece of paper couldn’t mend that fact at its most biological level. No matter how estranged your dad and you become, you would never escape one another and that was a comfort to you, strangely.
And you don't know this, but Bruce revealed his identity as Batman to Dick before he ever became Robin. Before Zucco was fresh behind bars. Underneath the sharp stalactites of the cave, sharing a single candlelight of warmth, reciting an oath that no one else will share. I vow to help...to make the world a better place...the path of righteousness. It's what saved Dick, but you won't come to understand that for a long, long time.
So you were crueler than you should have been. One time, you called Dick expendable. Hit him with similar words that the bullies would bark at him for being a circus kid. It riled him up alright, but it must have prodded something you hadn’t intended to. Not that it mattered much, at the time. You just turned away. He started showing how snarky and annoying he could be right back, trying to one up you in any way he could, which, didn’t help your distaste for him. However!!!
("I was wrong, before. I'm sorry. Nothing wrong with being a circus kid. It's you who's messed up.")
because —
Dick had the opportunity to be witness of your worst and most endearing qualities, and no one would believe him if he said it, save for Bruce who likewise experienced it, but you were, and continue to be, a dork. Your childhood bedroom, untouched now, but once adorned with Star Trek posters and memorabilia. He will never mention this to anyone else, because there is value in it remaining a guarded family secret between Bruce, him, and you (Alfred took it to his grave.) As if being co-conspirators is proxy intimacy.
And it’s not as of there weren’t encasings of quiet, softer moments between the two of you. Where you allowed him into your space, or were too tired to annoy him away. One such case was when he'd catch you staring at the sky. Either from a telescope or by laying on the grass of the manor garden, you'd gaze at the stars with a vibrancy bouncing within your irises that reminded Dick you were also a child. He learned that, when he asked you about space, you didn't care for hostility. "We went to the moon, once," you'd said, in that self-assured tone that attempted to mask your admiration, but Dick could hear it; your reverence, your idealization. "And look at it. It's there, challenging us. It's saying, 'what are you going to do next, you apes?'" And Dick knew, one day you'd surpass even the moon.
He himself hadn’t been able to contextualize your relationship for some time. So similar and different like you couldn’t decide if you were magnets of opposite or twin poles. When he needed space from Bruce, wanting to be invisible, he ran to you. Not because of your comfort, since you offered very little, but it was your lack of it. In those moments when he didn't want pity and just wanted to exist in quiet, your presence offered the reprieve of not being alone yet not present for him, either. You never said you knew he was Robin. He always had an inkling. It helped. Then he had gone on a rant about it one day and you kept at your stargazing as if the implied unseen impossibilities of space were more important than apprehending The Penguin. From then on, he had a person to be himself with; a space where he didn't need a secret identity. He was freely both.
Dick's own obsession for a relationship with you wasn’t deterred in part because of how similar you and Bruce are. Both so horrid at communication and not allowing others to be of service without staining things with your own self loathing. It's how Dick was able to see past your sharp jabs. Pair that with just the notion of having a sister, doesn't matter that you're not blood related. He was an only child for a long while, then a younger brother, and one day, an older brother to many. But what you are to him is uniquely yours; he will only ever have one older sister. (Donna is his twin. That's different)
Additionally, Dick may have been Batman's first partner but it was your footsteps he followed when he sought to be his own person. You had left the manor long behind before you officially moved out, and it was that departure and growth that Dick was inspired by when he felt he had outgrown Robin and boyhood. Becoming Nightwing is a surer choice to him because you're there. Those days are bittersweet. Both of you eventually matured beyond almost wrestling one another to the drapes in the manor, and you were content spending your time away from the world as a hobbit in lab for your own enjoyment. By that point, the word 'family', to you, had included Dick. Reluctantly.
The thing is, Dick is so bright it sickened you. Bruce is right to treat him as if he were a saint on limited time. Both his parents were murdered, and despite being encapsulated in the vengeance and fear of Batman, he refused to be the same. What are you, in comparison? Selfish and cruel and wallowing in a father and mother you cannot have. To Bruce, Dick is nostalgia of simpler times, the beginning of his crusade and Batman and Robin weighed lighter on his shoulders. Dick Grayson is a success story. All you are is a mirror of his every mistake. (Your mother, your relationship, the company — genuinely, you wonder, is there ever a moment Bruce would want to relive with you?) So, yes, Dick Grayson is such a beautiful and tender soul that you want to grab on to him like a life boat and throw him away all the same.
From Dick's end, the sister you are is so different from the sister Donna is that Dick at times he wondered whether another label was appropriate for you. Knowing Donna, it wasn't knowing. She integrated herself so seamlessly, fit just right, that it was difficult to think of a time she wasn't there; or they skipped the questions of 'what's your favorite color' and jumped right into baring their soul to one another. Why was it not like that with you? Ever since that first Christmas together, he's been playing tug of war with a rope tied to a wall.
It's not aided by the fact that you don't entirely understand your importance to Dick. Sure, he reaches out and tries to lend a hand, but he's a good guy with a good heart; of course he does all these things despite the fact you've certainly damaged his psyche one way or another. Self-contempt pushes you to isolate and your jealousy of him assures you that you're doing the right thing, never considering the theory that Dick might need you, because why? There is nothing you have that is of worth to him (according to you, that is)
Then there’s definitely an extremely rough patch between you two after Jason’s funeral. Yes, you do make a spectacle of yourself in what is supposed to be an intimate and mournful event, but Dick was also isolating in guilt. He saw Jason’s death as his own failure (hello is this Bruce?) and thus the incredibly negative effects it had on you were another stream of consequences that Dick piled on himself. He avoided Gotham, Bruce, Alfred, you, due to this. And you weren’t one to reach out either, not when you were mourning in your own self destructive way. He moped. He didn’t want you to see him like that, because even though he knew all your flaws and mistakes, he admired you. How couldn’t he? Ever since you were kids, you’ve been a visionary, tinkering, stomping and doing things your own way even when it pissed Bruce off. It was fun to watch, most of the time. Sometimes, you had even let him join in your schemes (read: use him as bait) and it was fun.
Forcing Bruce out as CEO and replacing him didn’t help the tension. Dick would never accept your actions and he was so vehemently against them, but had he been better at protecting Jason then you wouldn't be there. So he thought. Lots of arguing and insults and self destruction from both ends.
(Which, side note, funnily enough it's when Dick's life is a mess that he's at his meanest because he lashes out and self isolates when called out on it, and if provoked by him you will make it worse and fight back in the sense that his childish tantrums won't be taken lying down. These are your rare chances to open the overfilling can of worms with an excuse of self defense and it will be taken advantage of.)
As previously mentioned, it's Tim that eventually returns both of you into amicability. Genuinely, you had believed that you had screwed things up to the point of being unsalvageable, but that was never going to be true. Dick and you grew up together in the house of the Bat. Only you two know how it is to care for him and love him as long as you have (because you do! you do love him!). It's in part of why no matter how badly you tear things up, there's a thread there that cannot break. An understanding of your needs when you were kids that you refused to acknowledge but always knew was there.
Of course, this is not to say that your actions as CEO of Wayne Enterprises get forgotten nor forgiven. It will forever be a stake through the heart of Dick to see the name of the man who saved him and who he would give his life for as many times needed on the side of weapons. It's just — he knows. He knows that you were trying to give yourself for the world in the way you thought best. But why like this?
How's that any different from Batman? you had fired back at him. I'm scaring the world and keeping us safe.
Dick had tried to trust you. He wanted you to make the choice to do good, because it was your choice to make. It was a decision that ate and will eternally eat at him, because he knew the logical and safe decision was to stop you directly, end whatever future calamities and dangers your weapons would inevitably create, but he also knew that, despite what most gossip columns and stood up dates would day, you do have a heart. It’s there and it’s hurting; has been since the day he met you at the mansion. Not many people would deduce this, but one of your strongest qualities was empathy. That’s what started this whole thing — your vision for Wayne Enterprises. You wanted a world where war was obsolete, but to you, the closest there was to that was threatening your enemies with firepower. He knew all this because Jason’s death wouldn’t have been such a big hit to you otherwise.
But yes, Dick wanted to trust you to make the right choice, but each time you picked otherwise he blamed himself because it was his responsibility to not trust you.
So, you get on speaking terms eventually, but never back to how it was before. Still, he's there. There’s no Carol or Rhodey or Steve in this universe for you. You can pay your secretary however much they want, but none of them ever breach the pre-planned lines of familiarity and friendliness. You’re charming and you’re sarcastic, but never do they stick around for much else. Most end up quitting, even the ones you had hope for. You can’t blame them, really. You’re used to slapping money on your problems, but there’s no official metric on the appropriate pay for taking care of your boss who refuses to leave their lab for three days straight. You’re reckless and even more annoying when sleepless, which is often. Those nights are a pain for them, yes, but what they can’t handle is when those impulsive behaviors are further heated by an underlying well of sentimentality. Self loathing or ego or stress or guilt or all the above. That’s when they throw in the towel and dial the sometimes blocked number on your cell titled ‘circus monkey’.
Because Dick is there to catch you. You don't gotta ask; you never gotta say 'I love you' back. Dick just knows. Knows when you feel it, and knows when you're crawling back to bad habits without saying anything or going anywhere. This doesn't mean he always know what to do about it, but he's there. That's something.
Eventually, the palladium poisoning will start killing you and you'll be semi-prepared to go down with the ship (yourself) if you don’t find a solution in time, acting recklessly, impulsively, more so than usual. Dick knows the behavior of someone throwing themselves in the way because they don’t care if they die anymore — he’s been that person. They all have, at some point.
And what is it that will anger Dick? The fact that you won't let him save you. Never have you been willing. To save the human race is your far fetched human ideal, even extending to him and Bruce, and even among the critiques of your character and military contracts Dick fought for you. So when it comes to your own life, when death is more complex than saving you from a cave and a gun to your head, why is it that you aren't willing to let him fight the world if he has to in order to save you?
needing to finish pt 3 of the stark!reader fics and also Pt 3 of A Mutt in the Light — An Angel in the Light but also wanting to work on the Damian fic ive had on the back burner for years but also read but also work on my private literary fiction
I love your Tony Stark!batsis fanfics and i'm looking forward to if/when you get to her, "I am Iron Man" moment. I can absolutely imagine the panic that everyone feels at her exposing her identity when she's related to so many heroes who are trying so hard to keep their identity secret and her doing that actually helping to distance Bruce Wayne from Batman
because yes, while Bruce Wayne might be able to produce someone with her personality, like people can absolutely see the genius billionaire philanthropist playboy, who dances up on ice sculptures if he has enough drink in him creating someone like Stark!batsis reader, no one would ever believe that the Batman would because they are such total opposites. Like yes, they may be seemingly entirely normal human beings in this world of Metahumans and reliant technology they could not be more opposite. Batman's tech is all dark and practical, and made to be hidden in the darkness and hers is bright and shiny and demanding to be looked at no one would ever believe that the brooding Batman would ever create someone like Iron Man
And I'm also just so curious about how her suit is going to look. Like is she going to feminize the look of the suit or is it going to look like the straight up Iron Man suit just absolutely compounding that reveal! I have no idea, but I'm very excited! (I apologize if this is rambling or hard to understand, English is not my first language)
Thanks for reading my work and interacting!! I love rambling. Too much, some may say. So no worries, I enjoyed reading your ask.
Stark!reader is a blend of Cinematic Tony and comic book Tony, both in personality and plot points. One Tony's meaner and kind of offensive wit coupled with the dorky and funny Tony. She walks a tightrope between both, steering into one more than the other from time to time. Her mixed bag of feelings towards Bruce and Dick bring out the spitefulness, but the role of being an older sibling, no matter how much she pushes it away or pretends it's not hers, inevitably chips away at it. Whiiiiiich what I'm getting to is: she wouldn't expose her identity as the new hero in town unless it was to save her family's skin or if pushed into a quick do-or-don't moment where she has to suit up in public to save another person's life.
