The description/summary of Atonement, an (once we get there) Adam x Reader fic. Itâs semi-canon compliant and also canon divergent (especially given the pairing). Itâs still in its early stages, but Iâm having fun with what Iâm doing so far.
âHell hasn't been the same since Lilith left, no. In the years she's been gone, Lucifer has decidedly been slacking on his jobâhis dutyâof serving his denizens. Unfortunately for you, you're the perfect little stand-in. Having worked for His Highness for a good couple of years now, you've made your way up the ranks. You can now proudly say that you are His Royal Highness' Personal Assistant! How fun is that?
Long days of filling out paperwork, setting up meetings with other Sins, trying to make sure the Pride Ring doesn't fall apart, and now? What's this? His Highness is offering your services to his daughter, Charlie Morningstar. What could go wrong with this rag-tag group? All you know is: you never signed up for any of this.â
Not a fic reblog or recommendation, but a personal post that I didnât want on my main blog for people I know IRL to see:
How the fuck do you know if youâre aromantic??? Or, more specifically in my case, demiromantic??? I feel like Iâve been questioning myself for years (I have), and I know technically you donât have to use labels at all, but I would like some âguidanceâ.
Following SotM, would you ever be interested in writing a DCA x Reader story based in the SotM factory/story? There's so much detail and worldbuilding to the game, I think your writing would really shine working with the setting :D
I love the setting of SotM factory and just how tragic and lonely it all becomes with the Murray family, and I had a thought about a Y/N hired as a sort of secretary/investigator.
Technically, you're only here for the secretary part of the job. Edwin Murray has also instructed that you dig through all employee records, emails, and messages to find out who betrayed him. Sure. Why not. You're getting paid either way, and Edwin seems satisfied that you're not working for "them".
(You feel bad for the guy. He seems stressed and paranoid, and maybe he's dealing with a few things that more qualified professionals should broach than you.)
So, you get to work, day after day, on the slow and high-pitched droning computers before you notice a program on one of the security room monitors. Moon.exe. You boot it up, confused, before you understand that it's some kind of game. At least, that's what it must be, right?
It doesn't stay so. At least, you thought it was a game. The Moon character is no longer confined to the borders of the program but is now right there, popping up in your daily work schedule. You're very nervous about a possible virus that you accidentally downloaded, but the character doesn't seem to do much. His text boxes will bubble up every now and then, and his haunting gaze will occasionally pop over the files you're combing over in all of his low pixilated glory. (Who gave this computer figure sculpted pectorals?)
He has some odd lines, random script you assume, mindlessly being triggered by... you don't know what. None of it ever makes sense, but you like to read it, just for one moment's break from the mundane and often drivel work you've signed up for. Sometimes it's funny. He tells you to go to bed when the clock runs late, and that must be due to time-based triggers, or so you figure.
You think he's just here for... you don't know, moral support? A fun little distraction that someone must have worked on between big projects due at the factory. Who's to say.
One evening, vision blurry from reading a screen in a too dark room after hours of rehashing lines after lines, trying to decide if a disgruntled employee is suspicious or the average working joe for complaining about the boss to a coworker, when you drag the mouse onto The Moon's face and start clicking, and clicking. Out of dire boredom and need for something, anything new, you click and click as if to magically fix that clock and send you straight out of here. Click. Click. Click.
A new dialogue box pops up.
Stop.
You lift your finger off of the left click.
That's new.
So, you click again, and again.
What do you want?
The Moon's face almost seems annoyed in its half-eclipsed expression. You chuckle to yourself.
"Just pressing your buttons," you snicker. "What else can you do?"
Then you immediately look around the messy, file-filled room, as if you would somehow be caught dorkily chatting to yourself, well, a computer program. Good thing it's only you in the building. Occasionally Edwin will burst into the security office as if he might catch you red handed in something you shouldn't be, but you let your work speak for yourself, and that usually calms the man down.
You need to get out and enjoy your weekend, don't you?
You slump back into your chair and stare at the screen. Just you and The Moon.
You click on The Moon's face again. The satisfying sharpness of the mouse click fills you with bubbling amusement at the childish prodding.
The next dialogue box flips into view.
I can press your buttons too.
A loud slam falls behind you, pushing you out of your seat as you whirl back to find the heavy door locked into place. Heart in your throat, you blink as the lights cut out. You're plunged into tar-black blindness, save for the green glow of the computer screen.
Silenced by terror, you crank your head slowly back to your work desk. The computer hums quietly.
The green glow intensifies as The Moon stares at you. He fills the pixels, one eye piercing you like the end of a knife.
Your eyes snap to the next line of dialogue.
Boop!
For several, terrifying heartbeats, you stand and listen to the frantic scarping of your breath. Like prey spotted by a hunter, you dare not move. The darkness is absolute, and the only light is before you; a lighthouse or the last flicker you see before it all plunges into eternal night.
Who did that?
Then the flick of lights buzzing back on spares your half-suspected heart, and you unlock your limbs when the security door slides back open.
You hardly skim the next box of text as the computer returns to where you left off, files and emails crowding the screen side by side, and The Moon's head set in one corner.
You snatch your backpack and book it through the door. That's it. You're off the clock. You don't care if Edwin loses his marbles about you ducking out a few minutes early. You will not stay a moment longer.
It is only on your drive home, twisting your sweaty palms around the steering wheel, that your brain unscrambles enough to recall the final words on the screen.
Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)
Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.
Word Count: 8.1.k.
note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Letâs just pretend for a bit.
Next Chapter
Two years ago.
Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint hum of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.
Each pod told a story of Hydraâs grotesque obsession with human experimentation. Steveâs sharp gaze scanned them uneasily and when he reached the last chamber, he froze.
Encased in cryogenic suspension, there was a small boy, no older than three, with his delicate features eerily serene within the frosted glass. The sight made his stomach twist.
Natashaâs voice crackled through the comms. âSteve, what did you find?â
He pressed a hand against the glass. âItâs a boy. About⌠two or three years old. Cryostasis. We need to get him out of here.â
His eyes darted to a nearby desk, where he eyed a weathered folder with its corners curled with age. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents, and his stomach churned with every line. âThis- he is not a kidnapped normal human boy⌠theyâve been using fertilization methods here. Thirty samples and only this child lived after birth. The mother died in labor. Nat-â Steveâs voice got strained. âHeâs⌠heâs Buckyâs son.â
The line remained silent for a moment before Natasha answered cautiously. âAre you sure?â
âPositive. Thereâs⌠documentation here, DNA confirmations. God, he doesnât even have a name. Just a designation: A-25.â
A beat of silence passed again, heavy with the implication before Natashaâs voice softened. âWhat do you want to do?â
Steve exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the icy air. âWe canât just leave him here.â
-----
Back on the Quinjet, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The cryo-pod rested in the cargo bay, its faint orange light casting an otherworldly glow over the steel walls. Steve sat on a bench, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands pressed on his face, wrestling with the enormity of the decision heâd just made. Across from him, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood stiffly, with palpable apprehension.
âCaptain Rogers,â one of them began, breaking the tense silence. âMoving him to the tower isnât viable. We donât know what kind of conditioning Hydra implemented, or if the kid is enhanced. He could be dangerous.â
Steveâs head snapped up, pinning the agent in place with his gaze. âHeâs a child. And from what I read; he didnât inherit the serum properties. Whatever Hydra did to him, itâs on us to undo it. Leaving him here or handing him over to a government lab isnât an option.â
The agent shifted uneasily. âAnd if heâs unstable? Wha-â
Steve set his jaw, leaning back against the cold metal wall with determination. âThen Iâll handle it,â he cut firmly. âBut we are not abandoning him.â
----
Two nights later in the common room, Steve, Natasha, and Tony gathered to discuss the next steps. The atmosphere was heavy. Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression.
âLook, Iâm not saying we keep this from Barnes,â he pointed out with a little hesitation. âBut youâve seen him, Steve. Heâs barely keeping himself together most days. Throwing a kid into the mix?â
Steveâs jaw clenched, and he hardened his gaze. âThatâs not your call to make. He deserves to know.â
Tony raised an eyebrow. âEven if it sends him over the edge?â
âHeâs stronger than you think,â Steve countered firmly. âAnd heâs not alone, even if sometimes he thinks he is. If he decides to step up, weâll help him. All of us. That boy is his only family, Tony. Bucky deserves the chance to decide what kind of relationship he wants with him.â
----
Present.
Two weeks into the new school year, she stood at the kindergartenâs gate, greeting the kids with a warm smile. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves, and shades of orange and gold framed the cheerful faces of the kids as they laughed and ran to their friends. Each day, theyâd formed a routine, walking together through the small park leading to the school hall.
Nearly everyone had arrived when, just as she was about to close the gate, she noticed a figure approaching. Her gaze landed on a tall man with strikingly beautiful yet tired blue eyes. His hesitant steps betrayed a certain nervousness. Beside him walked a boy, the spitting image of him, with the same dark hair and soulful eyes. They were unfamiliar to her, but she knew immediately who they must be.
Thomas Barnes and, presumably, his father.
The director had informed her about the new student, explaining that, for personal reasons, the boy would start a bit later than the others. Now here they were, standing on the threshold of a new chapter.
She stepped forward with a warm smile. âYou must be Thomas,â she said gently, crouching slightly to meet the boyâs gaze. Then she looked up at the man, her voice equally kind. âAnd you must be his dad. Welcome.â
The child hugged his fatherâs leg when he realized he had to go in alone. Bucky bit his lip, placing a hand on the boyâs head. âKiddo, we talked about this. Iâll pick you up at three, and then weâll go to Uncle Steveâs,â he said softly.
Then he gave her an apologetic look. âAlso, what do we always say? Manners. You didnât even greet Miss...â
Oh. She got so distracted by the pair that her clouded mind didnât even consider the basic introductions. âSorry! Iâm Miss Y/n. Itâs a pleasure to meet you two.â
The boy separated one hand from his fatherâs leg and, straightening his posture but with a quivering lip, offered his hand like a little gentleman. âIâm Thomas. Iâm five years old, and⌠and I will be in your care.â
She shook his hand, surprised and delighted. âWell, arenât you a little gentleman,â she said warmly.
The bell rang, and she straightened up. âWell, that is our cue. Would you like to come inside? There are lots of boys and girls who would love to meet and play with you,â she reassured. Then she looked at Bucky. âAnd, as your papa -Mr. Barnes- said, heâll be here when we finish.â
âJames,â Bucky said promptly, stretching out his hand firm but gently to shake hers. She felt a traitorous warmth rise in her cheeks when their gaze met at closer range. His tired blue eyes held more than exhaustion; something softer and more vulnerable lingered there, though it was quickly masked. Apprehension, perhaps? He smiled, but it didnât quite reach his eyes, and yet, somehow, he was effortlessly handsome.
âNice to meet you, James,â she managed, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. âDonât worry, your little one will be fine, youâll see.â
Bucky nodded once, briskly but slightly hesitant. âYeah, I-I know. Alright, Kiddo,â he said, crouching slightly to Thomasâs level, in a low and encouraging voice. âYou listen to your teacher and... have fun, alright? Just like we talked about.â
Thomas clung to his fatherâs jeans for a moment longer, small fingers clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline. His lip quivered, and he glanced back at her with uncertain eyes. For a brief second, she wondered if he might refuse to let go, but then, slowly, he released his grip. The boy stepped toward her, tentative but brave, and positioned himself by her side.
She crouched again, offering him an encouraging smile. âYouâre going to have a wonderful day, Thomas. Iâll be right here with you.â
The reassurance seemed to help. Thomas nodded shyly, though he didnât speak. When she stood again, she noticed Bucky watching his son with an expression that tugged at her heart, equal parts pride and pain.
With a single nod of acknowledgment toward her, he straightened and turned on his heel, walking away without looking back. She couldnât help but watch him for a moment longer than she should have, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he disappeared down the path. She exhaled softly, turning her attention back to Thomas.
âShall we?â she asked gently, holding out her hand.
Thomas hesitated, but then his small hand slid into hers. Together, they walked toward the classroom, the sound of childrenâs laughter welcoming them into a new day.
----
Bucky let out a breath he hadnât realized he was holding as he strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Two years. It had been two years since Thomas came into his life, and now, for the first time, he was entrusting his care to someone elseâs hands, strangers, no less. It might have seemed like an ordinary milestone for any other parent, but ordinary wasnât a word that had ever described his life.
Normalcy was a foreign concept in their household. From the moment Steve had walked into the tower with that cryo-pod and the revelation of Thomasâs existence, everything had shifted. Even in the haze of his own self-doubt and fucked up brain, Bucky had known there was only one choice to make. Despite the murmurs of alternatives offered to him -guardianship through S.H.I.E.L.D. programs, adoption options- he hadnât hesitated.