In the comics, Iron Man remains a hero without a public identity for a significant while; not even the Avengers know who he is. This is what I'm going for. Not to mention that revealing your public identity would put targets on your family's backs, and it's not a matter of them not being able to handle it (because of course they can), but you can foresee a situation in which they will handle it too well (no matter how aware of it they are, they are human. They make mistakes.) that suspicion will arise. So, no unmasking.
But of course, Iron Man gets unmasked eventually. The blending of the Iron Man identity and the identity of Tony Stark is a significant story point, whether from public perception or internal perception. I don't plan on handling a public reveal since it doesn't fit into the story arc I'm going for, but a public reveal would happen in a natural flow of events outside of my control. As previously discussed, it probably wouldn't be out of your own volition.
I do see the scenario you mentioned being one of the possibilities. Bruce Wayne is under scrutiny and police investigation for being Batman, and if it comes down to it, you'd gamble on it and reveal your own identity to take the fall. And I agree on your vision of how it would play out. Most people when drafting up a child raised by Batman would expect someone rigid, less in the limelight, more soldier than well adjusted. Well, depends who you ask. The unrepentant people in jail because of him would say it's gotta be some devil straight out of hell. Those who have been comforted by Batman after a traumatic experience would disagree; his kid would be quiet, maybe a bit shy, but full of compassion. Neither really encapsulate you. The genius part lines up, maybe the ego, but Batman walks such a rigid line that it's difficult for most people to accept Batman would raise a child who went on to become an arms dealer. And, later on as we'll see in part 3, an alcoholic. Bruce Wayne would. Batman would not. Ergo, Batman cannot be Bruce Wayne.
As for your suit, because of your secret identity, it's gender neutral or closer to the classic Tony Stark suit, either gold and red or silver and red. Post-identity reveal, I don't think you'd change it any more than making it fit better since, what's most important is structural stability, and people are already accustomed to the gender neutral look. It's better PR.
Color wise, hmmm...I think it would change over time. The earlier models would intentionally be loud and showy to differentiate yourself from Batman and Inc as much as possible. Not for the media or anything, but for yourself. To sort of console over the fact that you're becoming a hero not due to your father or siblings, but your own reasons. A bit spiteful. Because you don't want your grief and guilt over your own mistakes and Ho Yinsen to be mixed up with petty family drama. It's bigger than that.
Later on, once your relationship with the others and your father begins to mend, the colors on the suit would change. At it's best, you'd develop them with nods to the other members. Subtle things, because you're ego can't handle much more. Incorporating some black, maybe a black and blue model (only done under extreme circumstances or for a gag suit. You can't let it get to Dick's head), etc.
I just read your "Eggnog" and I wanna say that I want to be like you when I grow up (as a writer). I envy you in a good way. Your dialogs and banters are so flowy, so smooth; it reads like a sitcom episode and projects directly into my head.
I'm also a big Barry girly, so thank you for the food.
💌✍️
In the very hectic time of exams, this is such a joy to receive and I thank you so much. Writing, to me, is all about resonating with other people. I'm glad I was able to achieve that with you.
All the best on your journey of being a writer! Can't put to words how much of an honor it is to inspire other people. I'm certain you'll do wonderfully. Wish you all the best, and keep working hard at your dreams!!
On a lighter note, thank you for being a Barry girly. He's in my top 3 and needs more love all around. He's so silly yet so serious. I could write an essay on how impactful he is; will continue to write about him until the internet explodes. Once crunch time is over I will hopefully start working on something new for him!!!
back on my roommate Hal Jordan spiel bc apartment hunting has got me by the jugular.
How would he even be able to sign a lease without a guarantor?? It’d have to be Carol, because he’d never in his life ask Olly, Bruce, (maybe Barry??) Tbh, I don’t see him getting a roommate either unless he’s entirely abysmally low on money. As in, never before experienced levels of desperation.
So, there’ll be times when you’re blowing up his phone because rent & utilities are due tomorrow, not knowing he’s helping evacuate a planet from core sucking parasites. Carol swoops in the day its due with a check, entirely understanding and apologetic of your circumstances, even offering to help you find a new place, but as much as you want to, you refuse because you’ve saved two months of grocery money living in this place.
Plus, as much as Hal is the source of 2/3rds of the stress in your life, he’s also been the guy who knocked on your bedroom door when you holed yourself up over the weekend because of a family tragedy, simpering smile on his face with a tub of ice cream — Butter Pecan or something entirely him (because he can’t remember your favorite); he’s the guy who spent three hours searching for you all over Coast City because you went out before parts of downtown exploded, and you weren’t picking up your phone; he’s the guy who sits alongside you on your thrifted couch to binge watch a trashy action comedy, adding his commentary of “that’s unrealistic” at the stunts.
My mistake is playing Call of Duty for the first time in 2 years. Now I can’t stop thinking up scenarios of Dick Grayson and a reader in a 141 adjacent task force.
Tony Stark!batsis!Fem!reader pt 2 | pt 1
Synopsis: The beginning of redemption. Afghanistan shows you that despite your intentions, there's blood on your hands. Nothing will cleanse you of it, but you will always believe in building a better future.
Word count: 5.8K
Note: forgive me if Tim is extremely OOC in this, I have a weird mix of 90's Tim and current Tim fist fighting in my head.
When you come to, your entire heart is on a timer: an electromagnet lodged into your chest to keep shrapnel from moving into your atrial septum, all powered by the car battery you're strapped to. You have your fellow prisoner to thank for that, Doctor Ho Yinsen. A quiet man who shaves himself in the mornings of that sweltering unlit cave using a metal sheet as a mirror, smooths out his suit before the day starts, and keeps his round glasses clean. You owe him your life.
These are lawless days that pass, meant to shape you with their torture but not break you into uselessness. Weapons, Wayne weapons, all around. Pointed at you. Thus you realize, you've gouged a hole in the world you want to protect. And once you die here, that will be your obituary.
It's late at night while you're sitting before the fire, watching the flickering and twisting of the light on the cave walls, feeling the heart inside your chest beat to its ruin with fingers still finicky from the torture, that Doctor Yinsen sits beside you.
"This is your legacy, Wayne," he says. "Is that how you want to go out? Is this the last act of defiance of the great Wayne? Or are you going to do something about it?"
"For what? We're dead already. Either by them, or in my case, by this thing in me." Your hands hover over the thrumming mechanism on your chest, wires strapped to it like jump starting a pick up truck.
"Then you have very important decisions to make, don't you?"
Bruce will find you, this you bet all probability on, but it won't be enough to save you. It's a cave of asphyxia; congests to the empty space between your ribs, on the other side of the metal door there are men with guns and missiles. You think you're going to die here. That's yours to risk; the cave a torrent of fire and gunpowder and final sputtering cry of an old fighting motor falling apart.
A mass murderer, was the title bestowed to you by them. They were right.
You come back wrong. Found trekking sand dunes and panting in the desert heat like a dog, the batplane thrums in the sky, wind from its propellers beating down against the tattered rag wrapped your head to negate the sweat. The bottom hatch opens. Tim — Robin — jumps down; runs to hold you up before you collapse. Gaunt and malnourished, he knows the signs of torture well.
The plane is set on autopilot as Damian, Bruce, and Tim crowd around your laying form, scanners and machines transcribing your condition; an IV, which Bruce holds up to let the liquid flow down for the lack of a stand, pumping electrolytes and hydration into your veins. A monitor picks up on your heart — that finicky little thing that Tim would jokingly say you were lacking in ("Is there a bottle where your heart should be?" Okay, not so jokingly. Snark was always creeping in, because he can never look past your consequence of turning the Wayne legacy synonymous with war. With dead innocents caught in the crossfire.) that, to their detection, should have stopped beating long ago. Is it even a heart, anymore? In the center of your chest, glowing and fizzing, is — something. In you. A pacemaker — he can't be sure without cracking it open.
Shit, that can't be stable.
You're stirring, now. Damian had to wrestle you down for rest and now the dizziness is composing itself, blinking as if the holoscreens are searing your eyes.
"It's Bruce," your dad begins. Still. Firm as if relaying mission parameters. Recognizable, for you. Stable. "You're on the Batplane with Tim, Damian, and me. You're safe now."
You are. You are. Yet the nerves from the depths of your brain to the ends of your toes are fraying apart and spiking. One can't escape the sensation of awaiting their death everyday in one afternoon. For you, this will be carried forever.
"You three?" Your voice fights to scrape out, rough and raspy and stabbing at the back of your throat. When you sit up, Bruce is handing you a flask of water. You take it and try not to gulp the whole thing down in one go. One sip at a time. "What— " You wipe the moisture from your mouth with the back of your hand. "—everyone else on the league busy saving another kidnapped billionaire? You know what, don't answer that."
Bruce, a fantastic conversational partner, ignores your deflections and gets straight to the point. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm 21 again waking up in places I shouldn't be."
"How were you able to escape?" Damian asks. He's been near the exit to the cockpit, arms crossed, fixed indifferent expression since Tim carried you inside.
"What do you mean 'how'? I'm me, of course I escaped."
"Probably drove her own kidnappers insane," Tim mutters. His minds reeling, again. Thinking thinking thinking, back to the why and what. "They needed you for something, right? There was no ransom, so I assumed—"
"Tim." Bruce has taken his cowl off so as to allow Tim look him in the eye. A soothing, Not now. His arm supporting the IV lowers. "We'll be in Gotham soon. I've contacted Doctor Leslie Thompkins. As for cardiologists—"
You're interrupting. "I've been holed up in a cave for—"
"—three months," Tim chimes.
"Three months. Right now, the only thing I need is shawarma, scotch, and a phone with internet access."
The last line engraves a hard set scowl on Damian's lips, worsened by the shadows of the enclosed overhead panel. "This is no time to stalk what others have been spouting about you online. What you need is heart surgery."
"I've got a good guess at what they've said. 'Got what was coming to her, Lex Luthor celebrates with the party of the century', yada yada." You wave him off. "As for my heart, I've got it under control," you say, pushing yourself off the makeshift bed and onto your feet. Your knees buckle, hand clutching on to the edge of the table as you lean on it to pass off the dizzy spell as nothing more than a casual drape. "It's just vitamin deficiency, rib fractures. barotrauma, minor bruising, tissue injuries..."
Tim's eyebrows furrow. "Oh, is that all?" Sarcasm. The brat.
"That I can feel. Point is: I'm fine, I lived, and since my dutiful secretary isn't here, and I don’t have access to A.L.F.R.E.D., I need one of you to schedule that press conference. Don't make me say please."
"Mr.Terrific and Mid-Nite are on standby," Bruce says. "Whatever complications—"
And oh, you can't have that. Once glance at the reactor on your chest, a few hours, and Mr.Terrific will have his own (though certainly less innovative) version of it. That's not going to work. Were you in better better states, you'd have concealed the arc reactor from Damian, Tim, and Bruce. But they're insistent, and though they haven't questioned it, you know they'll get pushy and proddy about it later. No, you don't trust anyone but yourself with this level of technology. And to submit yourself under anesthesia on an operating table, left at someone else's will and skills? No. You'll work out a solution yourself. You've done it already, always have.
You sigh. “This is humiliating. Is this how my secretary feels? I should send her a gift basket. Something charming written on the card, like, sorry I didn't die, you still have work on Monday."
“She quit two weeks after you were taken hostage,” Damian says.
“That’s not even enough time for my body to decompose."
“Would take about three years for skeletal decomposition," because of course Tim knows.
"Thank you, decomposition expert." which he follows with a 'Anytime'.
You don't know what it is about you. Whether it's your tone, the way your hands keep moving, maybe the look in your eye, but Bruce is staring. He stares like he's relearning all he knows about you. And you don't know what he finds, but the stiffness in his bones eases. It's a relent. "Alright."
"You should give us the details of what happened to you, first," Tim argues, straightening. "And get you professional medical attention. Your body is likely operating off the lingering adrenaline, and you'll start to feel the effects of dehydration and malnutrition full force soon."
Once more, you refuse. Damian 'tch's', and seems bordering on examining you himself, but your evading laughter and teasing cements him into place out of spite.
Bruce rounds him along to join him in the cockpit so as to not have an inevitable fight brew in his absence. The IV is extended for you to hold, and the only reason you don't push the task onto Tim is for the freedom of moving around. Shutting off the holoscreens, you sit in a chair bordering the edges.
Tim is silent, on the isle next to yours. The are no windows nor sights, just sensations of the groaning of the thrusters and the clicking of Tim typing on a handheld device. Taking a proper look at him, he’s taken his domino mask off. The shadows underneath his eyes burn purple and heavy in the illumination of the blue light.
“Hey, kid.”
Tim spares you a glance.
“You’re not allowed to look worse off than someone kidnapped by terrorists. Get some rest.”
He considers it. Hops from peeping at you to the screen. In the end, he places it down on his lap, leans on the backrest, and closes his eyes.
You follow; intake a deep breath of air. No smell of ozone or acrid or the jab of a gun muzzle on the back of your head. The IV bag you've given up on rests atop your thigh.
Soon, you will return to Gotham.
Ho Yinsen will never return to Gulmira.
Ho Yinsen. Your weapons that slaughtered his family.
His blood. Their blood. Your punishment, Wayne.
Tim waits for you to bustle from your nap before voicing a fraction of what's been grating at him. "I'm curious."
"Yeah, you would be," your murmur. If you were to turn away and try to go back to sleep, he'd babble on either way. Still, you try it.
Tim's lip twitches. He's missed this. You. "What," he continues, watching you shift to block his view of your face. "is so important that one of the first things you ask after escaping kidnapping by terrorists is a phone."
Ah, guess he figured out that your insistence was to relay a message. "Would you believe me if I said it was some hot guy I met at an Expo?"
"No. You don't stick around long at those."
"Flattering, that you know me so well. A little creepy."
"I know you well enough." No, only partially. Tim has thought up three guesses, Dick being one of them, though he only considers that an option in the scenario you were trying to prank him, and none seem sufficient. He shouldn't expect you to be returned the same as you were months prior. Not with what you went through. Yet it's uncomfortable for Tim, not knowing. "Here."
Over your shoulder, you see him offering up a cellphone. Simple in design, yet likely heavily encoded and secured. It's not his personal cell — not scuffed up enough for that — but meant for covert communication.
You accept it. Leaning back in your seat, you take a second to figure out the user interface before opening the email app and logging in. Tim scrutinizes.
"My department heads are about to get the most frightening email of their careers," you finish. The phone shuts off, and you toss it at Tim to catch. He seizes it airborne with one hand, pressing buttons to retrace your online presence and skim through it.
Seeing your recent activity, Tim's mouth drops open. "You're kidding."
You yawn.
"Hey, forget the heart surgery," his tone, dropping and stretching, sounds genuinely worried. "I think a depth brain scan is severely needed."
He bugs you through the rest of the flight. Asking and rephrasing questions which you ignore, pausing to hide the cell in his lap and shield it from your view. Tattling to Dick, no doubt. You rally the sneaking suspicion that Tim is throwing in the idea that you're a clone. He even visits the cockpit to attempt to convince Bruce of turning the Batplane around to scour the desert just to be sure.
Ignoring it, you latch on to the IV bag like a stress ball.
When aerial descent hits and squeezes at your stomach from the acceleration change, you know you're in the cave underneath the manor. The cockpit opens. The hatch hisses.
"Come on, there's testing I want to do." Tim is shaking you awake when you feign sleep, gripping at your shoulder and frowning at the sharp ridges of bone traceable underneath his gloves. "After you eat."
Damp air floods the plane.
"Shawarma?"
"You'll throw it up." Damian glares down at you. His Robin mask, concealing his green eyes, are not enough to sweep away the tautness in his posture and click of his tongue. "Get up. Or do you need to be carried like a child?"
"Seeking excuses to hug me, kid? All you need do is ask." Stirring to face Damian, you open up your arms with a taunting grin, beckoning him over for a familial embrace. As predicted, Damian responds in disgust. He's first off the Batplane, fists clenched and heavy steps on the metal intentionally audible to convey his frustrations.
Tim stares at your profile. You recline and smile at him. Your hands are fiddling with the half empty IV bag, curling and uncurling the line. "Did you miss my pretty face that much?" you ask when it’s clear he’s deducing something.
He hums, tilting his head. "Wanna go scavenge the kitchen instead? You can close your eyes. I'll guide you there." Tim brings up an open palm, flat for your taking; outstretched and inviting. The corner of his mouth upturns in that boy like mischievousness he'd barrel through life with when he was a headache of a budding hero. You'd believe it but liars know their own kind.
Inside that cave that should have been your grave, the looming horizon of death allowed for a vulnerability of yourself to Ho Yinsen that was unlike any other you had allowed with another human being. Three months of captivity and torture stripped both of you from the pretenses of Doctor and billionaire. Two souls, seeking home. You had forgotten how much your disliked being gazed at with such knowing, even when you played your part.
"This cave," you begin, hauling yourself up to stand. The IV attached to you is shaken off, careful not to draw blood. "has a thirty feet T-Rex inside it. It's impossible to find it threatening." Yes, it's nothing like the gun filled hole in the desert. This one, at the very least, doesn't use bullet casings as decor.
You exit the Batplane flanked by Tim and Bruce as if Joker is to pop out the engines like a jack-in-the-box. The others are crowded at the bottom, fixated on your presence in varying degrees. Stephanie's firm drawn lips soften into an easy going smile when your eyes connect, as if she's a girl you're watching across a coffee shop.
Cassandra is never far behind, bodies almost pieced into one, hands interconnected to soothe the other. Once, you weren't capable of naming the emotions Cassandra was viable to, nor were you one to try. Not her fault, but you were out of every room she walked into within five seconds. Every wink scrutinized, every flicker of your grandiose noted down. Cassandra has been able to read you from the moment she came across a clip of you on the news, but when did she turn so expressive? She's worried. Her eyebrows creased, and she's frowning. You've been so disjointed and disconnected from this 'family' that you're just being thrown into the aftermath of its resolution.
Barbara is there too. Glasses off and standing between the two Batgirls and Dick as if expecting one of them to collapse.
Dick — your insufferable younger brother. What to say to him?
You come to a stop face to face. Blue eyes unmuted by the shadows of the Batcave. You eye the brown bag he's clutching like a rotting rope.
"Did you get me lunch?"
"Dinner," Dick answers, as if he's speaking through a punch in the gut.
"Hm. I should get kidnapped more often."
Not the correct thing to say. Dick frowns, and you're sure Tim is rubbing his temples from what you assess in your peripheral. Unfortunately for them, you've never cared about reading a room.
You relay to Dick a 'gimme' gesture, mouth watering at the scent of beef and Shawarma permeating from the bag. It numbs your senses to the lack of light in the cave and the far off dripping of water, the stiffing pick at your skin from the enclosed ceiling and corners. Well, no one's yelling at you, at least.
Just as Dick is about to surrender the food, Damian snatches it from his hand without the forewarning that he was ever even there. "Are you an idiot?" he seethes. "If she eats this she'll just throw it up later."
"I know that," Dick says. He doesn't look at Damian as he says this, nor you. "One bite won’t hurt. It's her stress meal."
"It's my stress meal," you parrot, to Damian.
He just frowns. "No. I'll make you porridge, and you will eat it."
As he turns to leave for the stairs that lead into the manor, you call out, "Wait, wait, that's wasting perfectly good Shawarma. Where are you taking it? You're not going to eat it."
Damian pauses to eye the bag in his hand. He turns, ensures to meet your stare, then tosses it at Tim. Tim catches.
"You won't mind giving it to the less fortunate, right? He hasn’t eaten all day."
You glare at Damian. "He's a grown man. That Shawarma was mine."
Damian continues his trek to the stairs. "Finish up your business here quickly. I don’t want to deal with you if you get an infection."
You watch him eventually disappear into the manor, slivers of the yellow inside lamps fading when he closes the entrance. He doesn't look back once. "Can't say I missed that."
"You know how he is," Stephanie chimes, chuckling to herself. "Not knowing how to say he was dying of worry. Oh, but I'll tell you all about it later when he can't interfere. In retrospect, it was kind of cute."
"Him, cute?" you wave her off. "Hey, don't eat that near me. It makes me jealous."
Tim doesn't stop his chewing of your — his Shawarma. He swallows, licks his lips. "Just because you're miserable doesn't mean I should be too."
"I hold grudges, by the way."
"You're in high spirits. I'm glad." Dick approaches you like he doesn't know whether to hug you or shake your hand. In the end, he does neither, just smiles at you with a relief that he attempts not to show. For a second, you think you missed those blue eyes of his, and you figure it must be a trauma response.
"Eh, not as bad as that time we had to compete with Ferris Air for a defense contract." One of the first things you noticed when waking up in the Batplane was how your voice didn't echo. But here, in this cave, it's returned. The echoing of your words bouncing back to you the same way you grew accustomed to for three months. If you talk more, you’ll get used to it. Ignore it, for now. You’re good at that.
"You need a medical examination, right?" It's Cassandra who speaks up. You must have given it away. "We should be quick. Or Damian will get mad."
Bruce, who has been surveying the group of you but kept himself separate, reanimates back to life to attend to your condition. His cowl is off. "Come on," is all he says, and steps off to ready off the medical tools.
"No need. Perfectly fine. See?" You extend your arms out as if that is proof enough, concealing the wince from the aching bones in your left hand.
Bruce doesn't even pretend to fall for it. "Either I'll examine you, or Damian will."
"You're going to have to catch me—"
"You want to bet?"
Plan: fail.
You bite the inside of your cheek, the arc reactor burning to only you.
At your behest, it's a private examination. It takes a while, coupled with thorough CT scans and blood work. As you said, bone fractures, nutrient deficiency, bruising — whatever pain medication was given to you in the Batplane was doing wonders.
Bruce should ask about the arc reactor. He doesn't.
That's even more unnerving.
Neither do he or Tim insist on your account of the kidnapping yet, though it will come in due time. They let you escape that suffocating cave for the manors dining room instead, the rest of the 'family' joining at the long wooden table watching you slurp the flavorless porridge Damian had prepared. 'Strong spices will upset your stomach,' is what he had said.
There, between bites, you retell what you want. The purpose of your capture, your trickery in escaping. You don't mention a suit. To them, you built some sort of blaster or ignited an explosion proficient enough to break you free. You do not mention Ho Yinsen.
They listen to your story attentively, quiet and solemn as if it’s an obituary.
It is, in a way, isn't it? Part of you remains there. Or is it still you, and will you always remain so?
You refuse the notion. You rebuke it all. The pitying stares, here. The pity in their silence. The porridge goes down bitterly.
Then begins the sharing of information on their end. From their investigation, your CFO Powers turned out the culprit. A scheme of partnership with your kidnappers for Powers to seize Wayne Enterprises for himself, a failure that resulted him broken and shattered from spine to teeth by Bruce and Dick. It's Barbara who's recounting this, and though she doesn't say nor imply it, when she bows her head to nurse the mug of tepid coffee between her hands, you know. They almost killed him. He almost died.