Responsibility. He owed the child that much, even if the idea of raising him terrified him to his core. How could he possibly be a parent when he was barely figuring out how to be himself? A walking mess trying to navigate a world he no longer fit into, burdened by guilt, memories, and nightmares. But Thomas wasnât just a child, he was his child, a fragile thread tethering Bucky to something tangible and real.
The first months had been the hardest. Thomas, scared and silent, flinched at shadows and refused to speak more than a handful of words. A traumatized child by his earliest experiences, molded by Hydraâs cruel hands, and burdened with a fragility that made Buckyâs heart ache almost everyday. He could barely bring himself to imagine what might have happened if Steve hadnât found him in that lab.
It wasnât a journey he could have managed alone. Living at the Avengers Tower, he had been reluctant at first to accept help from the team. Steve, of course, had been steadfast and supportive, as expected. But what surprised Bucky the most was how the others had stepped in. Natashaâs guidance when words failed him, Wandaâs ability to soothe the boy, and even Tonyâs seemingly endless stream of resources, like the top-tier child therapists heâd hired without hesitation.
Thomas was lucky, in a way, that Hydraâs experiments hadnât left him with the serumâs super-soldier effects. The organization had tried, forcing serum-adjacent treatments to awaken something dormant, but to no avail. It was a relief Bucky carried deeply, though it did little to soften his guilt for not being there to stop it sooner.
Over time, they found a constant rhythm in their lives. Bucky wasnât perfect -far from it- but he learned how to be there for Thomas. He showed him that food wasnât a reward to fear, that adults could offer love instead of pain, that bedtime stories were for comfort and not to kept teaching lessons until he closed his exhausted eyes. Slowly but surely, the child started to blossom, inching out of his shell, exploring the world with a tentative kind of hope.
Still, Bucky knew they couldnât stay in the protective bubble of the tower forever. Thomas needed more: kids his age, a chance to experience life outside their small, cloistered world. It had taken time, but Bucky finally worked up the nerve to rent an apartment for the two of them and begin the daunting process of finding a kindergarten.
The search was harder than expected. On paper, the process was simple: call, inquire, and enroll. In practice, things unraveled quickly. Many schools initially expressed enthusiasm, but the moment they learned Thomas was the son of that James Barnes, things changed. âAdministrative errorsâ cropped up, classes mysteriously filled to capacity, or calls simply went unanswered.
When Tony offered to pull strings, Bucky refused. He wasnât about to force his son into a place where the only motivation was Starkâs money. He didnât want Thomas in an environment where whispers followed him down the hall, or where teachers tiptoed around him out of fear or prejudice.
So, he kept searching. Two weeks into the semester, he finally found a place. It was modest, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, with no interest in his past beyond the necessary paperwork. No judgment. No lingering stares. Just a promise to give Thomas a chance, and that was all Bucky needed.
As he walked away from the schoolyard, leaving Thomas in the care of his teacher and her warm smile, he tried to shake the tension in his chest. Rationally, he knew it was the right step. Thomas deserved to experience childhood, and this was the first of many milestones.
Still, the ache of leaving was sharper than heâd expected.
----
Thomasâs first day could have been better, but it wasnât terrible either. As expected, the transition wasnât easy. He seemed overwhelmed by the number of children around him. Though the school was small, nine energetic five-year-olds in one room was a stark contrast to the quiet, adult-dominated environment heâd grown up in.
The morning began with a formal introduction, as she guided Thomas gently to the front of the room. âEveryone, this is Thomas. Letâs all say hello!â she announced with her ever-patient smile.
A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him in unison, and Thomas blinked, wide-eyed, shifting closer to her side. Throughout the day, he stuck to her like a shadow, quietly observing the other children. His curious gaze darted from one group to another, watching how they played together, laughed, and squabbled.
The first hiccup came when two boys got into a brief tug-of-war over a toy truck. Thomas visibly tensed, his small shoulders stiffening as he clutched the hem of her skirt. She quickly diffused the situation and offered Thomas a reassuring smile. âItâs okay, Thomas, sometimes there are quarrels, but nothing to worry about,â she said softly, her voice soothing as she rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didnât move from his spot.
Flora, one of the more outgoing girls in the class, made several attempts to coax Thomas into playing with her. Each time, she would approach with a bright smile and an outstretched hand, only to be gently refused as he shook his head and clung to his teacher. âThomas is feeling a little shy today,â she explained kindly to Flora. âBut I bet heâll join you soon.â Flora nodded enthusiastically, skipping back to her friends, undeterred.
When the day finally wound to a close, the children were picked up one by one, their parents ushering them out with cheerful waves and chatter. Soon, the classroom emptied, leaving only her and Thomas. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past pick-up time. Not late enough to be alarming, but enough to notice the change in Thomas.
The boy sat stiffly on a bench near the gate, his small chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She crouched down in front of him, âHey, Thomas, itâs okay. Your dad will be here soon, I promise. While we wait, want to learn a game?â
The child blinked at her, with glassy eyes by unshed tears and then nodded hesitantly.
She held out her hands and showed him a simple clapping game. The rhythm seemed to distract him, his and his breathing slowed down as he focused on mimicking her motions. They repeated the sequence a few times, and she rewarded him with a bright smile each time he got it right.
Then, footsteps approached the gate, and she looked up to see James Barnes hurrying toward them, with a concerned expression.
âIâm so sorry,â he said breathlessly, his blue eyes flicking from her to Thomas. âTraffic was worse than I expected-â
âPapa!â the small voice broke through as he bolted toward his father, tears streaming down his face now that the wait was over.
Bucky crouched and scooped him up immediately, cradling him close with his gloved hands. âHey, hey, Iâm here,â he murmured with guilt. âIâm so sorry, kiddo. I wonât be late again, I promise.â
As he held his son tightly, he turned toward her, ready to apologize again. But when he met her gaze, something in his chest shifted, just a flicker, something too fleeting to name.
She was smiling, kind and patient, with a softness in her expression that made it painfully obvious she wasnât upset about waiting.
That shouldnât have stood out. But it did.
âIâm sorry for making you wait and... taking up your time. It wonât happen again.â
She shook her head with a kind smile. âItâs alright. He was fine, really. And the game helped. Donât worry about it.â
Bucky gave her a grateful look, softening his features just enough to show how much he appreciated her patience. âThanks... for everything.â
She was about to respond when something crossed her mind. She hesitated briefly before speaking. âUm, Mr. Barnes -James- do you think we could schedule a meeting sometime this week? I usually interview families during the first days to get to know them better, but since Thomas started a bit later, we havenât had the chance. If youâd like, we can arrange a time that works for you.â
His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she quickly added, âOf course, if you need to check with Mrs-â
âItâs just me,â he interrupted, firmer than intended but not unkind.
She blinked. âOh.â
Just him.
Her expression didnât change much, she simply nodded, adjusting quickly, but something about her expression made his throat go dry.
âAlright,â she said smoothly, âhow does tomorrow at 1 PM sound?â
Bucky knitted his brows, working through something in his mind. She took the hesitation as doubt and quickly reassured him, âThe interviews take place during school hours. Another teacher covers my class while I meet with parents. Itâs all planned out.â
He nodded after a moment, letting the arrangement settle.
âThen itâs a date.â
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Silence. His own brain screeched to a halt.
Shit.
The second the words left his mouth, he froze. Why the hell did he have to use that word? He shows up late on the first day, and instead of keeping his shit together, he throws that word in her face like some creep. What is she going to think? That heâs hitting on her? That he doesnât take this seriously? His mind started spiraling as always, and he glanced at her, waiting for her reaction, expecting something-anything- that signaled sheâs offended or uncomfortable.
But she only smiled. Not a smirk, not teasing, just⌠warm. Like she hadnât even registered the slip, or worse, like she had and found it endearing.
âAlright, Mr. Barnes. See you tomorrow. Bye, Thomas! Have a wonderful afternoon!â
He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked toward the gate with Thomas in his arms. The tension in his shoulders was killing him, and his mind kept spiraling. Why couldnât he have just said meeting like a normal person?
-----
He arrived five minutes early. Pressing the doorbell, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, exhaling quietly as he waited.
A moment later, a soft buzz hummed from the side gate, signaling that he should push to enter. The latch clicked open under his touch, and he stepped through, strolling into the modest front yard where tiny footprints were imprinted into the damp soil, remnants of an afternoon spent playing.
As he neared the entrance, the buildingâs front door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold to receive him.
She hadnât expected him to be so⌠put together.
Her breath hitched for half a second as she took him in, her brain momentarily short-circuiting before she caught herself. He was overdressed for a simple parent-teacher chat. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, keeping the strands away from his sharp, striking features. The crisp black shirt he wore, fitted just right, framing his broad shoulders like a second skin, the mother-of-pearl blue buttons subtly gleaming under the soft afternoon light. The contrast of the dark fabric against his fair skin only made his blue eyes stand out even more.
She blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring, like an absolute idiot, at that.
Her own reflection in the glass door made her painfully self-conscious. She had thrown on a comfortable jumper that morning, warm and practical, paired with an open wool jacket she hadnât given much thought to. Now, under his gaze, she felt underdressed.
Shaking off the ridiculous thought, she straightened her posture and smiled, keeping her voice even. âMr. Barnes, right on time.â
His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, but not quite. âJames. Figured I shouldnât be late twice in a row.â
She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. âCome on in. Would you like some tea or coffee before we start?â
He hesitated, then nodded. âTea, if itâs not a hassle.â
âNo hassle at all,â she assured him, leading the way inside.
As he followed her down the hallway, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was just a meeting, a standard conversation about Thomas. That was all. She led him into the small office and closed the door with a soft click.
With him inside, the space suddenly felt even smaller, almost claustrophobic. As he settled into the chair, she turned toward the small counter, flipping on the electric kettle. With her back to him, she absently tugged at the neckline of her jumper, then glanced down, frowning as she noticed a faint smear of green tempera near the hem. Great. Just great. She tried to rub it away discreetly, but the stain refused to budge.
Forcing herself to move on, she turned around, offering a professional -and hopefully not too flustered- smile. âSo, Mr. Barnes.â
âJames is really alright,â he repeated. Then he asked himself if there was a rule to use the last name, and she was trying to make him notice that fact politely by still addressing him with formality.
She nodded. âAlright, James.â The name felt different on her tongue, more personal somehow, and for some reason, it flustered her to use it. She cleared her throat, refocusing. âIâm going to ask some questions about Thomasâs daily life and family status so we can start building his file.â
At that, she caught the way his gloved hands tensed over his knees. It was subtle, just the smallest tightening of his fingers, but she noticed. His expression, however, remained unreadable: calm, polite, the perfect picture of an agreeable parent sitting through a standard school procedure.
But she knew better.
Not wanting to push too soon, she offered an alternative. âAlso, if youâre interested, I can tell you briefly about yesterday and todayâs steps in his integration.â
Something shifted in his posture at that. Not much, but enough. A small breath in, a glance toward her, like a man bracing for news he wasnât sure he wanted to hear.
âYeah,â he murmured, nodding. âIâd like that.â
----
Bucky felt little beads of sweat trickling down his spine. Was he trying too much?
He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers over his knees as he stole a glance at himself, just a quick, discreet look. Then, at her, and then, at the tiny office around them, shelves stacked with colorful folders, walls decorated with cheerful crayon drawings.
Back in his time, people dressed better. If a parent had to meet with a teacher, for whatever reason, it was treated as a formal occasion. A suit, a tie. The respect was shown in oneâs presentation. So, naturally, he thought the right thing to do was clean up good.
Now, sitting in that too-small, squeaky green chair, with that attractive lovely lady making him tea, he felt like a goddamn wedding cake doll.
Her jumper was slightly wrinkled, her open wool jacket practical and cozy, and there was that stubborn little stain on the hem that sheâd tried to wipe away when she thought he wasnât looking. She belonged in this space, warm and natural, while he looked like he had an appointment with a boardroom, not a kindergarten teacher.
He swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Too late to do anything about it now.
"Alright," she said, settling across from him with a patient smile. "Where do you want to start? The interrogation about personal matters or how Thomas is adjusting to his partners and environment?"
Bucky barely hesitated. "The second one."
She smiled knowingly as if she had expected that answer. âHe was a little introverted at first, which is completely normal for a child his age in a new group. Most of the kids already knew each other, so heâs still figuring out where he fits in.â
Bucky nodded, listening intently.
She hesitated for a second before continuing, careful but warm. âHeâs also a bit⌠dependent.â
That made something in Buckyâs chest tighten.
âWhich, again, is perfectly normal,â she reassured quickly, reading the shift in his expression. âEspecially considering his background. I have no problem giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs throughout the day. But maybe, with time, we can work on building his independence a little.â She offered him a gentle smile. âBut overall, James, heâs a lovely kid. Really.â
Bucky exhaled slowly, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. Lovely. Not a problem. Not difficult. Just⌠lovely.
She turned to retrieve the tea, and as she was about to place his mug on the table, the sleeve of her wool jacket caught on a rough splinter in the wood. The movement sent the cup tipping, and a small splash of hot liquid spilled onto her hand and the table.
âOh, fuc-â She caught herself just in time, trading the curse for a flustered, âOh, dear.â She hastily set the mug down, shaking her wrist slightly as she clutched her burned fingers.
Before Bucky even registered the thought, his body moved on instinct. Old chivalry, muscle memory, -maybe both- he reached out, pulling off his glove in one swift motion and gently cradling her injured hand in his own. He wrapped his cool metal fingers around hers, as an automatic attempt to soothe the burn.
She tensed.
The reaction was so small that most people wouldnât have noticed. But he did. The slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, the way she froze beneath his touch for a fraction of a second.
His brain caught up with his actions.
Shit.
This was something he did all the time with Thomas, an instinctive, unconscious movement, one that made sense when it was his son crying over scraped knees or bumped elbows. But this wasnât Thomas. This his sonâs teacher. A stranger, technically. And here he was, holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He winced inwardly, twitching his fingers slightly as if preparing to pull away, to apologize, to-
But then, she relaxed.
Just enough for him to notice. Her grip eased slightly as her fingers rested in his palm, still warm from the tea. And then, to his utter surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh.
âWell,â she murmured, âI guess thatâs one way to handle it. Thank you,â she said, sincerily.
Bucky swallowed hard.
He wasnât accustomed to people thanking him. Hell, he wasnât accustomed to people wanting to share a space with him. The proof of that was in how damn difficult it had been to find a school willing to take Thomas in without judgment.
Was it always so hot in here?
The stupid shirt Steve had lent him to look presentable felt glued to his skin, clinging uncomfortably as a fresh wave of heat crept up his neck. He let go of her hand -reluctantly- and with a quick movement, he popped open a couple of the top buttons, trying to breathe. His fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair in the process, loosening a few strands from the short ponytail.
She blinked.
Hard.
His deep voice cut through the charged moment. âDonât mention it. Iâm sorry if I overstepped.â He murmured the words as he hastily pulled his glove back on, as if reestablishing some invisible boundary he had accidentally crossed.
It took her a second -maybe two- to remember how to speak after that sight.
âOh, not at all,â she finally managed, waving her hand nonchalantly. âIt doesnât hurt anymore, so you are perdoned.â
âOh, good,â he added promptly.
âYeah, good,â she echoed.
And then- silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that stretched for just a few seconds too long, making the air feel thick and awkward. It was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to be having a professional conversation, and yet here she was, staring at him like a flustered schoolgirl while he sat there, stiff and unreadable, probably wondering if she had a single functioning brain cell left.
Snapping herself out of it, she straightened in her chair, clearing her throat as she grabbed a folder and a pen. Professional. Focused.
âLetâs start with the questions,â she stated, determined to get back on track. âHow is the family group composed?â
A faint tick appeared in his jaw. âJust the two of us.â
She nodded, jotting it down. âDo you receive any kind of support from extended family members or close friends?â
Bucky hesitated. âI have⌠friends.â A pause. Then, a little softer, âOh, um⌠my friend Steve is like an uncle to him.â
She froze for half a second, pen hovering above the paper. Steve.
As in Steve Rogers.
And suddenly, the fact that James Barnes -Bucky Barnes- was sitting in her tiny office, answering questions about kindergarten pickup times and playtime habits, felt almost surreal.
But she pushed past it, nodding as if it was just any other answer. âTell me about a normal day in Thomasâ life. From the moment he wakes up until bedtime.â
The questions continued, one after another. But to his surprise, none of them were invasive.
Nothing about him. Nothing about his past. Nothing about the childâs mother.
She was only interested in Thomas, his routines, his favorite activities, the people who cared for him. What made him happy, what calmed him down, what sparked his curiosity.
And he just felt⌠like a normal Dad.
She tapped the pen against her lower lip, scanning the notes she had just taken, furrowing her brows slightly in concentration.
Bucky tried to keep his eyes anywhere else; on the folder, on the damn splintered table, but somehow, his gaze flickered back to her.
Her lips were slightly parted. Soft. That translucent lip gloss she wore caught the autumn light just enough to glisten innocently. She didnât seem aware of it, of the way the movement drew attention, of how effortless it was.
He clenched his jaw. Pathetic.
Maybe Sam had a point. Maybe he really did need to -what was how he had said it?- "get some." Because sitting here, staring at his kidâs teacher like the virgin Steve used to be back in the day, was not normal.
Especially when she was just⌠there. In a damn tempera-stained jumper, flipping through papers, completely unaware that his brain had short-circuited over something as simple as the way she absentmindedly pressed the tip of the pen to her lip.
He shifted slightly in his seat, making the little chair squeak under his weight. He needed to get a grip.
She looked up then, extending the forms she had just filled out. âHere, read it, and if itâs fine for you, please sign it, and weâre done.â
He reached for the papers, his fingers briefly grazing hers. She was already moving, sorting through more documents, rummaging inside what looked like her purse as he scanned the form.
A moment later, he signed it, handed it back, and stood up.
The room somehow felt even smaller with him standing.
She tucked the papers into a folder, then hesitated for the briefest second before extending something toward him. A small, brightly wrapped raspberry lollipop.
He just looked at it.
She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. âOh, um- itâs just a thing we do,â she explained, feeling a little ridiculous. âTeachers give a sweet to the parent who comes in for the visit. A friendly token.â
Bucky glanced at the candy, then at her.
Slowly, he reached out, taking it from her hand.
âIf you feel too old to try it, give it to Thomas,â she teased lightly. âThough I must say, theyâre pretty good.â
Bucky barely managed to keep his expression neutral as an entirely inappropriate image flashed through his mind involving her slightly parted lips against the bright red lollipop, swirling her tongue over the slick, glossy-
Nope. Absolutely not. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his brain and slammed the door shut.
Clearing his throat, he glanced at the candy in his palm. He was pretty sure the last time he had something like this was in the â20s, running through cobblestone streets in short, ragged pants and scraped knees. It felt oddly foreign now, a relic of a time buried long ago.
âNo, itâs⌠itâs alright,â he muttered, tucking the candy into his jeans pocket, trying to expel the compelling thoughts swirling at the back of his mind.
Her smile lingered a moment as she straightened the papers, and again, the moment stretched just enough to make the air feel heavier than before.
She cleared her throat. âWell, the institution will be asking for another meeting in about three months to give you an update on how heâs doing. Itâs the same for all the kids,â she explained, slipping back into professional mode.
Bucky nodded, adjusting his stance slightly, like he was grateful to have something to focus on.
âIâve also added you to the parents-teacher WhatsApp group," she continued, "as a way to communicate news, the things kids should bring, upcoming events, that kind of stuff.â She hesitated, glancing at her notes before adding, âUm⌠it says you donât have the app installed, so it would be great if you could download it.â
And then, silence.
Bucky barely moved, but something in his posture changed. His gaze flickered toward the small table, where his old clamshell phone rested near his keys.
She noticed.
That was not a smartphone, and it was definitely not suited for a parent-teacher chitchat group.
Before he could say anything, she quickly added, âItâs a policy here, since, well⌠itâs assumed everyone has it.â She smiled, small and reassuring. âBut donât worry, I can send you a normal text separately with the same information. Just⌠without the cool emojis, Iâll have to stick to ASCII.â She winked.
That got something out of him, a faint huff, not quite a laugh, but close. His shoulders relaxed just slightly. âYeah,â he murmured. âAppreciate that.â
----
After a couple of months, Bucky was relieved -no, grateful- to see Thomas flourishing in his new environment.
The once-quiet, wary boy had slowly started to open up. He was more talkative now, his voice no longer a whisper but something steadier, stronger. He laughed more, flinched less. When he came home from school, he actually talked about his day, about the games they played, about Flora and Matthew, about how Miss Y/n read the best stories and always did the funniest voices.
Bucky didnât know if she realized just how much of a difference she had made.
One afternoon, while Thomas was scribbling dinosaurs at the kitchen table, Buckyâs old clamshell phone vibrated against the counter.
He flipped it open. A general message from her number.
Dear families, our annual fundraising event is coming up! Each grade and nursery group will participate by preparing goodies to sell, baked treats, crafts, and more! We encourage everyone to take part and help make it a great day for the kids!
Bucky was already closing the phone when it binged another time. It was her again.
Donât know about your culinary expertise, but we could really use some strong dads to help build the booths this saturday ;)
He blinked.
A just-for-him message.
For a second, he only stared at it, like his brain needed to catch up. The winking face at the end nearly made him short-circuit.
Clearly, she was recruiting him for his enhanced strength.
It wasnât like the other parents would be thrilled to have him around. He rarely talked to them, never lingered after pickup, never engaged in small talk about school trips or birthday parties. The most interaction he got was a nod or a hesitant smile. Acknowledgment, but never an invitation.
And he understood why. He wasnât the kind of dad people naturally gravitated toward. He wasnât friendly like Steve, or charming like Sam. He was⌠him. Quiet. Intimidating. A man with too much history and too little practice in fitting into normal spaces.
So why would anyone want him there?
He exhaled sharply, glancing at the message again. Maybe sheâd sent the same thing to a few others. Maybe it wasnât just for him.
But⌠she had sent it. With a winky face.
And despite the self-doubt crawling at the back of his mind, he couldnât ignore the small, reluctant warmth blooming in his chest.
Because for whatever reason, she thought to ask.
-----
When the Saturday came, Bucky was sharp on time at the open kindergarten gate, with Steve.
Not that it had taken too much to convince him. Steve, being the charitable man he was, never missed an opportunity to help. But Bucky also knew his friend well enough to recognize the other reason he had agreed to come so quickly, curiosity. Curiosity about the place Thomas spent his days. And curiosity about the âwinking emote teacher.â
Bucky had two reasons for bringing Steve.
One: With two super soldiers on site, setting up the booths would take a fraction of the time.
Two: He didnât want to come alone. Not that heâd admit it outright, but walking into a social setting full of parents and staff -people he knew saw him as an outsider even if they tried to mask it- felt a little too exposed. At least with Steve there, the focus will be put elsewhere, and he knew his level of self-consciousness will drop.
Of course, Steve suspected as much. But to his credit, he had the courtesy of not saying anything.
They hadnât been there long enough when he spotted her across the yard, balancing a few wooden planks in her arms as she walked toward the setup area. She was focused, navigating carefully, until a rogue Lego piece nearly sent her sprawling.
In an instant Steve was there, supporting her before she could hit the ground.
She let out a startled gasp, gripping his forearms instinctively. And then, the realization showed all over her face. Because holy shit, Captain America was in the kindergarten.
âUh- thanks,â she said, letting go of his forearms, looking a little flustered.
Steve, ever the gentleman, just smiled. âNo problem.â
Then, as if remembering there were other people present, she glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, looking slightly out of place.
Her face lit up with recognition. âOh, hey! You made it. and with backup! That adds points, you knowâ She grinned, tilting her head playfully. âMore help means more credit when itâs time to take home the leftover cakes and pies.â
Bucky blinked. âThatâs a thing?â
âAbsolutely.â She crossed her arms, pretending to be serious. âHard work should be rewarded. And what better prize than free dessert?â
Steve chuckled, throwing Bucky a look. âSee, now thatâs motivation.â
Bucky shifted slightly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. âYeah. Um I thought some extra hands would come in handy, anyway.â
She nodded, rocking back on her heels slightly. âWell, Iâm glad you did. We can definitely use the help, some of these booths have been in storage forever, and letâs just say⌠theyâre not in peak condition.â
Steve smirked. âDonât worry maâam, weâll make sure they stand up straight.â
She snorted. âThatâs the bare minimum weâre hoping for, yeah.â Then she proceeded to give them a quick rundown of what was needed: booth assembly, structural support, and general heavy lifting. After making sure they understood, she left them to it, moving to a shaded corner where a group of teachers and moms were busy painting banners.
As Bucky grabbed a plank, Steve picked up another, glancing over his shoulder toward her. Then, with a knowing half-smile, he turned to Bucky.
âSo⌠I assume she is Tommyâs teacher?â
Bucky didnât even look up. Just gave a curt nod, with an unreadable expression.
Steve hummed. âSheâs cute.â
He didnât take the bait. Just kept his gaze firmly on the plank in his hands, jaw tightening just a fraction.
Steve pressed a little more. âReal cute.â
This time, Bucky gave him a noncommittal grunt. No eye contact. No reaction.