"Guess he really did get fed up when I didn't invite him to my birthday gala," is what you say. They exchange glances.
Locating you was its own complicated ordeal, apparently. Clark was unable to pick up on your heartbeat. Due to the change in rhythm from the shrapnel, you guess.
You ask about Jason's absence. Dick says he was content hearing you were safe and back home, and likely didn't want to intrude. He must be taking after you, and that's no good.
He's just shy, you joke, and that's enough to make Dick smile.
It's off putting, in a way, to witness the replicated long dining table of your childhood have its seats filled by people. Once, its inhabitants were a lofty three. Bruce, at the head. Dick and you at his sides; you ignoring both. Now, it's like a banquet. All eyes on you as you give your royal decree. When did it get so full? These family dinners haven't occurred since high school, where Alfred would prepare an expertly grilled cheese for your midnight cravings.
Ah, Alfred. He'd scold you for all this trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.
You insist to be taken to your home in California after your meal. Bruce insists it's in your best interest to remain here in the manor, cared and attended to by humans, not A.L.F.R.E.D., who you argue is better than capable of handling all your needs. For some reason, Bruce doesn't understand how an AI is more comforting. Whatever.
Barbara and Stephanie don't linger. Sensing this a more intimate matter between Wayne's, they return to their own families, but not before Stephanie envelops you into an embrace more ghosting than tight. "Glad you're back," she whispers.
Barbara had shaken your hand. "I knew you'd come back."
Dick, Tim, Damian, and Cassandra choose to stay the night. The empty rooms of Wayne manor experience a rare surge in usage, all compounding to the wing in which your childhood bedroom is in. The Wayne family, reunited. You can't find any comfort in it, not when the times in which all of you stayed in the manor together at once can be counted on a single hand. It's as if they're your wardens, in a way. You can't be sure they aren't. Surely, they'd have talked amongst themselves by now, seeking to investigate and deduce all they can about your arc reactor. But you'll conceal it like a game of hide and seek, or denial denial denial. This arc reactor is yours. Your tech; your blood.
It's a terrible sleep that finds you. Rest comes in lapses. Disjointed, short intervals. REM cycle is torn from you in bursts of cold sweat.
You don't understand why. This mattress is the best you've had in three months. A bed of rose petals and baby diapers compared to the slab you curled up in that cave. You're home. You're safe.
You won. You prevailed.
An airy laugh leaves your lips, your hair between your fingers. The silk sheets stab like rocks.
You're you. This is nothing.
Toss and turn. Toss and turn. In the end, you can do no more than throw the blanket off and shuffle into a pair of slipper left here years ago.
It's chilly outside. The Wayne garden isn’t the same as it was in childhood, replanted hedges and flower beds in new formations and patterns. Ones you still haven't grown used to. But the sky, the stars, the celestial sphere is the same as when you were a kid sneaking out to stargaze. If you had a telescope with you, you'd point it at Jupiter.
"You're a terrible patient." Same as then, Dick has a pension for finding you. He comes up on your left, hands in the pockets of his sleep shorts with a bed head that implies he was snuggled up underneath a blanket. "You'll catch a cold."
"Says the one in shorts and a T-shirt."
Dick shrugs. "I run hot." Playful, insinuating.
"And they call me narcissistic."
"You're called plenty of things."
A trail of white flickers by. Another clump of star matter burnt up in the Ozone.
"A visionary?"
"No."
"Bleeding heart?"
"More of the opposite."
"I think both those are true."
"A commitment-phobe, is one I've heard."
"Well, all three can be true at the same time."
Dick makes a sound through his nose.
Maybe, for a fleeting second, you can pretend you're thirteen again, reluctantly sitting with Dick as the stars twinkle by. One of those school nights when him and Bruce got back from patrol late. But you're a futurist. Your past may define you, but you won't remain in it. You can't.
"Why didn't you kill Powers?"
You're watching the sky, tracing Ursa minor. Dick glances at your profile.
"Would you have wanted me to?"
"No."
It's a silence swallowing the night. Dick can hear your breathing, you can hear his.
"Superman stopped me. Bruce and me." He turns his face to watch the swaying of the lilacs by the entrance pathway so you can't see his face, but his jaw tenses and his hands clench to fists in his pockets. "I wasn't going to, at first. But then he talked, and talked, and..."
"He's usually a smooth talker," you intervene, flatly. "Guess he was scared out of his wits."
"Or confident. He just rambled about how—" Dick mulls over his next words. "—I got angry. He got to me. I should have stopped Bruce. I should have stopped myself, but— I couldn't care. I wasn't able to find out what Powers had been planning this entire time until it was too late, and I could only think about giving him what he deserved. It doesn't matter that Clark showed up, because if he hadn't, I would have gone through with it anyway." Dick tousles his hair, holds strands tight to his scalp as he inhales to ease the tension in his muscles. He thinks back to the blood, the sound of fist hitting flesh, the cries of a surrendered man. "I keep making the same mistakes."
"I thought you'd be used to failure by now. Seriously, how many mistakes do you think my dad has made? There's one called Damian that's still biting him in the ass."
Dick’s hand lowers to his side. He stops grinding his teeth. "You ever going to let that go?"
"After all the lectures he gave me about being reckless? Never."
That earns you a twitch of his lips. Faint, but then it settles right back into a line.
"The worst part is when you can justify it," you keep on, when he doesn’t lift his brooding. That was supposed to be your thing tonight. Typical. Dick always steals everything. Your dad, your books, your turn for melodrama. "And I can justify it. But against my will, I know you. All moral failings and questionable fashion decisions. You're a hero, and you didn't go through with it. You're not defined by it. Tomorrow, you'll suit up and help people, even at the cost of your own well being. That's who you are." Then you shrug, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes, "And even if you had killed Powers, you'd find a way to get back up. You're persistent. That's what makes you so annoying."
Dicks's face twists. "I thought Tim was going senile when he suggested a clone theory."
"I'm just bad at dying." And the reaction that enacts from Dick has you smiling. It doesn't reach your eyes. "That's the fun version, I guess."
Dick places a hand on your shoulder. Hah, he really does run warm.
He’s a multitude of emotions. He then meets your eyes, hoping you'll understand them all. What he says is spoken softly, just for you: "I'm happy you're back."
It's morning; you're in the backseat of a car; Dick is escorting you out.
Flashes and yells of your name latch at the air, microphones and recorders shoved in your direction, shouting Powers' name and his impending trial. 'The Prodigal Son returns,' you announce, ruffling them further. Security holds the media off as Dick ushers you from throwing them a bone, holding on to your elbow as he does so. Camera lights flicker. Dick has to blink them away, whereas you smile from behind your shades.
He stands behind you during the press conference. One would think he's your head of security, with how he stares down the room. Sometimes he catches himself, throws on a lax smile for the walls of cameras.
He does his best to listen. He does, he does. But your voice is buzzing within his cranium, your figure melting in the corner.
"Profit at any price.” Your voice wrings the noise out of the room. From a corner you can't find, Bruce must be listening. “Those are not words I want used for Wayne Enterprises. It's what has led it, by my inadequacy, to harm the people I sought to protect, and our planet. Wayne Enterprises was once the gold standard for progressive and ethical innovation, and I plan to return to that structure. Many of you will see this as a crazed, bankrupting notion. I raise to you that it is entirely possible, and if it has not been done before, then let us be the first ones to do it. Let us challenge our peers into following our example. To remain as we are is to remain in a world in which we suffer crises' wrought by our own ignorance, one that keeps us in the cave. This is not a new business model, but a reinvention. It is not optional."
They're swarming you, again. And you, you're standing there, looking them all right in the eye, firm against the barrage as if you hadn’t just declared that the most profitable defense company in the nation will be abandoning its weapon manufacturing ties. It's ripped right out of his prayers. How far you've changed — but it was violent and full of flames and cruel. And he wonders if it was the steep price to pay, and he wonders if there was no other way.
Unlike Tim, who beforehand had been actively working against your position as CEO to one day reclaim Wayne Enterprises and hand it over to Lucius Fox, Dick had been trying to trust you. He wanted you to make the choice to do good, because it’s your choice to make. It’s a decision that ate at him, because he knew the logical and safe outcome would have been to stop you by the quickest means, end whatever future calamities and dangers your weapons would inevitably create, but he also knew that, despite what most gossip columns and stood up dates said, you do have a heart. It’s there and it’s hurting; has been since the day you two were lonely kids meeting for the first time at the main stairway of the mansion. Not many people would deduce this, but one of your strongest qualities is empathy. That’s what started this whole thing — your vision for Wayne Enterprises. You want a world where war is obsolete, but to you, the closest there was to that was threatening your enemies with firepower.
He knows all this because Jason’s death wouldn’t have been such a big hit to you otherwise.
But yes, Dick wanted to trust you to make the right choice, and each time you picked otherwise he blamed himself because it was his responsibility to not trust you.
Underneath the shades, you meet his stare. Dick holds it, for a second, tasting his mouth go dry. You turn and blow a kiss to the crowd.
Later, he's passing you a mint in the quiet confines of the faux arc reactor room, leaning beside you on the railing. His tie has been loosened around the collar of his dress shirt, the first two buttons undone.
"Was it something I ate?" you raise a brow as you pop the mint into your mouth. The board members had chewed you out after the press conference, but it didn't amount to much when you blew their protests aside without consideration. Bruce had been there, and for the fist time in six years, the chasm between the two of you inched forward an inch.
"Drank. You've got scotch in your breath."
The 'whoops' you give isn't at all apologetic, but when Dick doesn't reply, you fish for sympathy. "Give me a break," you begin, like a shark smelling blood in the water. "I was forced to go cold turkey for three months."
Dick frowns and you know you've won.
"You made the right choice," he comments instead. Your shades are hanging off the breast pocket of your blazer, allowing him to see the full scope of your eyes without their opacity. It makes you want to leave. The fake arc reactor in front of you hums with electricity. The one inside you fizzes.
Dick looks on ahead, elbows leaning on the bar that separates him from the arc reactor. It was a theory, at first. He had given your notes a once over before you could kick him out of your mess of a lab, and you'd rambled about the waste emissions and cost inefficiency of constructing it. The one in front of him takes up the size of an entire show room, but Tim did the thermodynamics calculations and said it was a hoax.
"I never doubted myself," you say, and Dick believes it.
Yes. This is your creed now. You shouldn't be alive, but since you are, it's for this reason. This, there is nothing except this. You straighten and unfold your sunglasses, covering up your eyes once more, getting ready to leave. Dismissive and with a lilt of playfulness, you call out to him, "But see if you still think that after our stock plummets and your inheritance gets cut."
to give up something of value for the sake of other considerations, often regarded as of greater importance or worth
cw | batsis! (fem!) reader, death, grief, canon typical violence and themes, the long halloween, mentions of sex/oral 18+ mdni
wc | 9.7k
You’re no stranger to sacrifice. It’s a part of who you are, blood spilt, time spent, relationships disintegrated, all sacrificed for the greater good. For your city. For the world. For your family.
The moment your little brother Bruce was born, red-faced and squealing, announcing his arrival to all, your life was forever changed. Your parents, affluent and beloved by the city, were unrestrained in their joy, tears marring even Thomas’ cheeks as they huddled around the impossibly small bundle lying in Martha’s arms.
You stand a few feet from the foot of the hospital bed, uncertain, hesitant, feeling like an intruder upon some sacred moment. After all, you weren’t their biological child, and now that they had their miracle baby, what use did they have for you? The scruffy charity case that could never compete, no matter how often Martha reassured you.
At the time, you’d been too young to truly recognise the ugly cocktail of emotions and insecurities that threatened to swallow you; all you remember is being certain they wouldn’t want you anymore. But then Martha had called your name, ushering you forward to take a look at your new baby brother.