"Do you think the teachers might do a kissing booth?" Steve asked nonchalantly, setting a plank into place like he hadnât just thrown a live grenade into the conversation.
That got a reaction.
Buckyâs hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shot him a side glance. ââŚIs that still a thing nowadays?â
Steve shrugged. âYeah. Dunno if itâs as chaste as it was in our time, Buck, but itâs still runninâ. Clint told me sometimes they have them at his kidsâ school.â
Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, gripping the hammer a little tighter.
Steve chuckled, sensing an opening. âI mean, it makes sense, you know. A lot of divorced dadsâŚâ
âYeah, I guess it does,â Bucky cut him off, hammering a plank into place with maybe a little too much force. The loud crack of wood echoed through the yard.
Steve just smirked. âTouchy subject?â
Bucky ignored him, grabbing another nail.
"You know, Buck, I think you should ask her out."
"Shut up, punk."
"I'm serious. Whatâs the worst that could happen?"
Bucky turned to him, giving him a look so dry it couldâve drained the Atlantic. His next words were slow, like he was explaining something to a mentally impaired person.
"Letâs see. First of all, sheâs my childâs teacher. Itâs unethical."
Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky steamrolled right over him.
"Two, I can barely deal with myself most days. I canât trust my own mind sometimes. Iâm trying to put my shit together because of Thomas, but you know there are days I can barely get out of bed. So adding another person into our lives right now?" He shook his head. "I donât think thatâs a good idea."
Steve stayed quiet, watching him.
"And three," Bucky exhaled, returning to the plank, "I donât think sheâd be interested, damn I even donât know if she is seeing someone. And I donât want to make our interactions weird."
Steve tilted his head, giving him a look that was both skeptical and amused but, to Buckyâs relief, he kept his mouth shut didnât press further.
-----
After a couple of hours, Bucky and Steve eventually split up, taking on different tasks. As expected, Steve had a small crowd of parents âcasuallyâ gravitating around him, helping with his station while subtly asking for pictures and sneaking in questions between hammering and measuring.
Bucky, meanwhile, retreated to a quieter corner, bending some metal pipes to straighten the framework. It was a stark contrast, really. Steve walked into a place and illuminated it, drew people in without even trying. And Bucky⌠well.
He worked alone, unnoticed. Or so he thought.
A sudden hand on his shoulder broke his trance, and he startled just slightly.
âSorry!â she promptly removed her hand. âI called your name, but you didnât seem to hear.â
Bucky just blinked, âItâs fine.â
She smiled, holding up a thermos. âThought maybe youâd want some coffee?â
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the momentary stiffness. âI, uh⌠yeah. Thatâd be nice. Thank you.â His voice came out a little rough, and his eye contact was fleeting at best.
Fucking Steve. Bringing up his nonexistent love life like an asshole, and now Bucky was hyperaware of her presence. Every small shift of her stance, every little tilt of her head. It was funny -no, it wasnât- how their roles had completely reversed.
Once upon a time, Steve had been the one fumbling, awkward, struggling to find his footing with women. And now? He was Captain America, confident and magnetic, while Bucky was⌠whatever the hell this was. A fucking mess.
âThank you for coming, James. Really,â she said as she poured coffee into a small cup.
Bucky cleared his throat. âYeah. âCourse.â
âAnd thanks for bringing help with you,â she added playfully. âIt seems everyone is livelier since you two got here.â
He grumbled something under his breath, bending the pipe back and forth absentmindedly, like someone fidgeting with a strand of grass.
She caught the movement and grinned. âShowoff.â
Bucky huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line to stop the small, unwilling twitch of amusement threatening to surface.
âIâm going to miss this,â she said suddenly, looking at the thermos handle. âThe community here is really nice. Luckily, Iâll still be around for the event.â
Buckyâs gaze snapped to her âWhat?â
She blinked. âI said, Iâm going to miss-â
âAre you taking a vacation?â he interrupted, unable to stop himself.
Her brows furrowed slightly. âWhat? No-â Then, she realized. âOh. James⌠Jane is coming back.â
Bucky just stared at her, the words not quite clicking in his brain. âWho?â
She tilted her head, looking almost apologetic. âJane. The actual teacher. I thought you knew, Iâm just a substitute. The real teacher was on medical leave, but sheâs ready to return now.â
The words settled like a slow drop of ink into water, spreading, tainting something that had been perfect moments ago.
âI didnât- didnât know,â he admitted, quietly. Maybe because Thomas had entered late in the school year, theyâd missed that little piece of information.
She seemed to notice the shift in him, the way his grip tightened around the empty cup. There was a certain distress in his expression, subtle but there.
âDonât worry,â she said gently, trying to reassure him. âJane is an excellent teacher and person. Thomas will be thrilled to have her in the class.â
Bucky nodded, curtly, handing the thermos cup back.
In all the interactions heâd had with her, the drop-offs, their little conversations, the parent meeting, the fact that she was just a substitute had never popped up.
"Whenâs your last day?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the twisted pipe in his hands.
âThe Friday before the event,â she replied. âIâm still going to participate since I helped organize it, but by Monday, Jane will be here.â She paused, as if anticipating his reaction. âI can assure you, It wonât be a sudden change for the kids. This week, sheâll come for a couple of hours every day to introduce herself so they can get used to her.â
Bucky gave a slow nod, gripping the metal a little tighter than necessary.
It shouldnât have really mattered. It shouldnât have made him feel anything at all.
And yet, the news bothered him.
Because things had been fine. He wasnât close to her, not in any significant way, but she was a constant. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes wasnât fond of, it was change.
It wasnât like he had been expecting anything more than what he already had, which wasnât much. Just crumbs, really. Small moments of connection. Casual chats, occasional teasing remarks that made something in his chest pull in a way he ignored. The way she talked to him like any other parentâlike a man, not a reputation.
But it wasnât just that, was it?
There were other things, little details that had wormed their way into his awareness without permission. The way her voice softened when she spoke to Thomas. The way her soft body looked like it would fit perfectly against his if he just- no. The way her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary sometimes, making him wonder ifâŚ
Bucky exhaled sharply, straightening his pose, forcing the thoughts back.
It was comfortable. And, somehow, warm.
And now she was going to leave.
And maybe it was stupid, but it affected him more than he wanted to admit.
You had justâwhat, snapped at Tim? And not in the normal, passive-aggressive, âIâm going to make this as difficult as possible for youâ kind of way.Â
No. You had gone dramatic.Â
Full âNo, Tim. Donât. Iâm not here to listen to whatever you have to sayâ levels of dramatic. Like you were starring in some self-indulgent soap opera about betrayal and lost trust.
And then, because that wasnât enough, you had kept going.
âThe least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.â
Like you were some righteous saint, personally assigning him his penance.
And then, to top it all offâ
âYou donât have to bother yourself with me anymore. Iâll make sure of that.â
Youâll make sure of that.
Youâll make sure of that?
Make sure of that how?
What were you going to do, take out a restraining order? Get a new identity? Flee to Europe?
Who did you think you were?
God, the moment you had walked away, the sheer mortification had hit you like a brick wall. You had barely managed to keep yourself from cringing so hard you collapsed in on yourself like a dying star.
And now here you were, sitting in some abandoned corner of the orphanageâs yard, forcibly repressing every memory of the last ten minutes before you actually had a stroke.
You inhaled sharply, running a hand down your face.
No. You couldnât afford to let this mess with your head.
Not right now.
Because you had work to do.
Mrs. Cole was out on errands. At least, thatâs what you had overheard from one of the staff members youâd befriended. If there was ever a time to do some snooping, it was now.
You just needed toâ
âWow. You look like you just had the worst conversation of your life.â
Your entire body tensed.
Because of course.
Of course.
Slowly, you turned your headâonly to be met with the sight of none other than Conner Kent standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an easy grin playing at his lips.
Because apparently, the universe hated you.
For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to gauge what he wanted, the sarcasm practically dripping from your voice. âFinally making use of that superhearing of yours, huh?â
Konâs eyes glinted with amusement. âOnly when itâs worth it,â he said, tilting his head slightly, clearly intrigued.
âYou looked like you were about to burst into flames back there. Just thought Iâd check in on you.â
Of course he noticed that.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. âWell, you checked in. You can go now.â
Kon raised an eyebrow. âNot even a âthank youâ for my concern? Cold.â
You rolled your eyes and turned away. âGo bother someone else.â
âNah.â Kon said simply, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to you. He plopped down beside you in that effortlessly casual way of his, as though it was totally normal for him to invade your space like this. âIâm good, thanks.â
You sighed. Loudly.
Because of course he wasnât going to leave.
Of all the people to find you, it just had to be him.
You and Kon had never really been close.
Youâd only ever known him as Timâs best friend. Timâs partner-in-crime. Timâs âIâm going to try and clone you 99 times because I have attachment issuesâ best friend. The guy who didnât really fit into your orbit. But now, here he was, standing right in front of you, apparently more interested in whatever you were doing than the kids in the yard.
Other than a handful of stakeouts and a few missions where youâd been forced to work together, you had barely interacted.
And yet, somehow, somehow, he was the one who had found you.
You were already trying to fix things in your head, and now KonâKon, of all peopleâhad decided to join you for the pity party.
Fantastic.
You exhaled sharply. âIf youâre just here to talk, donât bother. Iâm not in the mood.â
Kon tilted his head. âNot in the mood? Or trying to be sneaky?â
Your fingers twitched.
Because that was dangerously close to being an actual observation.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you said flatly.
Kon hummed. âSure you donât.â
You shot him a warning look. âAre you done?â
âNot really.â
You sighed again. âThen what do you want?â
Kon grinned. âNeeded a break. The kids get exhausting after a while.â
That, at least, was something you could understand.
You huffed, shaking your head. âYeah. I donât know how the others do it.â
âRight?â Kon groaned, dropping down to sit beside you. âOne Bart is enough. A whole room of them? No, thanks.â
That caught you off guard. You hadnât expected Kon to be so honest about his frustration. And, to be honest, you felt it too. You let out a soft, surprised chuckle, a real one.
It was soft. Brief.
But Kon heard it.
And when you glanced at him, he was staring.
Brows slightly raised, lips parted just a fraction.
Like he had just witnessed a goddamn miracle.
You raised an eyebrow, suddenly wondering what had caused the shift in his mood.  âWhat?â
Kon blinked, then grinned. âSo even you can laugh, huh?â
You deadpanned. âWhat, am I not allowed to?â
Kon held his hands up. âNo, no. Laugh all you want. Just thought youâd be more of a carbon copy of your pops.â
The words hit you harder than you expected. It was like a sharp stab to the gut. You werenât sure why, but it made you feel something close to irritation.Â
And without thinkingâ
âDonât compare me to him.â
Kon froze.
You werenât angry, per se.
But there was a sharpness to your voice that hadnât been there before.
A warning.
Kon, to his credit, immediately backtracked. âRight. My bad.â
And just like that, he dropped it, his face shifting to one of genuine apology as he raised his hands in defeat.
No jokes. No teasing.
Just a simple, straightforward apology.
That⌠was unexpected.
You glanced at him, considering. Then, reluctantly, you decided to cut him some slack.
You stood up from your crouched position, brushing the dirt off your pants. âWell, Iâve got work to do.â
Kon looked at you, mildly confused. âWork?â
You gave him a pointed look. âStaff needs help around here. Iâve got my hands full.â
Which was trueâon the surface. You had offered to help out with some of the administrative tasks the orphanage had, but in reality, your purpose was entirely different. You had to move, to snoop. Mrs. Cole would be out for a while, and you needed that time.
Konâs brow furrowed slightly. âIâll tag along.â
âNo.â
Kon blinked. âNo?â
âNo.â You said it too quickly, too firmly, and you knew it.
Kon squinted at you, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. âAww, why not? Thought youâd be grateful to get some help around here. After all, isnât that what you wanted Tim to do?â
Your stomach dropped.
Of course, heâd heard that.
Of course, with his super hearing, heâd caught every single word.
You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced for an out. âYouâre not going to let that go, are you?â
Kon grinned, leaning back against the courtyard railing with all the ease of someone who had all the time in the world. âNope.â
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple.
Kon, still lounging like he owned the place, tilted his head at you. âSo, are you gonna let me help you out, orââ
âI like to work alone,â you cut in, shutting him down before he could finish.
And then, before he could argue, before he could get another teasing word in, you turned on your heel and walked off, heading straight into the orphanage building.
You didnât look back.
But you could feel his gaze on you the entire way.
For a moment, it seemed like he wasnât going to follow. You could feel his gaze on your back, but he didnât move.
Good. You needed him to leave.
Once inside, you made your way toward the front desk, where one of the orphanage staff membersâMiss Jenkinsâwas standing, sifting through some paperwork. She wasnât as unsettling as Mrs. Cole, but she was efficient, always delegating tasks to whoever was willing to help.
You cleared your throat, catching her attention. âMiss Jenkins.â
She looked up, offering a polite smile. âAh, good timing. I was just about to look for someone to help with some tasks.â
Perfect. The more she trusted you, the easier it would be to sneak around later. You forced a pleasant expression, nodding. âI can help.â
Miss Jenkins looked relieved. âGreat. There are some supplies that need organising in the storage roomââ
A sudden weight landed on your shoulder.
You stiffened instantly.
You knew who it was before you even turned your head.
Because of course.
Of course.
Slowly, almost dreading what youâd see, you glanced to the sideâonly to be met with the insufferably smug face of none other than Conner Kent, grinning down at you like he had just won something.
And technically, he had.
âSo,â he drawled, his arm still slung casually over your shoulder, âwhat are we helping out with?â
You have got to be kidding me.
You just stared at him.
Flabbergasted.
Because what part of âI like to work aloneâ had been unclear?
You were sure you had said it clearly. Firmly. Finally.
And yet, here he was.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Miss Jenkins, completely unaware of the silent war you were now fighting, simply smiled. âOh, perfect! That makes things easier.â
No, it does not, you thought, barely restraining the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.
You wanted to strangle him.
But you couldnât.
Kon was watching you expectantly, clearly waiting for you to argue.
To fight him on this.
To give him some reaction he could latch onto, poke at, use as an excuse to keep going.
And you refused to give him that satisfaction.
So you swallowed your frustration, inhaled sharply, and turned back to Miss Jenkins.
You forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding as if nothing was wrong. âYeah,â you said, voice strained. âGreat.â
Miss Jenkins handed you a list of things to check, still clearly pleased by the unexpected extra help. âIf Iâm not around, just put the list back here when youâre done.â
âGot it.â
If she noticed the way your voice was slightly strained, she didnât comment on it. She just nodded, already moving back to her paperwork.
That was your cue to leave.
You turned on your heel and walked briskly down the hall, doing your best to ignore the very solid, very annoying presence that was now trailing after you.
And, to his credit, Kon didnât say anything.
Not right away.
He just kept up easily, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual air of relaxed confidence somehow making it even more obvious that he was enjoying himself.
You could feel it.
The sheer smugness radiating off him.
It was unbearable.
The second Miss Jenkins was out of eyeshot, you grabbed Kon by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest empty hallway, shoving him against the wall.
âWhat are you doing?â you hissed, voice low but sharp.
âWhat are you doing?â
You clenched your teeth. âI asked first.â
Kon raised an eyebrow. âLook, I know I might be a hot hunkââ
You rolled your eyes. Seriously.
Kon chuckled. âBut that doesnât mean Iâm dumb. I know youâre up to something.â
You crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes. âSo, what if I am? Are you going to snitch?â
Kon pretended to think. But you knew from one look that he was only playing with you.
âNo. Never. As long as you let me join in on whatever it is youâre planning to do.â
Damn it, you thought, internally groaning. The last thing you needed was Kon sticking his nose into your business. âWhy?â you asked, your voice dripping with exasperation.
Kon shrugged nonchalantly, completely unfazed by your frustration. âWhy not?â
You gave him a look. âYouâre wasting your time.â
Kon shrugged, his smile still intact. âSo? Iâve already given Tim my time and day to spy on you. Might as well use the rest of it on you again.â
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. âNot funny.â
Kon sighed dramatically. âRight. Got it. Iâm just⌠offering help, like a good citizen, yâknow.â
You narrowed your eyes. âYouâre not a good citizen.â
He gasped, feigning offense. âWow. Rude.â
You werenât in the mood for this. âConner.â
âCall me Kon.â
You sighed sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. âKon, I swear toââ
âSo what exactly are you snooping for?â he interrupted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. âBecause letâs be honest, youâre not exactly a volunteer type.â
You glared. âAnd you are?â
He shrugged. âNope. But I can recognize a lie when I see one.â
You clenched your jaw, mind racing. You had two options: make up some excuse or tell him the truth. Both had risks. If you lied and he caught on, heâd definitely tell Tim. If you told him the truth, there was still a chance heâd tell Tim.
Neither outcome was ideal.
Kon, as if sensing your internal battle, grinned wider. âMan, youâre really overthinking this, huh?â
You huffed, crossing your arms. âIâm considering my options.â
âOptions?â
âYeah. Like whether I should knock you out or just leave you here.â
Kon chuckled. âRight. Thatâs an option.â
Silence stretched between you.
Then, after a beat, Kon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, more curious tone. âSeriously though. Whatâs going on?â
You studied his face. He wasnât just messing with you anymore. There was genuine curiosity there. Maybe even concern.
You hesitated. That made it harder to brush him off. Because it didnât seem like he had any other agenda.
Then, finally, you quietly mutter, âSomething isnât right about this place.â
Kon blinked, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming just a fraction.
You expected him to brush it off, to laugh, to call you paranoid.
Instead, he tilted his head. âYeah?â
That threw you off. You had expected teasing. Maybe a sarcastic remark. But he wasnât mocking you. He was listening.
You nodded. âYeah.â
Kon considered that for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he said, âAlright. Guess Iâm in.â
You stared. âWhat?â
His smirk returned. âYou heard me.â
It made you pause.
âYou believe me?â You asked slowly.
Kon blinked. âYeah?â
You frowned. âJust like that?â
âJust like what?â
âYou donât think Iâm being paranoid or overreacting?â
Kon shrugged. âIf thereâs one thing I learned after working with Tim and you Bats, itâs to trust your instincts. Because somehow, for some godforsaken reason, you guys are always right.â
You froze.
The way he said Bats. Like it still applied to you.
Like you were still one of them.
You werenât Batgirl anymore. You werenâtâone of them anymore.
You swallowed, staring at Konâs face, but he wasnât looking at you like heâd said something strange. He wasnât looking at you with pity either, or like he was trying to backpedal. Heâd said it so naturally, so easily, like it was a simple fact.
Your throat felt tight.Â
You looked away.Â
âYou do know Iâm not Batgirl anymore, right?â Your voice came out quieter than you intended, and you hated how it soundedâhow it almost wavered.
You saw Kon hesitate, as if trying to find the right words to say.
âYeah. I heard.â
You waited.Â
Waited for the inevitable Why? that always followed.
But it never came.
He didnât ask. Didnât press.
Just accepted it.
Your brows furrowed slightly, caught off guard.
âYouâre not gonna ask why I quit?â
Kon shrugged. âNope.â
And that⌠that was surprising.
You blinked. ââŚWhy?â
His smirk softened, losing its usual cockiness. Just a fraction. âBecause if you wanted to tell me the reason, youâd do so without any prompting.â
You stared.
Something deep twisted in your chest.
That wasâunexpected.
People always asked.
Over and over, like they needed to hear you say it out loud.
But KonâŚ
He just accepted it.
Like he didnât need an explanation.
Like your choices were yours.
You had no idea what to do with that.
Your throat felt tight again, and you cleared it quickly, shifting your weight like that would somehow shake off the sudden heaviness in your chest. âWell. Uh. Thanks, I guess.â
Konâs grin returned in full force, his usual playful energy slipping back into place. âAnytime.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât quite shake the feeling in your chest, like something had settled in there, unfamiliar and warm.
Pushing past it, you nodded toward the hallway. âCome on. We have an orphanage to snoop through.â
Kon chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease and falling into step beside you. âLead the way, not-Batgirl.â
You shot him a look, but he only smirked wider, clearly enjoying himself.
The search wasâŚÂ frustrating.
You and Kon had started with the staff rooms, slipping through the halls unnoticed, careful not to make a sound.
But there was nothing.
No weird documents, no strange behavior from the staff, no hidden files. The most suspicious thing you found was an outdated carton of milk in the break room fridge.
Then you moved onto Mrs. Coleâs office, lingering outside the door, waiting for the perfect moment.
âSeriously, what are we looking for?â Kon muttered beside you, shifting his weight.
âAnything suspicious,â you whispered back.
Kon snorted. âRight. Because that narrows it down.â
You shot him a look before cracking the door open and slipping inside, Kon following behind you.
Mrs. Coleâs office was surprisingly neat. A single desk sat in the center, with a few filing cabinets lined up against the walls. Everything was orderly. A little too orderly.
Kon leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching as you surveyed the room. âAlright, detective, whatâs the plan?â
You rolled your eyes. âJustâcheck the drawers.â
Kon gave you a lazy salute before crouching down and yanking one open. Meanwhile, you moved toward the filing cabinets, quickly skimming the labels.
Most of them were standard. Financial records, employee files, supply orders. Nothing remotely suspicious.
Kon, however, had taken a different approach.
âHey, do you think sheâs hiding secret documents under here?â he asked, knocking against the bottom of the drawer like it might pop open to reveal a hidden compartment.
You turned to see him casually opening and shutting random drawers, half-heartedly rummaging through them.
âYouâre terrible at this,â you muttered.
âExcuse you,â Kon shot back. âI am fantastic at this.â
You huffed, moving toward the desk instead, running your fingers along the edges. Sometimes people had false bottoms in their drawers, or a safe tucked underneath. Maybe that was the case.
Meanwhile, Kon had apparently decided he was bored of the search already. âIâm just saying, if I were running a shady operation, I wouldnât be dumb enough to leave evidence lying around in a desk.â
âWell, lucky for us, not everyone is as smart as you, Kon-El,â you deadpanned.
âDamn right.â
You ignored him, crouching down to check the bottom drawers. One was locked.
You tried tugging on it again. Still locked.
Bingo.
Kon, of course, noticed immediately. âOho, whatâs this?â
âLocked drawer,â You murmured, studying it.
Konâs grin widened. âWant me to break it open?â
You stared at him. âAnd make it painfully obvious that someone was snooping around?â
He shrugged. âI could put it back together. Maybe.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose. âNo. No breaking things.â
Kon sighed dramatically but backed off, leaning against the desk again. âSo, whatâs the plan, oh wise and paranoid one?â
You pulled a bobby pin from your pocket.
Konâs eyebrows shot up. âAre you seriously about to pick that lock?â
You held up the pin. âWhy else would I carry these?â
He looked vaguely impressed. âOkay, I take it back. Thatâs kinda badass.â
Rolling your eyes, you crouched down and got to work. It wasnât a particularly difficult lock. You had it undone in less than a minute.
Kon gave a low whistle. âDamn. The big Bat really did teach you guys everything, huh?â
You didnât respond to that. Instead, you pulled the drawer open, feeling a flicker of anticipationâ
Only for it to disappear just as quickly.
The drawer was filled with basic paperwork. A few financial reports. Some school records. Nothing remotely unusual.
You flipped through them quickly, hoping for something, anything that would justify the nagging feeling in your gut. But after a good five minutes of searchingâŚ
Nothing.
No hidden records. No cryptic documents. No damning evidence.
JustâŚÂ nothing.
You sat back on your heels, frustration clawing at your chest.
Kon, peering over your shoulder, let out a low hum. âSooo, either Mrs. C is really good at covering her tracks, orââ
âThereâs nothing to find,â you finished bitterly.
The words tasted wrong in your mouth. Because that wasnât possible. You knew something was off about this place. You could feel it.
So why wasnât there anything here?
Your mind started spiraling. Had you misread the situation? Had you let paranoia cloud your judgment? Were you just wasting your timeâwasting Konâs timeâchasing after nothing? Just because of something you conjured up in your mind?
Your fingers curled into a fist.
Thenâ
A warm hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.
You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts as Kon gave you a small, reassuring squeeze.
âYouâre spiraling,â he said simply.
You stared at him, caught off guard.
He wasnât teasing. He wasnât mocking.
He was justâŚÂ grounding you.
You swallowed, exhaling slowly. âI justââ You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. âI know somethingâs wrong here, Kon.â
Kon nodded, like he believed you without question. âSo, weâll keep looking.â
You frowned. âEven though we just found nothing?â
âYeah,â he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. âIf you still feel like somethingâs off, then Iâll help you figure it out.â
You blinked. âJust like that?â
âJust like that.â
You hesitated.Â
It was stupid.
This was stupid.
You should refuse. You should just let this go.
You shouldnât drag him into this.
ButâŚ
Maybeâjust maybeâitâd be nice to have help.
Without it feeling like you were being dumb. Weak.
Without feeling like someone who wasnât capable of doing things on her own.
Without the skepticism, the side-eyes, the exasperated sighs.
Kon wasnât doing that. He might be humoring you, but he wasnât questioning your decisions, either. He was justâŚÂ there. Standing beside you, unwavering.
You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to unclench your fists.