He was a little ugly, had been your first thought, albeit one you hadn’t dared verbalise, but then a tiny hand had worked its way free from the blanket, even smaller fingers curling around one of your own with an unfeasible strength, and your heart swelled with overwhelming love.
You are young, and although you haven’t experienced much of the world yet, you’re no stranger to the darkness that lingers. The world is a cold and cruel place, but you’ll not let that be Bruce’s experience. This was your little brother, blood be damned, and you would do anything to keep him safe.
Fate hears the silent convictions of a child likely too young to ever remember this moment and laughs. If that was your wish, then so be it.
It starts with small concessions. The best part of your dinner given to a pouting Bruce, the movie you want to watch put aside for another rerun of Grey Ghost, your sleep sacrificed as your teary little brother admits to having a nightmare, wanting to sleep with you instead.
And like a sucker, you cave every time. The best part of your steak is cut and on his plate before he can even ask, his favourite episode already prepared, as your preferred VHS tapes sit gathering dust, your nights devoted to ensuring he sleeps soundly.
The sacrifices start small until you’re staring down the barrel of a gun, your mother’s blood staining your face and hair as you push a catatonic Bruce behind you. He’s trembling, hands clenching the previously white material of your shirt as he futilely attempts to pull you back from the danger.
Reaching behind, you push him into your back, making him a smaller target behind your larger frame. “What do you want?” Your voice is shaky, barely audible over the thunderous pounding of your heart in your ears. The barrel of the gun glints in the low lighting, swinging wildly until it’s pointed at your face. Bruce whimpers, the vibration travelling through your body as your gaze stays locked on the threat.
The man doesn’t answer, beady eyes staring you down before flickering to your mother’s cooling corpse at your feet. The two of you remain locked in your silent staredown for what seems an eternity before the murderer darts forward, reaching down to rip your mother’s pearls from her neck, pocketing whatever doesn’t go flying across the grimy alley floor along with your father’s wallet before disappearing into the shadows.
Bruce moves, a whimper on his lips, but you’re faster, turning to hug him close to you, burying his face in your chest so he doesn’t see more than he already has. “It’s ok, you’re ok.” You repeat, desperately clutching him close in an attempt to convince yourself of the only words you can manage to muster. Bruce squirms in your arms, his tears soaking through your shirt, but you barely notice, eyes wide and shellshocked. You don’t dare close your eyes, for the second you do, your mother’s face, frozen in death, sears itself onto the back of your eyelids.
You don’t notice the police arrive, you barely notice the officers ushering you into the back of a patrol car until they try to separate you and Bruce, who screams bloody murder. Adrenaline pumps through you, lips pulling back in a snarl as you lunge for the young man trying to pull your sobbing brother away from you. Nails rake through flesh, more blood staining your fingers as you frantically reach for Bruce.
Chaos erupts, voices yelling in overlapping white noise that you can’t even begin to make out. Your little brother is already reaching for you, snot and tears streaming down reddened cheeks as you pull him into you, curling over him as best you can, hiding him from the group of heartbroken onlookers.
A young James Gordon pushes through the crowd of useless officers, slowly approaching the siblings with his coat shrugged off, gently laying it over the older girl. Bloodshot eyes snap up to stare at him, wild and unrestrained as you curl even further around your brother. Broadcasting his movements, Jim places his palm on your back, a silent message that, thankfully, you seem to understand, and relax enough until he manages to usher the two of you into the vehicle, Bruce curled into your side and his coat still hanging off your shoulders.
With your parents gone, it’s up to you to become Bruce’s primary caretaker. You’re still a child yourself, but Alfred’s not nearly up to the task, too stuck in the old ways of emotionless child-rearing that you refuse to let Bruce become a casualty of.
But it’s a lot easier said than done. Your grades plummet, your social life is nonexistent, and extracurriculars are quit. Nights are spent watching over him, comforting him through the inevitable nightmares as you fight the constant exhaustion threatening to pull you under. Your entire life is put on hold, frozen, sacrificed in order to pour everything you have into ensuring Bruce’s safety and happiness.
It’s not until you’re nearing graduation that you become aware of the insidious machinations happening inside your family’s company, your father’s company. The man had devoted his entire life to helping others, and now his legacy was being tarnished.
Bruce had never wanted to step into that world; it wasn’t in his nature, it wasn’t in yours either. But you knew if push came to shove, Bruce would give up his own dreams to take the reins at Wayne Enterprises.
Your entire life has been built on sacrifice; what’s one more?
By sheer grit, sleepless nights, and exhausted tears, you manage to pull your grades up enough just in time to graduate. Not enough to get into some prestigious school, but that’s fine by you; you’d never leave Gotham anyway, not when Bruce was still here.
You enrol at Gotham University, accepted into your first preferences of a dual business/law degree. You suspect your last name plays a large role in this acceptance, and you think you should feel cheated, but you don’t. There’s a prestige associated with the Wayne name that you aren’t above abusing to achieve your goals.
Alfred spares no expense, cooking all your favourite meals as he stares at you with teary eyes filled with pride.
“I thought you wanted to be a teacher?” Bruce stares at you like he doesn’t even know who you are anymore, and it takes everything in you not to scream. You’re doing this for him; it’s all for him.
But that’s a secret you’ll take to the grave, because you know Bruce will never forgive himself for it. So you bite back the hurt, shrugging with a perfectly practised smile as you say you’ve changed your mind. The look on his face lets you know he doesn’t believe it, but maybe if you both pretend enough, it’ll become real.
You visit as much as you can, having moved out of the manor to be closer to those early morning classes, and as much as you worry for Bruce, you know it’s time you let him grow a little without your stifling presence.
New friends invite you out on the weekends, from toga parties to study sessions, but you skip them all in favour of going home.
“You don’t have to visit every weekend, you know. Don’t you have friends you want to spend time with?” Bruce comments, surly teenager that he is, as he settles into the couch, an episode of Grey Ghost already queued.
You pause, placing down the popcorn bowl on the coffee table before flopping down next to him, picking up the fluffy blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders as you pull him into a hug. “I get to spend the whole week with them. Besides,” you pull back to squish his cheek as he scowls, “you’re more important.”
Bruce’s words ring in your head as you stare up at the ceiling, lying in your childhood bed that was nearly as big as your entire dorm room. The wall of plushies stares down at you judgmentally as you toss and turn.
Had that been his way of gently saying he didn’t need you anymore? That you shouldn’t visit?
Your door creaks open, the shadows parting to reveal your not so little anymore brother, hesitance lacing his frame. “Bruce?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Can I…” He trails off, clearly embarrassed.
“Come here.” You sit up, lifting the blanket until he’s beside you, burying his face in your shoulder with a shuddered breath. Gently running a hand through his sweaty locks, you rock him gently, murmuring soothing words and silly stories to take his mind off the unpleasant dreams.
It’s been years since you’ve had to do this. Bruce had stopped climbing into your bed after the nightmares the moment he’d turned thirteen, even if the deep circles beneath his eyes betrayed the sleepless nights he’d endured.
You fight back the urge to cry, both from Bruce’s misery that you’ll never be able to erase and from the confirmation that he still needed you. That he’d always need his big sister.
Bruce turns 18, and the joy of his graduation is instantly squandered by the announcement that he’s leaving Gotham. He’s unsure for how long, but he asks for your support, determination in his gaze as you try not to falter.
It’s all you’ve ever wanted for him, to go and enjoy his life, to be free to make the decisions you wouldn’t—couldn’t, and you see him off with a broad smile despite the tears streaming down your cheeks.
Alfred brews your favourite tea, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder before leaving you to your thoughts without a word. You’re happy for Bruce, you really are, but that doesn’t stop the ugly swirl of resentment from building in your gut, the jealousy that no matter how hard you try to swallow, persists.
You still visit Alfred, but your weekends are no longer devoted to returning to the manor, as you decide to throw yourself into the fullest experience College can offer. You’re only young once, and perhaps it’s time you let go of your brother, of the ghost of your parents and let yourself live.
Your girlfriends excitedly drag you to a stoplight party, decked out in neon greens, as you finally allow yourself to fully enjoy a party. It’s a few drinks in, after hours spent dancing with your friends and strangers, when you’re pulled to the side by one of your few friends already in a committed relationship and are voluntold to join the latest round of Beer Pong.
You don’t know any of the players, but your entire life, you’ve had to navigate Gotham’s circle of elite and a few drinks deep, you’ve become a real social butterfly. Introductions are quick, the boy—Harvey— is cute (and dressed in green, you can’t help but notice), but there are more important things on your mind for now, like winning.
Turns out, you and Harvey are an unbeatable team, and soon you’ve got other challengers lining up to test their luck against the dynamic duo. A crowd surrounds the table, all other activities forgotten as people howl and cheer around you.
It’s the closest game so far, but your opponents only have one cup left, and it's your turn to throw. The crowd is silent, watching with bated breath, and the pressure is on, but you’ve always thrived under it, and the little plastic ball sinks into the cup easily as people holler and money exchanges hands.
You pay none of it any attention, instead turning to Harvey with a victorious squeal, jumping excitedly into his arms. He’s surprised, but adjusts easily, squeezing you back as you pull away just enough to stare at his face. Up close, you notice how long his lashes are, brushing against his cheek as he blinks, his eyes flicker down to your lips, and butterflies erupt in your stomach. Your lips part, and just as you think he’s starting to lean in, a hand clasps on your shoulder, spinning you to face your squealing friends, “Oh my god, girl! Since when were you like, the greatest to ever play beer pong?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just had a good partner.” You shrug, letting yourself be tugged away by the excitable gaggle of girls. Glancing over your shoulder with a sheepish grin, you find Harvey already staring after you. Cheeks warming, you snap your head around just in time to see Stacey lift up her camera for a group picture.
To your immense disappointment, you don’t get to speak to Harvey again that night, having to take a messy Emma home when it’d become clear she’d had too much to drink.
You fall into bed that night giddy and buzzed, the world spinning a little as you drift off to sleep. For once, you don’t dream about your parents; instead, pretty blue eyes and a rogueish grin plague your dreams as you sleep peacefully for the first time in weeks.
“Party girl.” It’s not even a week later when none other than Harvey slides into the chair next to you mid-study session in one of the two campus libraries.
“Harvey,” you blink, subconsciously sitting up straighter as you try to remain casual. You were a Wayne; men chased after you, not the other way around.
“You remember me?” He sounds pleased, eyes lighting up a little as you turn in your seat to face him.
“After we decimated the competition? How could I forget?” His lips quirk further upwards, and your eyes can’t help but follow the movement.
“I’ve got a bit of a confession to make, I already knew who you were.” You try not to sink into the disappointment his words prompt. Of course he did, this was Gotham, and despite your disdain for the title, you were its princess. He’d probably seen more of the tabloids with your name and face plastered across them than you had.
“We’re in the same criminal law lecture. I still remember the way you verbally eviscerated that idiot Skylar. I’d wanted to meet you ever since just to shake your hand.”
Skylar? You mouth to yourself, brows furrowed in an adorable manner that makes Harvey’s heart skip a beat. It’s not until he starts describing the aforementioned idiot that your nose scrunches in recognition, “Oh, him.”
“Yeah, him.” Harvey nods before putting on his best suave grin, “So, how about that handshake?”
Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand out to him, breath hitching a little when he lifts your knuckles to his lips, gaze never leaving yours.
Oh, he was trouble. Though looking into those pretty blue eyes focused entirely on you, you’re not sure you mind.
Harvey Dent is suspiciously perfect. He’s intelligent, handsome, charming, the perfect gentleman. As the weeks pass and you give no indication of reciprocating his increasingly obvious affections, you wait for the veneer to slip, for the inevitable realisation that he’s just like every other man out there.