âAlright,â you muttered. âFine.â
You looked up at him. âThanks. I appreciate that.â
Kon grinned. âOf course you do. I am pretty great.â
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up. âCome on. Letâs wrap this up before someone finds us.â
The two of you made quick work of putting everything back in place, slipping out of the office unnoticed.
And you guys quickly cleaned up and organised the storage room, before rejoining the others in the courtyard.
You exhaled a breath you didnât realize you were holding. It was so typical. So stupid. You had thoughtâno, you had to believeâthat something was off about this place. That there was something hiding beneath its surface. But now, after sifting through Mrs. Coleâs meticulous paperwork and pristine office, as well as clean fhe storage rooms and found absolutely nothing, you couldnât help but wonder if you were just seeing shadows.
Or worseâŚÂ you were going insane.
It is plausible. After all, you somehow came back to life and you still donât know how or whyâ
âLooks like weâre back to square one.â
Konâs voice was casual, the kind of tone that suggested he wasnât bothered by the dead-end. But then again, he always had that air about him. Like everything bounced off. You watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, glancing over at you with a half-smile, though it didnât quite reach his eyes. His eyes werenât teasing. He wasnât giving you that cocky grin. Instead, there was something else there. Something quieter. Something moreâŚÂ understanding.
You werenât sure if you wanted to dive into it right now. Maybe you were too tired to unpack the layers of meaning in his expression.
So, you did the next best thingâyou rolled your eyes and muttered a half-hearted, âYeah, no kidding.â
Kon chuckled softly, a little sound that felt almost like a weight lifted from your chest. It was strange how much he could make you feel lighter, even in the most absurd situations.
Maybe that was why Tim kept him around. As his friend.
You shook the thought away, rubbing your forehead as if that could erase the last few hours of frustration. It wasnât his job to take away your weight.
âWeâll find something,â Kon said, voice steady, though there was a hint of something that sounded like reassurance. âWe just gotta keep looking. No need to make it harder than it is.â
You exhaled slowly, glancing at him. âWe, huh? You were really serious about helping me out with this?â
Kon shrugged, his smile returning, albeit a little more teasing. âOf course! What do you take me for?â
You sighed. âAlright, fine, you win this time, Kent.â
His grin returned, lopsided and teasing. âDamn. Mustâve been hard admitting that, Wayne.â
You rolled your eyes. âGo back to Tim before I decide knocking you out is a viable option.â
Kon smirked but backed away with his hands up in surrender. âAlright, alright, Iâm going. Donât miss me too much, partner.â
You groaned, shaking your head, and turned on your heel.
You walked back toward the courtyard where your friends are, feeling that ever-present weight of unease still sitting in your chest. But it wasnât as heavy as before.
Maybe because you werenât the only one carrying it anymore.
Your friends were scattered, lounging on benches and idly chatting, before you felt it.
A familiar pang in your chest.Â
A gut feeling that you knew very well.
Adrien and Caitlyn were already watching you, and it wasnât a gaze of mere curiosity. No, it was that unmistakable, mischievous glint. The kind that always meant they knew something.
Caitlynâs grin was practically ear-to-ear. âDonât think we didnât notice who you came back with, hun.â
You couldnât help the sinking feeling that settled into your stomach. God. You hadnât even said a word and they were already making assumptions. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.
âOh, shut up,â you muttered, even though you were already bracing for what was to come.
Adrien raised his eyebrows, a knowing, too-perfect smirk on his face. âWhat?â He pretended to look innocent. âItâs just funny. You disappearing with Mr Hotshotâand coming back with him. Alone. After what? Hours?â
âWeâve been gone for barely an hourââ
Caitlyn nudged him in the side. âTotally suspicious.â
You tried to hide your irritation. âItâs not like that.â You crossed your arms, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. âKon just helped out with some of the stuff around the orphanage, which is what weâre supposed to do as volunteers by the way.â
âAlready calling him by nicknames, eh?â Caitlyn teased, folding her arms and giving you a look.
Ok, this was too much.
âThatââÂ
Adrienâs grin widened, impossibly smug. âUh-huh. Sure. You know, if I didnât know better, Iâd say somethingâs going on between you two.â
âNothingâs going on,â you snapped, but your voice came out sharper than you meant.
That only made them more excited.
âRight.â Adrienâs tone was playful, but there was a sharpness to it, as though he knew exactly what buttons to press. âThen why are you getting all defensive, huh?â
âIâm not defensive.â
âOh, you so are.â Caitlyn insists, raising a finger to tap her chin. âI think sheâs hiding something, Adrien.â
âIâm notââ
As you said it, you turned slightlyâand your gaze landed on him.
Kon, who was now on the other side of the courtyard.
Kon, who had somehow gotten himself into what looked like a heated argument with Tim.
Tim, who looked seconds away from beating his ass over something.
 The two of them were practically going toe-to-toe, Konâs arms crossed and his posture that of someone who didnât give a damn, while Timâs posture was stiff with irritation, his words sharp and fast.
Yikes.
And at that exact moment, as if he felt your stare, Kon glanced upâright at you.
You both froze.
The moment your eyes met, something shifted.
His gaze softened, his expression pulling into a quiet smirk. It wasnât teasing this time. It was something a littleâŚÂ fonder.Â
Then, ever so casually, ever so smugly, he winked.
The small, silent gesture hit you like a jolt, making you freeze.
And, with a knowing smirk, he lifted a finger to his lips in a shush motion.
You blinked.
It was a promise.
He wasnât going to tell Tim.
The thought swirled in your mind as you processed his gesture. Your breath caught in your throat, a small smile curling up your lips before you could stop it.
It was small. Grateful.
A silent thank you.
You dipped your head at him, and he gave you a lazy salute once more before smoothly dodging a half-hearted swipe from Tim.
The moment was fleeting.
But it meant everything.
âDid you fucking see that?â
You whipped your head back toward your friends, but the smile on your face was gone, replaced with a forced indifference. âWhat?â
Caitlyn gasped. âConner just winked at you, didnât he??â
âNo.â You were emphatic, trying to brush it off, but it didnât feel right. You were lyingâto them, and to yourself.
âUh-huh. Youâre smiling way too much by the way.â
âShut up.â
But they werenât done. They never were.
Adrien leaned forward. âYou totally like him, donât you?â
Before you could answer, there was a sharp cough from behind you, followed by the sound of boots striking the ground.
Damian.
Your stomach dropped.
You barely even noticed him standing beside your friends.
And before you knew, Damian was heading straight for Kon, his eyes narrowed with barely concealed fury.
You could see his fists tightening as he closed the distance, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Kon, oblivious to the brewing storm behind him, was still bantering with Tim. But you could see it in his posture now, that little glint of recognition in his eyes as he noticed Damianâs approach.
RIP.
â
A: âI swear Iâve seen that guy somewhere before.â
âNo, you havenât.â
A: âHe kind of looks like Lex Luthor if you squintââ
âNope. Definitely not.â
Tim was not having a good day.
It had been one of those afternoons where the lines between âwhateverâ and âIâm about to snapâ blurred, and now he was pacing the courtyard, trying to ignore the incessant buzz in his mind. Heâd been looking for Kon ever since his argument with you. Well, if he can call it that.Â
Cassie and Bart were just a few paces ahead of him, chatting casually, but Tim couldnât focus on their conversation. Not with Kon completely disappearing out of his sight. He had a bad feeling about it. More than usual. Something about todayâabout Konâs behaviourâhad felt off. So, Tim just⌠asked around.
âHey, Cassie. Bart. Have either of you seen Kon?â Tim asked, his voice tight, trying to keep his growing irritation in check.
Cassie shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes scanning the area. Bart just raised an eyebrow, looking far too innocent, as if he hadnât been the cause of half of their chaotic antics.
âNope,â Cassie answered, glancing at Bart, who gave a shrug of his own, and Tim could tell they were both just as clueless as he was.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Where the hell was he?
And then it happened.
There, emerging from the orphanage building, was Kon.
Andâwhat the hell?
You were with him.
Timâs stomach twisted as his gaze shot to the two of you. You were walking side by side, talking in low tones. A small smile tugged at your lips, a genuine smile, the kind Tim hadnât seen in what felt like forever.
Why were you smiling at him?
Timâs breath hitched. You looked comfortableâtoo comfortable. That smile wasnât something you gave just anyone. It wasnât something you gave him. So why the hell were you smiling like that at Kon?
A red flag.
The first one of the day. What were you and Kon talking about?
Tim swallowed hard, trying to steady his thoughts. He needed answers. He had to know what the hell was going on. He wished for a moment that he had superhearing, just to catch even the smallest fragment of your conversation. What were you saying to him? What was Kon saying to you? His gaze never left you both. He couldnât tear his eyes away from the way you stood there with him, the subtle way you nodded your head as you exchanged words, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His fists clenched, but he stayed silent, watching.
The second you broke away, walking back toward your friends, Kon turned and made his way back toward theirs. And thatâs when it hit Timâhe couldnât let this go.
Tim immediately stepped forward, his feet bringing him toward Kon as he approached the others. There was no more waiting. No more uncertainty. This time, heâd get answers. He had to.
âKon,â Tim said, his voice edged with irritation, âwhere the hell did you go? And what were you doing with (Name)?â
Konâs face was a mask of casual indifference. He leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed, as if the world was his to do with as he pleased. âOh, I was just helping her out with some cleaning,â Kon said, the words rolling off his tongue as if they were completely innocent. But Tim could see it. He was lying.
That much was obvious.
âReally?â Tim asked, crossing his arms. âJust cleaning? Youâre telling me you spent all that time in there just⌠cleaning?â
Kon shrugged, giving him that easy-going grin that Tim hated so much right now. âYeah, sure. There was a lot of stuff to organise, so I helped out.â
âRight...â
Kon raised an eyebrow. âWhat? You donât believe me?â
âWell, yeah,â Cassie added, crossing her arms together. âI bet you guys were doing more than just cleaning.â
And Konâ
Kon just shrugged.
And that itself was an answer.
âWhat the hell.â Tim snaps, but he immediately was about to interrogate the half-kryptonian full on.
But then he saw it.
Konâs gaze, drifting elsewhere. His attention shifting. Tim frowned.
Kon wasnât looking at him anymore. He wasnât focused on Timâs interrogation or on his friends. His eyes were elsewhere.
And then, like a slow-motion train wreck, Timâs gaze followed Konâs, and his breath caught.
Konâs eyes were on you.
And your eyes were on him too.
Tim couldnât help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach as he watched Kon wink at you, his expression mischievous, his grin more playful than Tim had ever seen it. But it wasnât the wink that caught Timâs attentionâit was the damn shush that followed. Kon placed a finger to his lips, and Timâs world seemed to slow down, his heart beating out of sync with everything else.
What the hell?
And as if that wasnât bad, you smiled back.
You smiled at Kon. You actually smiled at him, the same smile that you didnât just give anyone.
Timâs mind spiraled, crashing into chaos. His thoughts were all over the place, every tiny movement, every subtle glance now magnified in his mind.Â
First Damian, now Kon.
Why does it feel like everyone else can move forward with you, but when itâs you and him, itâs always two steps back?
What had he missed? What had happened between you and Kon?
That smile. That damn smile.
He could feel the tension in his chest rising, his hands clenching at his sides, fighting the urge to storm over and demand answers from both of you. Why the hell was he acting like that? What was Kon hiding?
âYeah, okay, Iâm done,â Tim muttered, hands clenched into fists. He took a step forward, his voice tight with something he couldnât quite place, and definitely didnât want to admit. âYou winked at her.â
Kon chuckled. âWhat? I think youâre seeing things, Timbo.â
âYou winked.â Tim repeated, louder this time, his frustration reaching a boiling point. âWhat are you guys hiding? What did you two do?â He struggled to find the words, his brain running a mile a minute.
Cassie, sensing TImâs growing frustration, leaned back on her hands. âWhoa, whoa, hold up. Calm down, Tim, Iâm sure they didnât do anything bad.â
âIf itâs nothing bad, Cassie, why isnât he telling us?â Tim shot back, his voice dripping with exasperation, before his eyes darted over to Kon.Â
Kon, predictably, didnât back down. Instead, he chuckled, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring up. âRelax, Tim. We canât keep secrets now? We were just having fun, alright?â He shot a quick look at Timâs clenched fists, before shooting him a grin. âHow about we all take a chill pill?â
Before Tim could snap back, another voice interrupted him.
âKent.â
âOh boy, here we goâŚâ Tim heard Cassieâs sigh. He didnât even have to turn around to know that Damian Wayne was approaching their group.
The younger boy, clearly agitated, marched over to Kon with an intensity that matched Timâs own. The way his eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his sides, told Tim everything he needed to knowâDamian was pissed.
âTell me what you did with (Name). Now.â
For the first time in a long while, Tim felt a strange sense of solidarity with Damian. At least someone else was as frustrated as he was. Maybe together, they could pry the truth out of Kon. Maybe, just maybe, theyâd get the answers they needed.
Kon barely had a chance to react before Damian was on him, arms crossed, gaze murderous.
âYou,â Damian seethed, âare going to tell me what exactly you and she were doing.â
Kon blinked, caught off guard for maybe a secondâbefore his trademark smirk slid into place.
âOh?â he drawled. âWhy do you want to know, Damian?â
Damianâs glare sharpened.
Kon grinned. âWhat? You jealous?â
Before he could so much as breathe, Damian lunged.
The sky had begun its slow descent into evening, streaked with warm hues of orange and pink as the day at the orphanage came to an end. The kids were beginning to settle down, some still clinging onto the last bits of playtime before dinner. You stood at the entrance of the courtyard, watching as Caitlyn and Adrien said their goodbyes to the kids theyâd grown especially fond of over the past few days.
Meanwhile, Tim and his friends, as well as Damian, were nowhere in sight. The last you saw them, you watched Damian pounce on Kon and the rest was a mystery.
Elliot, as usual, was pressed against your side, his small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. He hadnât said much in the past few minutes, content just to be next to you, but you knew that look on his faceâthe gears in his little mind were turning, the questions were forming.
And sure enoughâ
âHey,â he started, tilting his head. âWho were those people that came today?â
You froze.
You shouldâve expected it. Of course heâd askâhe was an observant kid. He had been there after all, when you confronted Tim and his friends who had been spying on you from the bushes, and brought them in to play with the other kids.
It was a simple question, an innocent one, but something about the way he asked it made your mind stall. Your throat tightened slightly, and you hesitated longer than you should have.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, as you scrambled to come up with an answer that wouldnât feel like a lie.
âThey were⌠my brother,â you said at last, your voice even, careful. âAnd his friends.â
Elliotâs eyes widened in excitement. âOhâŚ! So Tim is your brother too? You have two brothers??â
There was an odd weight to that wordâbrothersâwhen spoken so freely by someone else. You hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
ââŚYeah, I suppose so.â
You werenât going to tell him that, technically, you had two other brothers and a sister as wellâif you could still call them that.
If they still wanted you to.
If you still wanted to.
If they ever really were that.
But that wasnât something you could even begin to explain to a kid.
Elliot, blissfully unaware of your inner conflict, perked up at the answer, his excitement growing. âThatâs so cool!! I wish I have siblings. The other children here are fun, but itâs not the same as having a brother or sister.â
You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself for the wave of questions.
âIs Tim older or younger than you?â
âOlder, by a year.â Not really.
âWow! So you have an older brother and a younger brother. Thatâs so cool!â
âThere are cooler things, Elliot.â
Elliot giggled, his face lighting up with amusement. âMaybe, but siblings are still cool! Do you guys fight a lot?â
You paused, then snorted. âYou have no idea.â
Elliot gasped. âLike, actual fights?â
You hesitated again. ââŚSomething like that.â
âDo they ever fight you?â
âNot physically.â
âThen how do you fight?â
âWe⌠argue.â
He made a face at that, as if arguing was a far less exciting concept. âOh.â
Before he could go down another rabbit hole of questions, you reached out and ruffled his hair. âAlright, buddy, calm down. Having brothers isnât always fun.â
Elliot looked genuinely confused by that. âReally?â
âReally.â
He furrowed his brows, then shook his head. âBut Tim was real fun today!â
That threw you off.
You blinked at him. ââŚHe was?â
âYeah!â Elliot nodded enthusiastically. âHe helped us build that giant block tower after teatime! And when his friend, the really fast one, accidentally knocked it over, he helped put it back up againâtwice! And he did that really cool thing where he guessed all the card matches without looking. Howâd he do that? Is he magic?â
You stared at him, your thoughts grinding to a halt.
Tim⌠did all that?
After everything?
After that whole argumentâconfrontation you had with him, after storming off on him earlier, after being frustrated, and snappy, and distantâhe still⌠sat with the kids here? He actually did what you told him to do and spent time with them? Helped them?
You werenât sure why that surprised you. It wasnât that Tim was heartless or incapable of kindnessâbut you hadnât expected this.
Hadnât expected him to listen to you.
Hadnât expected him to go out of his way to be there, even in the smallest of ways.
Not after how everything had felt today.
You exhaled slowly, ruffling Elliotâs hair again. ââŚI see.â
Elliot grinned, pleased with himself, and you offered him a small, fond smile.
âIâm just glad you enjoyed yourself, kid.â
Elliotâs grin grew, and he leaned into your touch, his small head pressing against your palm.
Before you could say anything else, he looked up at you, voice softer this time. âWill Tim and his friends come back?â
Your smile faltered slightly.
You didnât know how to answer that.
Because what were you supposed to say?
That Tim and his friends did not have any obligation to come again? They had no other reason to come again?
That wasnât something you could explain to Elliot.
So instead, after a beat of hesitation, you simply said, âWhen they have time, maybe.â
That was enough for Elliot. He beamed, nodding, before waving excitedly and running off to join the other kids.
You exhaled, watching him go, before turning to find Caitlyn and Adrien walking up to you, both looking entirely too smug.
âYou two definitely have favorites,â you accused, crossing your arms.
Adrien scoffed. âWe have favorites? Thatâs rich, coming from you.â
Caitlyn smirked. âYeah, letâs not forget your little moment with Conner earlier.â
Your expression immediately soured. âWeâre not talking about that.â
âOh, I think we are,â Adrien said, grinning.
âYou two are the worst.â
âLove you too.â
You groaned, shaking your head, before clearing your throat. âAnywayâsame time tomorrow?â
Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances before Caitlyn winced. âActually⌠I canât make it tomorrow. I promised my aunt Iâd help out with some stuff in her shop.â
Adrien nodded. â And I have that to serve detention for that stunt I pulled in Ms Hâs class, remember?â
You paused, the answer catching you slightly off guard. âOh.â
You quickly schooled your expression, nodding in understanding. âGot it.â
A quiet beat passed before Adrien nudged you. âYou still gonna come?â
You hesitated. Your eyes flickered back to the orphanage, watching as the kids ran around, playing, laughingâcompletely oblivious to all the complicated things that sat heavy in your chest.
Your gaze found Elliot again, still smiling, still happy.
ââŚYeah,â you said finally, voice softer. âIâll come.â
The late afternoon sun cast a hazy glow over Gotham, though Jason barely registered it. His focus was on the ongoing call in the earpiece pressed to his ear as he walked, voice low and even.
âSo, let me get this straight,â Roy drawled on the other end, the sounds of clanking metal and some kind of electric buzz filtering through the call. âYou just finished dealing with a gang shootout last night, probably havenât slept, definitely havenât eaten, and instead ofâI donât knowâtaking a second to breathe like a normal human being, youâre already running off after another lead?â
Jason exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his gun as he navigated quieter side of Gothamâs industrial district. âPretty sure I didnât ask for a lecture.â
âOh, no, you definitely didnât. Thatâs just a fun little bonus,â Roy quipped. âSeriously, Jaybird, do you even know what the word âbreakâ means?â
Jasonâs expression remained flat. âSure. Itâs what your bowstring does when you donât maintain it properly.â
There was a loud clang from Royâs end. âFirst of all, rude. Second of all, false. I take excellent care of my bow, thank you very much.â
âUh-huh.â
âIÂ do!â
Jason chuckled, stepping off the curb and weaving through the alleyways.Â
âI just donât get it,â Roy continued. âYou couldâve taken a day offâgone to a bar, watched a movie, literally anything elseâbut no, here you are, chasing down some random lead for God knows what.â
âItâs not random,â Jason corrected, rounding a corner. âWeapons smuggling. Shipment came in last week, no record of it anywhere. Thought Iâd check it out.â
Roy sighed. âAnd who told you about this?â
ââŚI have my sources.â
âThatâs code for âI found it in a back alley conversation, and now Iâm running with it,â isnât it?â
Jason smirked faintly but didnât argue. He had more important things to focus onâlike the unmarked warehouse he was now approaching.
âI gotta go,â he said, tone shifting back to business. âIâll check in later.â
Roy groaned. âYeah, yeah. Try not to get shot, explode, or mysteriously disappear, alright?â
âNo promises.â
Jason hung up.
The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet. No guards, no movement. Just the eerie stillness of a setup that was either abandoned or a trap.
Jason slipped inside through a window, boots making barely a sound as he landed.Â
Inside, it was dim, dust motes swirling in the filtered sunlight. Crates were stacked haphazardly, some half-open, revealing stolen tech and firearms. Jason moved silently, boots making no sound against the concrete as he picked through the scene, scanning the contentsâstolen tech, modified weapons, andâ
Jason frowned.
There was something off about these. They werenât standard black-market stock. They looked⌠almost gimmicky. Like they werenât meant for your average arms dealer.
His fingers barely brushed against one of the devices whenâ
Click.
A sharp hiss filled the air.
Before Jason could react, a fine, invisible gas burst from the crate, dispersing into the air around him.
Jason recoiled, but it was too late.
His throat tightened. His head swam. His pulse spiked in alarm as a heavy, sluggish sensation crawled over his limbs.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred. His limbs felt like lead.
Shit.
Jason shoved back, forcing himself toward the exit, but his body was already betraying him. His head swam, nausea curling in his gut as he stumbled out onto the street.
His nearest safehouse wasnât far. Just a few blocks. If he could justâ
He barely made it past the first alley before his legs buckled.
His body was already shutting down on him.
Jason lurched against the nearest wall, breath coming shallow, mind fogging with every passing second. He forced himself to stay upright, but his body wasnât listening anymore.
His vision tilted.
His knees hit the pavement, the rough brick of the alleyway biting into his shoulder as he slumped against it, legs giving out beneath him.
His mind fogged, the city sounds around him distant, muffled.
He barely registered the way his breathing slowed, the weight of unconsciousness dragging him under.
He gritted his teeth, trying to fight the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind.
Stay awake. Move.
But his limbs were numb. His breath was shallow.
His fingers twitched toward his commâ
And thenâ
Darkness.
The walk to the orphanage was supposed to be uneventful.
But the moment you turned down your usual route, something in your gut twisted.
You hesitated mid-step.
It wasnât a noise, not anything obvious. Just an instinct, a quiet pull at the edges of your awareness. A feeling you couldnât quite shake.
Your fingers curled at your sides.
Ignore it? Keep going?
The orphanage was only a few more blocks. If you were lucky, Elliot and the other kids would be outside playing already, ready to bombard you with their usual chaos.
âŚAnd yet.
Your feet had already shifted before you made the decision. You veered left, cutting through an alley that wasnât part of your usual route.
The air here was heavier, the city quieter. Not unusual for Gotham, but enough to put you on edge.
You didnât know what you were expecting.
But it wasnâtâ
A figure slumped against the brick wall.
You stopped short, breath catching in your throat. For a second, your brain struggled to process what you were seeing.
Leather jacket. Boots. Black hair complementing the dark red of his helmetâ
No.
Not his helmet.
It was off, discarded a few feet away like he hadnât had the strength to hold onto it. His head was tilted to the side, eyes barely open, unfocused.
Jason.
lololol finally part 3 and end of chapter 7 đ¤ (donât hate me for the cliffhanger, but its pretty obvious that Jason and reader are going to interact in chapter 8 so stay tuned for that emotional turmoil) posting this before attending my vb training (yes iâm fasting and still have to attend vb training đĽ˛âtho i get to chill if iâm tired so thatâs ok)
It was time to leave, the evening air starting to cool as you said your goodbyes to the kids. Elliot, as usual, was especially clingy, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he couldnât bear to let go. You chuckled softly, ruffling his hair in an attempt to lighten the mood.
âHey, hey, Elliot. Whatâs all this? Iâll be back tomorrow, just like always.â
His eyes, wide and full of sincerity, didnât quite lose their worry. âI know you will⌠I know youâll always come back, but I justâwhat if one day, you donât come back?â He bit his lip, a deep uncertainty coloring his voice.
You couldnât help but feel your heart ache just a little at how serious he was about it. Kneeling down to his height, you placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a smile as genuine as you could manage.
âAww, Elliot. Donât worry. I promise, Iâll always come back for you. Youâve got nothing to worry about.â Your voice was soft, but firm, trying to reassure him as best as you could.
The tiny boyâs brow furrowed in doubt, but his hands loosened from your arm. Then, with a sudden seriousness, he extended his pinky toward you, his small fingers trembling just slightly.
âPinky promise?â Elliot asked, his eyes never leaving yours.