He’s popular with the ladies; girls practically trip over themselves to get his attention, each prettier than the last, but to Harvey, it’s as if they don’t even exist. You’re the only one he spares a second glance at, the only one who gets escorted to classes and has study dates, the only one who gets to see the real him, and though you haven’t even had a proper first date, you can feel yourself falling embarrassingly fast.
A glance at your watch prompts a frown. Harvey’s late; he’s never late. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve got the time wrong, or even the wrong library, but you could’ve sworn—
A frantic call of your name interrupts your thoughts, Emma running over to you with a panicked look on her face. Before you can even ask, she’s grabbing your arm, tugging you to your feet and pulling you along after her.
“Emma, what—”
“It’s Harvey, he got in a fight!”
“What?!” You shriek, following after her with more urgency now, “Where?”
“Over by the science block.” As soon as the location leaves her lips, you’re taking off, sprinting ahead with your heart pounding as your mind conjures scenario after terrible scenario.
A jeering crowd draws your attention, and you shove your way through the excitable crowd, just in time to witness an unfamiliar man punch Harvey in the mouth. The crowd cheers as you scream his name, causing both men's attention to snap towards you.
There’s a bruise already starting to decorate his jaw, and his lip is swollen and bloodied enough to make you wince. “Harvey?”
“There she is, the slut of the hour.” No name chimes in with open arms and a smirk as you stare at him with furrowed brows.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Whoever he is, he doesn’t get the chance to answer, as an enraged Harvey tackles him to the ground suddenly.
“I said, don’t call her that!” Taken by surprise at the sudden attack, the other man doesn’t manage to get his arms up in time to block the barrage of furious blows Harvey lands against his unprotected face, struggles dying down as he slips into unconsciousness.
“Harvey, Harvey!” You scream, barely managing to pull him off the now still body, “Harvey!” He looks to you then, chest heaving, a wildness in his eyes that takes you aback. He goes to speak, but you’re keenly aware of the various eyes staring at the free show, and you shake your head, taking him by a bloodied hand as you lead him back to your dorm, away from leering eyes.
Harvey’s silent as you clean bloodied and cracked knuckles, gaze averted as you hiss frustrated obscenities between a lecture. “What were you even thinking? Why would you even—”
“He called you a slut!” He roared, finally meeting your gaze with fury that gives you pause, eyes wide as you stare at him unblinking. Instantly, he softens, regret colouring his features as he reaches out to take your hand, “he was bragging, loudly, about how you’d had sex and all the things he’d—” His jaw clenches, “he said you were easy, called you all sorts of names and I—”
“So you hit him?”
“He deserved worse.” Harvey spat, looking away until you lifted a hand to cup his cheek tenderly.
“Harvey, look at me, please.” Reluctantly, he does so, as if expecting to be met with your scornful gaze, “thank you for defending my honour, even if I wish you hadn’t gotten into a fight.” And before he can answer, before you second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips as you try your best to avoid his injuries.
All too soon, you’re pulling away, giggling when Harvey follows after you, eyes slowly flickering open. He blinks a few times, composing himself before looking to you with a hopeful grin, “Does this mean you’ll go on a date with me?”
Though you roll your eyes, butterflies erupt in your stomach as you attempt to remain nonchalant, “one date, then we’ll see.”
Harvey grins like a man who’s just won the lottery, and even then, you know it’s not going to be just one date.
You wake with an aborted scream, limbs trembling and sweat soaking the sheets beneath. Tears well in your eyes that you desperately try to fight back, chest heaving as you struggle to calm your breathing.
“Sweetheart?” Harvey’s voice is groggy, his hands smoothing over sheets as he attempts to locate you in the dark.
Guilt gnaws at you; he’d had a few late nights in the office lately, nearly working himself to exhaustion over the latest case he’d caught, and he needed all the sleep he could get. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“None of that now, darlin.” He huffs, pulling you back down into his arms even as you weakly protest that you’re all sweaty and gross. “Like I care about that… your parents?” His voice is soft, endlessly understanding as you nod against his bare chest.
Harvey knows there’s not really anything he can say to make it better, to take away the lingering pain and fear from that night, no matter how much he wishes he could. Throughout the years, he’s learned what does and doesn’t work, but you’d been doing so well lately, sleeping through the night for months without incident.
Suddenly, you’re moving, throwing a leg over his hips as you straddle him, palms braced against his chest as you lean down, “distract me, please.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t think—” He gasps, cheeks colouring and hands gripping your hips on instinct as you grind down on him.
“Please, Harv, I need you.” Harvey’s always been a man of great resolve, but you see the moment he buckles, giving in to you like always. He never was able to deny you anything.
Strong arms lift you, rolling until you're flat against the mattress, trapped beneath his bulk. The moonlight filtering in from the window highlights his pretty face, and your breath hitches at the unabashed adoration shining in his eyes.
“I love you. More than anything.” He whispers, nuzzling into the side of your jaw and pressing tender kisses along every patch of skin he can reach. Your heart flutters, butterflies swarming in your lower belly at the declaration. Harvey’s been uttering those same words for years now, but he still manages to make every instance special, never diminishing in their meaning. His lips carve a path down your sternum as he slides beneath the covers to rest between your legs, “Let me prove it, yeah?”
Your hands grip chestnut locks, hips bucking up to meet his eager mouth as you let your thoughts drift to nothing but Harvey and the modest ring he’d placed on your finger.
It’s late, far too late to be considered polite visiting hours when the knock on your front door comes. You’re already dressed for bed, hair still damp from the shower you’d shared with your fiancée. You pause, setting down your glass of water with a frown as you debate the merits of answering.
Harvey would be upset with you. You may still live in one of the nicest areas in the city, but this was still Gotham. The knock comes again, this time slightly more insistent, and your feet start to move before you can think better of it.
“Sweetheart? Is someone at—” Harvey steps into the room, eyes widening as he sees you reach for the door handle, “Don’t! I’ll—” He hurries across the space, but you’ve already opened it.
“Bruce?” Tears well in your eyes at the boy, the man, standing on the other side. He’s filled out, broad shoulders, sharp aristocratic features finally suiting his face, and he’s nearly two heads taller than the last time you saw him, but it's undeniably your little brother.
He opens his mouth, before closing it again, unsure what to say, repeating the cycle as you desperately drink him in. He never was the best with words, but you’ve spent a life learning to decipher every expression and minute shift in body language that you understand well enough.
I missed you. I’m sorry.
Before you can read deeper into it, you're throwing your arms around him with a sob. At some point, your knees give out, but Bruce catches you with ease, holding you upright as he leads you inside, setting you down on the couch as Harvey watches like a hawk, settling next to you.
Bruce stares offendingly at the hand Harvey’s placed on your bare thigh, the men sizing each other up while you’re distracted.
“I went to the manor first, but Alfred said you’d moved out years ago, with your…” Bruce trails off in thinly veiled disdain.
“Fiancee.” Harvey deadpanned, “Harvey Dent.”
“Bruce, where have you been?” You cut in, brimming with so many questions you’ve been longing to ask for years, gaze not daring to stray from Bruce’s face for fear that he’ll disappear again, that this will all have been some fanciful dream.
You hope it’s just Harvey’s presence, but Bruce has never been comfortable around strangers, and there’s something wrong with your little brother. It’s not noticeable at first, but the more questions you ask, the fewer answers you actually get. He’s deflecting, downplaying, revealing insignificant details as his words circle you.
Had you been anyone else, he may have fooled you, but you’ve been the CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a few years now, and you’ve spent your life cutting through the bullshit of suck-ups and enemies alike. And more than anything, you know your little brother. There may be years and what now seems like thousands of miles between the two of you, but you still know Bruce, perhaps better than you know yourself.
You stay up late into the night, speaking about everything and nothing at all until your eyelids droop heavily, head nodding as you struggle to keep yourself upright, and Harvey’s forced to intervene, tucking you into bed despite your protestations.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind him softly, the atmosphere suddenly a lot less welcoming as the two men stare each other down.
“Fiancee, huh, with whose permission?” Bruce scowls, all false pretences completely dropped, gaze icy and jaw set.
“Hers.” Harvey grits, fists clenched as he fights to keep his temper in check, “Maybe if you’d been around, I would’ve asked.”
“I—” Bruce starts, but Harvey’s not finished, years' worth of resentment and grievances for the man who claimed to be your brother bubbling forth.
“No! You don’t even realise, do you? What she’s sacrificed just for you! The absolute hell you’ve put her through these past years. Never calling, never writing, nothing! You could have been dead off in some foreign country, and she would have been none the wiser! How dare you come back and judge me? I’ve been the one here to pick up the pieces, the one loving her, holding her through the tears and the nightmares. It’s you who doesn’t deserve her.” Harvey seethes, struggling to keep his voice so as not to wake you.
Bruce is silent, and the shame that overcomes his features is nearly enough to satisfy Harvey. Nearly.
“There’s a spare bedroom, you’ll sleep there tonight and stay for breakfast.” He leaves no room for argument, ignoring Bruce’s surprise. “She’s just got you back, you’ll break her heart if you leave so soon, and I think you’ve done enough of that already, yeah?”
With the only reason for your impending nuptials to be put on hold finally returned to Gotham, you and Harvey marry within the month. The two men put aside their own grievances for at least one day, just to see you happy.
(They both cry as you walk down the aisle, though for very different reasons.)
You should have known the universe would never let you stay so happy.
It’s a year into your marriage, and life with Harvey is still perfect. He’s attentive, doting and still sickeningly in love with you even after all these years. Everything’s perfect until Johnny Viti’s wedding. Harvey comes home black and blue, tension in his brow as he brushes off your concerns.
Unbeknownst to you, the tides are shifting in Gotham, and your perfect life is about to shatter into a million pieces.
It’s Halloween, and Harvey comes home smelling of ash, all grins and lingering touches as you hand out candy to the neighbourhood kids. Johnny Viti’s been shot in the head, and Harvey’s dealt a serious blow against the Roman by burning all that money. He’s had the perfect day, right up until he brings the mail in.
It’s by some cruel, sick cosmic joke that he’s somehow miraculously unharmed in the impending explosion, barely a scratch on his perfect skin, whilst you lie prone and immobile on the stark white hospital bed.
The Batman comes in through the window, a silent spectre and witness to Harvey’s grief as he clutches your hand, tear tracks marring his cheeks. “I don’t care how, find me the bastard that did this so I can kill him.”
Bile rises in his esophagus as Bruce stares at your limp form.
Maybe he should have paid more attention to the inflection in Harvey’s voice (perhaps then he could have somehow prevented what was to come), but for the first time since his return to Gotham, Bruce considers the merits of breaking his self-imposed rules.
The killings continue. Blood is spilt on both sides, and Harvey becomes a man obsessed, possessed even until his presence in your home becomes less likely than not. He slides into bed hours after you’ve gone to sleep, holding you close as if it would protect you from the chaos filling the streets as months pass and the GCPD remains no closer to identifying a killer.
He knows you’re lonely, that you’re even starting to resent him a little, the screaming match you’d started when he’d come to you with the possibility of a connection between Bruce and the Roman still rang heavy in his ears.
He pictures the longing glances you’d throw little Barbara Gordon whenever their family visited and the doubt that had overcome your features upon discovering the .22 calibre handgun in the basement. Harvey knows he’s losing you, and the thought has him squeezing you tighter until you groan a little in your sleep.
It’s nearly over. Things will go back to normal soon, and you’ll be a family again. But until then, Harvey will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Whatever it takes.
There’s a break in the case. Sal Maroni takes the stand, and with you watching front and centre from the gallery, Harvey feels invincible. This is it, the testimony he needs and then he can come to you early for the first time in months; he can be your husband again.
He confesses to two murders, and Harvey’s riding high right up until the acid hits his skin. Until he’s overcome with the most severe pain a person could possibly experience, skin and cloth melting away as he writhes in agony on the floor.
There’s a shrill scream echoing through the courtroom, and it takes you a few moments to realise that you’re the one screaming, pushing through the chaos of horrified onlookers and sliding onto the carpeted courtroom floors. Your knees split open upon contact, a horrific carpet burn that you won’t even notice until long after the adrenaline’s worn off.
Tears cloud your vision, hysterical sobs bursting from your chest as you scream for help. Harvey’s still writhing in agony as you gently settle his head on your lap, unsure how to help, if you can help. There’s no blood to staunch, it’s not a simple laceration, and even just steadying his head had caused him immense pain.
It’s Bruce who has to bodily pull you off him as the paramedics arrive. Logically, you know you need to let them work, but with each of Harvey’s pained screams, you can’t help but struggle in Bruce’s arms, wailing as you’re dragged away from the scene.
You refuse to leave Harvey’s hospital bedside, stationed loyally by his side as you hold his uninjured hand, eyes dried and all out of tears. Bruce tries to get you to take a break, to go home, shower, go for a walk, something, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.
Nothing but death itself will part you from Harvey’s side now. Which is perhaps why, when you inevitably crash from exhaustion, you don’t wake when your husband does.
Harvey looks upon your sleeping form and, for a second, he falters. In sleep, you’re peaceful, ethereal even with the deep circles beneath your eyes. Circles that he’s largely at fault for. Until he’d met you, Harvey hadn’t thought it was possible to love another person so wholly, so completely and without restraint.
You don’t even stir when he slips out of the bed, groaning at the rough sting of badges against raw skin, holding back a string of curses as he quietly moves to stand by your side. His fingers brush your cheek, featherlight, before abruptly retreating when the voice hisses in his head, he doesn’t deserve to touch you, not yet, when there’s still work to do.
Despite the venomous voice, he still leans down to press a soft kiss against your forehead, allowing himself to linger for a touch longer to inhale your scent. You stir a little, nuzzling into the sheets as if you’re trying to locate him in your sleep, and Harvey freezes. When you show no further signs of waking, he pulls back, sparing you one last glance before disappearing into the night.
You wake to a hospital in chaos, tears you hadn’t thought possible anymore streaming down your face as you sob into your hands. Jim’s already asked his questions, pity shining in his eyes as he’d tried to console you.
(It hadn’t worked, but you’d thanked him for trying nonetheless.)
Despite Harvey’s recent absences, the house feels emptier than ever, like it knows your husband is never coming back. Reaching for the wine glass, you softly curse at the realisation it’s empty, the bottle still somewhere on the kitchen bench and beyond your reach. You probably should have bypassed the glass entirely, but you’d wanted at least the illusion of control.
“Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you going to ask your questions?” The shadowy form in the dark startles at your abrupt address, before what you could only describe as sheepishly steps forward. The Batman opens his mouth, but you scoff, placing the glass down so harshly you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter.
“You can cut the act, I know it’s you, Bruce.” He startles, stilling momentarily, and you can practically hear the running internal commentary as he debates the merits of denial vs acceptance. It’s such a Bruce thing to do that his hesitation only further confirms your suspicion.
“When did you—”
“I’ll admit, it took me a few weeks, but the injuries, your unavailabilities, the attempts at nonchalance when the topic of the Bat came up. Did you forget I know you, Bruce? Just because you fucked off to who knows where for all those years, doesn’t mean you’ll ever be able to hide things from me.” There’s a bitter tinge to your words you hadn’t quite managed to hide. You both ignore it for now; there are more pressing matters at hand.
“I’ve already told Jim everything I know, which is practically nothing. I don’t know why he left, where might do, anything!” Your little brother steps forward, a hand reaching out that you shrug off. “I don’t need you to comfort me right now, Bruce, just find him, please.”
Bruce spends many a sleepless night on the hunt for your wayward husband to no avail. Later, when the wound isn’t so raw, you’ll acknowledge that Bruce did his best, that there was nothing else he could have done for Harvey.
The man who had been your husband was already long gone, but it would stubbornly take several Arkham breakouts and a trail of bodies before you could ever bring yourself to accept that.
Truthfully, you’ve sacrificed too much of yourself to him to ever give up on Harvey.
Richard Grayson is nine years old when he watches his parents fall to their deaths. His entire life has just been upended, his future torn to shreds, and his sleep haunted by seemingly never-ending nightmares when he’s taken in by a strange billionaire to live in a house bigger than he’d ever thought possible.
It’s lonely at first, cold, the old architecture and stretching halls dwarfing him, making him feel like an insignificant speck, like he doesn’t belong.
Dick Grayson is nine years old when he meets a lonely woman, haunted by many a ghost of her own, but with a smile so kind it chases the nightmares away. Bruce had taken him aside, explaining gently that his sister had recently been moved back into the manor, and that she’d recently lost a husband. Not quite in the same manner as his parents, but that Mr Dent was lost to her all the same.
Despite this, Dick never sees you cry. There’s never anything but some semblance of a smile as you pick him up from school, despite the factthat you have a butler, who could easily do so. You take him to get ice cream, ask about his day, praise him for his grades, and cheer at his gymnastics meets, all with a smile.
You tuck him in at night, and somehow, you’re always there to comfort him when he wakes from a nightmare, a hand smoothing over his hair as you whisper reassurances and offer midnight hot chocolates as long as he promises not to tell Bruce.
Dick hasn’t had a nightmare for weeks, when he wakes suddenly, startled by a dream that’s already fading from the recesses of his memory. Part of him is embarrassed to have expected to find you already sitting in the chair beside his bed, book in hand, as you prepare to lull him back to sleep. A larger part of him simply craves the comfort you’d always so freely provided.
Trembling legs kick off the covers, as he stealthily slips through the manor, your assurances that ‘should he ever need anything, to come and get you’ ringing in his head. Your door is already cracked open, likely to help you keep an ear out for Bruce’s late-night movements, but it’s not until he’s already stepped inside that Dick realises—you’re crying.
All at once, Dick feels like he’s intruded on something he was never meant to see. It’s almost… unnatural, seeing you so visibly upset and for a few moments, he freezes in indecision. You hadn’t noticed him yet; he could easily back away and leave you none the wiser, but that felt wrong—leaving you to suffer alone when you’d sacrificed so many of your nights by his side.
If he left you now, Dick’s not sure how he could even call himself Robin.
Softly, he knocks on your door frame, calling your name so as not to startle you too badly. At the sight of him, you startle, hastily wiping your eyes with your back turned before pasting on an admittedly weak smile as you spin to greet him.
“Dick! What are you—trouble sleeping?” You cough, but Dick’s not going to let you distract him so easily.
Dick barely manages to crawl onto the foot of your bed when the words are blurted out, “Why are you crying?”
So, admittedly, his interrogatory skills need some work, but the question’s been burning on his tongue since he stumbled across the scene, and patience has never been one of his greatest virtues.
“Oh, sweet boy, you don’t need to concern yourself with that.” You reach out, brushing the hair from his eyes, faltering when his frown deepens.
“But I want to! You take care of me when I’m sad, why can’t I do that for you?” Dick is, unfortunately, one of the most stubborn children you’d ever met. You and Bruce had learnt that the hard way after multiple manor breakouts in his quest to hunt down Tony Zucco, and then again when he’d refused to give up being Robin.
You weighed the likelihood of Dick giving up his latest crusade, but you find your odds lacking. “It’s—Bruce told you about my husband, didn’t he?”
Slowly, Dick nods, listening intently as you pull him up to sit next to you, automatically curling into your side. “He’s—he’s not well. He did some bad things, but—I still miss him.” You confess with something that sounds very akin to shame.
Dick’s recently turned ten years old, and he thought he could never hate anybody more than Tony Zucco, but now, he thinks Harvey Dent might come close, just for making you cry.
Jason Todd bursts into your life, an opinionated whirlwind with an inbuilt distrust for adults that has you wanting to burn the city to the ground. He’s quieter than Dick, but no quieter than Bruce was at that age and a passion for books that has you hoping this child won’t turn to a life of brightly coloured vengeance.
(Sadly, these dreams don’t come to fruition, but you’d had to have hope.)
Jason’s independent, standoffish, but he’s got the biggest heart, and you fall in love the moment he’s brought into your home. Dick no longer lives in the manor, but between monitoring comm lines and helping Alfred patch up injuries after long patrols, you’ve accepted you’re likely never moving out.
(It’s been a decade since Harvey, and you doubt you’ll ever truly move on.)
Your family library has more books than one could possibly read in a lifetime, but this doesn’t prevent you from monthly bookstore visits with Jason. You’d happily take him every week; you certainly had the funds to do so, but Jason was still cagey when it came to using that wealth on him.
Footsteps from behind cut through your thoughts, turning from the book you’d been about to pick up, “Oh? Finished already?” Your smile drops when it’s not Jason who’s approached, but an unfamiliar man with a sleazy grin that has you inwardly flinching.
“You come here often?” Not anymore. Is your first thought, immediately followed by incredulity from the line. Did people even use that anymore? Did it even work? You really hoped not.
Lacking the social awareness to back away at the sight of your sneer, or perhaps he thinks he’ll be the exception once you’ve listened to the follow-up, either way, he steps into your space even when you back away.
“Listen, I’m not—”
“She’s not interested, so scram!” Jason appears as if from thin air in front of you, practically barking as he glowers up at the man twice his size. Even though he’s been living off the nutrient-packed meals provided by Alfred on the doctor’s recommendations for nearly a year now, Jason’s still very short for his age.
It makes for an amusing sight, one that has you holding a book in front of your mouth to stifle your laughter. He’s about as intimidating as a chihuahua with the confidence of a much larger dog, but the prospect of a child is apparently enough to get the sleazebag to turn tail and scamper away.
Jason puffs out his chest in pride, grumbling something incredibly inappropriate under his breath, but this time, you’ll let it slide. You’ve certainly said worse yourself in board movies (not that you’ll ever let the kids find that out.)
He turns to you, still beaming with pride, blushing when you lean down to plant a kiss on his forehead and call him “your hero.” He’s so precious like this, and selfishly, you wish he never has to grow up.
You’d think by now you’d stop wishing for things.
Alfred hands little Timothy Drake a brightly coloured suit, and your relationship with the man is forever soured. A good soldier, he calls Jason, and you can no longer look at the man you’d once considered a second father with anything but disgust.
His continued presence as Robin only puts an immense strain on your relationship with Bruce, and unfortunately, in turn, Tim, who possesses the same foolhardy stubbornness that was apparently a requirement for all children brought into the household.
Your heart is beyond tired, weathered and jaded from all the loss, and you can’t handle another heartbreak. Not after your parents, not after Harvey or Jason, not after sweet little Barbara Gordon, who used to bring you coloured drawings to stick on your fridge, is shot and paralysed.
“Batman needs a Robin.” It’s Tim who confronts you first, having returned to the cave the night before to witness the epic screaming match between you and your little brother. Or rather, you’d screamed until your throat was raw and hoarse, while Bruce had stood like a brick wall and taken it before tensely asking if you were done.
“Batman doesn’t need anything from you; you’re a child. Go home, Tim.” You hiss. Almost instantly, you regret the harsh words when Tim flinches back.
“Batman needs—”
“Enough!” You shout, nerves frayed beyond compare as you despair over the state of children, insisting they needed to sacrifice themselves for this cursed city. “Batman is a fully functioning adult.” Debatable. Sighing, you soften your tone, “I know you want to help him. I know he’s your hero, but what help are you to anyone dead? Because that’s the only way this ends, Tim. With you dead, another child on Batman’s, and my conscience.”
Eventually, a compromise is reached, and Tim has to undergo many months of intense training before he’s allowed back on the streets. Despite this, your relationship with Tim never truly recovers, and you carry that heavy regret to the grave, but you’ll sacrifice much for your family. And if that means you have to be the bad guy, then so be it.
Cassandra Cain is a quiet child, not that that bothers you much, and of all the children Bruce has brought into your home, Cass is the one who has you squinting, pondering the necessity of a paternal DNA test.
She’s objectively dangerous, and unlike her predecessors, you’ve got no moral leg to stand on when it comes to preventing her from joining the family nighttime hobby.
With Cass, it’s not the Batgirl training that presents a challenge, but rather, everything else. It’s for Cass that you step into the manor’s library for the first time since Jason’s death, taking to reading the words aloud as she follows along, memorising the sounds and structures.
It’s for Cass that you pull out old photo albums, of Bruce and your parents, of Jason, of Harvey. It’s Cass that wordlessly opens her arms for a hug as you break down in tears over your husband for the first time in years.
Legally, you’re still married, for fear of Harvey’s—Two Face’s reaction, should you even attempt to go forward with divorce proceedings. You may not admit it to anyone, even yourself, but deep down a part of you still dreams he’ll get better one day.
And it's Cassie who finds you after the latest Arkham breakout, who takes you into her arms and holds you after your husband is dragged back to the institute, kicking and screaming.
Your family gathers in your room that night, with Dick even making the trek from Bludhaven, not at all subtle with their motherhenning. It makes you laugh, seeing them all crammed into various seats and mattresses, and it’s enough to almost drown out Two-Face’s poisonous words. Almost.
Regardless, you’ve never felt so loved.
The years pass in what seems like a blink, and your family grows with both new and old members.
Jason, your sweet, heroic Jason, returns from the dead in a furious vengeance. He returns with a new weapon of choice and blood staining his hands, but it's Jason nonetheless. Your Jason, who loved learning and literature and late-night runs to Batburger.
Bruce is less forgiving of the bodies dropping in the Narrows, but you can’t find it in yourself to care (part of you whispers that it's deserved), not when it means you have him back, scarred and changed but alive.
Much to your dismay, he refuses to move back to the manor, even after the multiple screaming matches you’d had with Bruce following the revelation that the Red Hood was in fact Jason. After he’d tried to hide that from you. But he doesn’t refuse your latest extended invitation to the old bookstore you used to frequent, and part of your heart finally begins to mend.
Damian Wayne, and hadn’t that been a shock, an actual biological child, is all but dropped on your doorstep, and if it weren’t for Bruce insisting he’d had no idea of the child’s existence, you would have beat his ass, Batman or no.
You’d heard about Talia Al Ghul in passing, getting Bruce to discuss his past was like pulling teeth, but you suddenly find his words of quiet praise immensely lacking. You’ve hated a lot of people over the years, but Talia quickly becomes the top name on your shit list, because you have a nephew, a brilliant, beautiful little boy that she’d hidden from your brother for so much of his life already.
Damian doesn’t take kindly to you at first, or Tim, or anyone who threatens his status as ‘the true blood son and heir.’ It should be threatening, but you’ve dealt with enough insanity through the years that you can’t help but find it endearing.
Damian’s integration into the Wayne family unit is… difficult to say the least. There’s a lot of yelling, tears, sleepless nights, and a truly concerning amount of bodily harm via sharpened blade. But eventually, the pieces start to fall into place, and the kind heart buried beneath the layers of League indoctrination is unearthed.
Who knew all it would take was a trip to the zoo?
One look at the myriad of majestic creatures locked so cruelly away in cages, and the heart of an environmental warrior for justice was born. The zoo undergoes a mass reconstruction effort, and various creatures and critters find themselves a new home on Wayne Manor grounds (much to Bruce’s dismay, well, until he’d seen the way his son lit up when caring for said creatures.)
You’ve always hated galas, hated the people, the distasteful displays of opulence, the forced socialisation. You hated it all. Alas, you loved your city, were committed enough to its betterment that you’d learned to grit your teeth and bear it. Rubbing shoulders and shmoozing with rich assholes in order to beg for donations for the latest children’s hospital, education grants, housing projects, whatever it may be, was a necessity that came with the family name.
You’ve managed to drag most of your family along with you to this one, tired of suffering alone against the masses. If you got caught alone with Lex Luthor one more time, you were liable to kill someone, likely the bald bitch himself.
At the start of the night, you’d managed to appropriate Damian for yourself, using him as a scowly barrier between you and all would-be approachers. Across the room, Bruce glares at you for help before turning back to the conversation with an airheaded smile.
“Shouldn’t we help Father?” Damian mumbles, but you usher him away to the snack table with a giggle.
“Think of it as a training exercise, what sort of Batman would he be if he couldn’t survive a night of societal niceties?” You whisper conspiratorially, with just a twinge of evil satisfaction. Bruce had left you alone in Gotham holding the bag for years; it was only fair he started to make up for it now.
It takes another ten minutes before your little brother slinks toward you, the glint in his eye promising you’d be receiving an earful later on. “You look tense. How about a drink?” You tease, holding your glass out. Bruce takes the drink and downs the whole thing before you can even finish saying the words. “Wow, someone’s tense.”
Whatever the retort Bruce was going to give, you never hear it, drowned out by the sound of shattering glass and gunshots as the attendees start to scream in panic.
Instantly, Bruce is grabbing you and Damian, trying to usher you away to some semblance of safety. You know you should follow his orders, but your feet remain rooted in place, eyes wide and fearful as you scan the room with your heart in your throat.
“Bruce! Bruce, stop! Where are Tim and Cass?”
“I’ll find them, I promise, but just—” His words die on his tongue as he looks at something over your shoulder with unabashed panic. Slowly turning, your entire world narrows down to the masked man standing not five feet away, rifle under his arm and pointed dangerously close to Damian.
You don’t even think; your body just moves, pushing your snarling nephew behind you as blood roars thunderously in your ears. Damian squirms, protesting your sudden status as a human shield for his smaller form, and you think he hisses something at the gunman that has Bruce desperately pleading with his son to shut up. You’re not entirely sure; you can’t really hear anything over the pounding of your heart and the overwhelmingly intense urge to protect your family, to protect your little brother.
You blink, and suddenly you’re back in that grimy alley, your mother’s blood on your face and staring down the muzzle of Joe Chill’s gun. Another, and the ballroom is back, your hands tremble, and you think you feel Damian move again, but you don’t let him.
The surrounding area is a cacophony of chaos, but Bruce steps forward, palms upright, as he tries to reason with the gunman, and the man turns, firearm trained on your little brother and for you, everything is silent.
The man’s mouth remains uncovered by the simple black ski mask, and you see the second it twists downward, agitation lacing his frame as his finger twitches on the trigger.
It’s not the first time you’ve put yourself between Bruce and a gun, but as the shot rings out and you stagger back into his arms, you realise it’s definitely the last. The pain doesn’t register immediately, shock probably, you distantly think, and at first, you simply feel like you’ve been shoved, knees giving way with the force.
A wet, choked gasp reaches your eardrums through the lingering ringing of the shot, and it’s not until Bruce’s hands apply pressure against your neck that you realise the sound’s coming from you.
“No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. Don’t do this to me! You’re not allowed to do this to me!” His mumbled words evolve into a raw kind of scream that, although he’s close, sounds miles away, almost as if you were underwater.
Your vision’s blurred, but not enough that you can’t detect the frantic tears sliding down Bruce’s face, and even through the gasping, choking, useless breaths your lungs attempt, you frown, because there are few things you hate more in the world than seeing your little brother cry. You try to reach up to wipe them away, but your coordinations shot to shit, and suddenly even the simple act of lifting an arm becomes a monstrous task too great to complete.
Blood stains the previously pristine white collar of the suit he’s wearing, the one he’d complained about at length on the drive over and insisted he’d never wear again, and a mutilated giggle forms in your shredded throat at the thought because at least now he has an excuse.
“S’ok. Love you.” Your voice is garbled, barely legible through the bubbles of blood pouring past your chin. Your attempts to calm Bruce down are, admittedly, pretty shitty, but you think you could be forgiven given the circumstances.
“It’s not ok!” He hisses, “Don’t—it’s not—just keep your eyes open, goddamn it! Just, just keep your eyes—”
You never hear the end of what he says. You don’t hear the wounded wail he lets out, or the desperate bargains for any higher power to hear, nor do you see the way he collapses, pulling you into his arms as he sobs harder than he had at even your parents' funeral.
You die choking in blood and cursing your decision to ever get out of bed that morning, leaving behind a family shattered beyond repair.
You die sacrificing yourself in an act of love that was always meant to be.
You wake with a chest burning fiercely, akin to as if you’d been submerged in frigid arctic waters for a minute too long as you wake, darting upright in bed and heaving for oxygen.
You wake coughing and spluttering, rolling off your bed and hitting the floor in a panicked, flailing mass of limbs as you fight to regain precious breath.
“What the fuck?” You gasp, hands reaching up to grasp your miraculously intact throat. Only for you to pause at the state of your voice. It sounds wrong, different, younger.
A quick glance at the patterned cover on your bed only invents new questions, because even in the dark, you recognise it as something from your younger, teenage years. Frantically, you scan the room, stomach sinking and hysteria reaching new heights as you recognise posters lining the walls that long ago should have been thrown out, and a school blazer hanging from the back of a chair you doubted even fit anymore.
But all the panic, the questions, everything is put on a back burner the moment you hear a knock at the door, as a Bruce far littler than he should be steps into a room you haven’t slept in for years.
wrote this in ten minutes to exude my post lecture annoyance
When Barry bursts through the lecture hall doors, the timid professor pauses his writing, and rows of heads turn at the interruption. If Barry wasn't already red from running to the other side of campus, then this certainly secures it.
Straightening under the scrutiny, Barry murmurs a 'sorry', and catching your slightly raised hand, he hurries up the stairs to where you're seated in the third to last row. It's a large lecture hall, and even if the professor has resumed his explanation of Faraday's Law, Barry shrinks under the imaginary stares burning into his side.
He drops into the seat you saved for him with resignation.
"Missed your alarm?" you whisper, juggling glancing at Barry's slouched posture and the chalk board at the front on the room. You're scribbling along in your notebook, handwriting so skewed it'd take JSA intervention to decipher.
"So did you," Barry whispers back as he slips out his stationary from his own tattered bag.
You narrow your eyes. "Stop knowing everything."
From there, Barry and you are tuned into the lecture in silence. The professor is a quiet man who has difficulty projecting his voice, and it's easy to let a word slip and miss what he's talking about. His penmanship, as bad as yours, is no help either.
Thirty minutes later, the pair of boys sitting next to you begin mumbling to one another, from a question on the homework, to the code they started in Matlab.
You lean forward in your seat to try and focus on the lecture. The pair snicker amongst themselves.
Barry tilts his notebook for your viewing, tapping the section you missed copying before the professor erased it.
You'd have let it go after that. Really. Confrontation isn't in your blood as a default solution, and it's too early in the morning, but maybe that's just why. You skipped breakfast. You ignored your alarm one too many times. There's a quiz later today. This all culminates.
What seals it is when you catch the furrow of Barry's brows, the tapping of his foot, and the slight sigh he attempts to stifle when the repeating of the professors words under his breath stumble off when he's unable to pick them up.
That you can't tolerate.
"Excuse me." Barry is too late to stop you by the time he catches the taut smile you wear. "I'd like to hear the lecture more than your conversation."
They're quiet after that. Barry sends you an exasperated look but is nonetheless grateful, and you return it with a beaming grin.
At the end of the lecture, the pair of boys pretend to ignore you as they gather their stuff and leave, continuing their conversation from before.
Barry watches them go as you contemplate leaving them one last remark.