You laughed softly, touched by how serious he was. Without hesitation, you linked your pinky with his, sealing the promise with a nod. âPinky promise. Iâll always be here for you, I swear.â
Elliotâs face lit up, and for a moment, all his worry seemed to melt away. He grinned widely, âPinky promise!â
You stood back up, brushing off your pants, feeling a lightness in your chest. âIâll see you tomorrow, Elliot. Donât cause too much trouble while Iâm gone, okay?â
âI wonât! I promise!â he called as you turned to join the others, his voice filled with a childlike sincerity that almost made you want to stay longer. But you couldnât.
You walked over to Caitlyn and Adrien, who were standing nearby, clearly enjoying the sight of the exchange.
âWell, well,â Adrien teased with a raised brow, smirking. âLooks like youâve got yourself a little sidekick now.â
You rolled your eyes, laughing it off. âPlease, heâs just clingy. Heâll be fine tomorrow, just like always.â
âYou know,â Caitlyn spoke, her voice light but full of amusement, âI think Iâm starting to get jealous. Elliotâs got a special bond with you.â
âHeâs just a good kid.â
Adrien snickered, poking fun at you. âGood kid? Heâs like your shadow. Heâs probably got you wrapped around his finger.â
You chuckled, shaking your head as you glanced back at Elliot, who was still watching you with a hopeful look. âPlease, you two. Iâm just doing my part to make sure heâs doing alright,â you said, playing along with their banter. âAnd anyways, itâs not like you two are much better. Whoâs the one with all the girls looking up to her like sheâs a disney princess that came to life? And whoâs the one who has most of the boys treating him like the older brother they never had?â
âOh, stop it, youâre going to make me blush (Name)âŚ!â Caitlyn squeals, and you just rolled your eyes at that.
Adrien scoffed, nudging Caitlyn. âYeah, yeah, we get it, youâre Gothamâs sweetheart. Meanwhile, Iâm just out here doing my best.â
âDoing your best? Please. Half the time, youâre just running damage control from whatever chaos you start with the boys.â
Adrien gasped dramatically. âIâll have you know, Iâm an excellent role model.â
You snorted. âFor what? How to almost get into trouble but charm your way out of it?â
âExactly.â Adrien winked. âItâs an art, really.â
You gave him a playful shove, laughing again. âYeah, yeah. Sure, itâs all fun and games now. But donât let this get in over your head.â
Adrien just grinned and shrugged. But then, with a knowing smirk, he glanced over at Damian, who was standing off to the side, observing you all with his usual quiet intensity.
âFine, fine, you should get going,â Adrien said, voice filled with tease. âWouldnât want to keep your little brother waiting, would you?â
Your gaze flickered to Damian. There he was, standing stiff and awkward, his eyes narrowed but unreadable. The change in his posture, the silence, made you feel an odd tension settle in your chest. You couldnât help but sigh, the weight of his stare pressing on you.
âRight, I should go,â you murmured, offering one last wave to your friends before walking toward Damian.
When you stood in front of him, there was a long pause, neither of you speaking right away. Damian shifted slightly, his expression still unreadable, before he broke the silence.
âSo, when is Pennyworth coming?â
You didnât even look up as you started walking, already preparing for his usual directness. âAlfredâs not coming.â
You felt the weight of his gaze on you, the confusion crossing his features despite his best attempt to mask it. âHe doesnât know youâre here?â
You shook your head, keeping your eyes ahead. âI didnât exactly tell him Iâve been volunteering at an orphanage the past few days,â you said, keeping your voice light, dismissive, like it was nothing. âBut knowing him, he probably already knows.â
Damian scoffed under his breath, clearly not convinced by your attempt at nonchalance.
âSo, father doesnât know about your⌠charity work?â His tone was matter-of-fact, and you froze for a split second, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
You froze in your tracks, your thoughts stalling for a split second. âYes.â The words came out quiet, but firm. You couldnât afford to let him see how much it bothered you. âAnd Iâd appreciate it if it remains that way.â
Damianâs eyes flickered to yours, suspicion there for a moment.
âWhy?â
You had to stop yourself from grimacing. It was a simple question, but the answer was anything but. You couldnât just blurt out that you were volunteering because of a strange vision, because of Elliot, because you didnât trust the orphanageâs warden. That would make you sound like a paranoid mess. Completely irrational. So instead, you let out a breath and gave him the simplest answer you could muster.
âBecause I donât want to.â
The words felt hollow the moment they left your mouth. You wanted to add more, but you couldnât. You couldnât explain any further, not to him. Not to anyone.
And then, silence followed. You both continued walking, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet evening. Gotham was calm for now, the sky still holding on to the last of the fading daylight, with streaks of pink and orange bleeding into the dark blue horizon. The air was still warm, but a crisp breeze was beginning to cut through, making the walk feel colder than it should. Streetlights flickered to life, their glow casting long shadows across the sidewalks as the city slowly came to life.
You looked around, distracted by the mundane beauty of the city you thought you knew so well. Yet, it all felt somehow distant tonight.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Damian spoke again, his voice cutting through the silence.
âAnd what about the warden?â
You stopped in your tracks, a chill creeping up your spine at the question. You hadnât expected him to bring it up so bluntly. You tried to mask your surprise, forcing a calm tone as you turned to face him. âWhat about her?â
Damian didnât even flinch at your tone. âDonât be stupid. The warden. I saw you freeze up the moment she walked in. So, what of her?â
You cursed under your breath. Had you really been that obvious? Then again, Damian was nothing but perceptive. You ran a hand through your hair, looking away for a moment, trying to hide the unease that had risen in you.
âI just donât like her that much.â It wasnât a full explanation, but it was all you could muster without sounding crazy. You hoped it would be enough.
But the excuse felt weak even as you said it.
Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. His eyes narrowed, but he didnât press the matter further. He just tsked and turned away, falling back into his usual aloof silence.
You walked beside him, feeling an odd sense of relief that he didnât push it, though it left you with more questions than answers.
The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sounds of Gotham settling into the night. It was comfortable in its own way.
You were grateful, thoughâgrateful that he didnât push you any further. You didnât want to drag him into something you couldnât even explain to yourself.
And after a long pause, you spoke up, your voice quieter this time. âPromise me you wonât tell anyone about today? About me volunteering with my friends?â
Damian glanced at you, not answering immediately. The corner of his mouth twisted, as though he was considering how much he wanted to humor you. âHmph, whatever. But Iâm coming with you from now on.â
Your head snapped toward him, baffled. âWhat?â
Damian glanced over at you, unfazed by your surprise. âWho knows what kind of nonsense youâre getting yourself into. Iâll see how much more foolery you can get away with. Iâm coming with you next time.â
You stared at him for a moment, speechless, then let out a quiet laugh. âYouâre just gonna follow me now?â
Damian just shrugged, the smallest hint of amusement flickering in his gaze, though his expression remained guarded. âSeems like it.â
You shook your head, still processing his words. âYouâre serious about this?â
Damian gave you a flat look. âDo I seem like the type to joke?â
Fair point.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. âYou do realize this is just volunteering, right? Itâs not some covert mission. We play with kids, help out whenever we can, and make sure they donât cause too much chaos.â
Damian crossed his arms. âAnd yet, you still managed to get into an argument about heroes.â
You groaned. âThat wasnât my fault! Caitlyn started it, Adrien made it worse, and youââ You jabbed a finger at him, narrowing your eyes. âYou absolutely made it worse.â
Damian smirked slightly. âTt. If you were capable of defending yourself properly, I wouldnât have had to step in.â
You scoffed. âOh, please. You didnât have to say anything. You just wanted to start something.â
He didnât deny it, which only confirmed your suspicions.
After a beat of silence, Damian glanced at you again, his expression more neutral. âRegardless, Iâm coming with you from now on.â
You sighed, watching him for a moment before shaking your head. âFine. But no scaring the kids.â
âI donât scare them.â
You shot him a deadpan look. âYou glared at Elliot earlier just because he hugged me.â
Damianâs lips pressed into a thin line. ââŚHe was being excessive.â
You stared at him, then just snorted, shaking your head. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâm being real,â he corrected. Then, after a pause, he added, âBesides⌠itâs not terrible.â
You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. âWhatâs not terrible?â
Damian averted his gaze slightly, as if the words were difficult to say. âThis. What youâre doing. Itâs⌠a respectable use of your time.â
For a moment, you just stared at him.
He wasnât mocking you.
He wasnât teasing.
He was being genuine, in his own roundabout way.
A small, warm feeling settled in your chest.
You bumped your shoulder against his. âCareful, Damian. That almost sounded like a compliment.â
He rolled his eyes, stepping away from you. âTt. Donât get used to it.â
And with that, you both walked in silence, the city stretching out around you, quieter now as night finally began to take hold of Gotham.
The morning sun crept over Central City, casting a pale golden light that contrasted sharply with the dark chaos at the crime scene. Barry Allen stepped out of his car, his CSI kit slung over his shoulder. The air was thick with tension, and despite the morningâs warmth, there was a chill in the atmosphere. Crime scenes always had this weight about them, but this one felt different.
The area was in an industrial sector, and the destruction was vastâan entire block had been decimated. Asphalt was cracked, streetlights bent and twisted like theyâd been melted, and a few cars were overturned, their alarms still blaring in the distance. Barry squinted as he took in the sight. No eyewitnesses, no solid leads, just chaos and a series of barely discernible clues scattered throughout the scene.
Captain Singh stood with a few officers near the perimeter, his face set in grim determination as he watched the forensics team work. When Barry approached, the captain didnât waste time.
âAllen. Thanks for coming,â Singh said, nodding at him.
âOf course,â Barry replied. âWhat do we have?â
Singh glanced over at the wreckage, his hands pressed against his hips. âWeâve got a mess on our hands. No eyewitnesses. Whoever did this didnât leave any obvious traces of themselvesâno sign of forced entry, no clear motive, nothing. Just destruction.â He gestured to the carnage around them. âLooks like a metahuman attack. Something⌠explosive, but we canât find anything that matches the signature of any known metas.â
Barry took a step forward, scanning the scene. He could feel the familiar hum of his mind working faster, processing details with his trained CSI eye. The destruction was too precise, too⌠theatrical for a random meta attack. Barry narrowed his eyes as he walked toward the center of the blast radius, crouching down to inspect a scorch mark on the pavement. His fingers hovered just above the edges, careful not to disturb any potential evidence.
âThis wasnât a metahuman attack,â Barry said, more to himself than to Singh, but loud enough for the captain to hear.
Singh looked at him, brows furrowing. âWhat do you mean? This definitely feels like one.â
Barry stood, wiping his gloves on his pants, his expression thoughtful. âItâs not the kind of destruction we usually see from metas. Look at the placement of the damageâitâs deliberate, almost⌠artistic in a way.â He pointed to a section of the street where the cracks in the pavement were symmetrical, almost as if theyâd been formed by a series of timed explosions, not some random burst of power.
Singh followed his line of sight. âSo youâre saying this was someone else? Someone who isnât a meta?â
Barry nodded slowly, stepping further into the scene, his eyes scanning every detail. âExactly. And I think I know who.â He crouched next to a nearby overturned dumpster, carefully lifting the edge to reveal some scattered debris. âThis looks familiar.â
Singh crossed his arms. âYouâve seen something like this before?â
Barry straightened, turning to Singh. âYeah. Weâve seen this before. Trickster.â He didnât need to elaborate much furtherâthe name was enough.
Singhâs expression dropped slightly, his brows furrowed. âTrickster? I thought we had that guy locked up in Iron Heights?â
Before Barry could reply, another officer jogged up, his face tense. âIâm afraid not, Captain. Word just got outâTrickster was broken out of Iron Heights a few hours ago.â
Singh let out a groan, rubbing his temples. âGreat. Literally what we need. Who knows where the hell he is now?â
Barry exchanged a glance with Singh before turning back to the scene. The Tricksterâs style was all over thisâchaotic but calculated, destruction meant to entertain him just as much as it terrorized the city. But something wasnât sitting right.
âIf he was broken out just a few hours ago,â Barry mused, âthis means he didnât have much time to plan. Which means either he had help, or this was meant to be a distraction.â
Singh exhaled sharply. âYouâre telling me this might not even be his endgame?â
Barry stood up, glancing around once more. âTrickster never does anything small. If heâs free, heâs got something bigger in mind.â He turned to the officer. âDo we have any leads on how he got out?â
The officer shook his head. âNot yet. Prison securityâs still trying to figure that out, but from what little info weâve got, it wasnât your usual smash-and-grab breakout. No external breaches, no power failuresânothing. Itâs like he just walked out.â
Barry frowned. That only raised more questions. Trickster was smart, but he wasnât exactly the subtle type. If someone had broken him out without setting off alarms, then it meant one of two thingsâsomeone with serious inside knowledge helped him, or Trickster had a new trick up his sleeve.
Singh sighed. âAlright, Allen. If this is Trickster, where does that leave us? Whatâs his next move?â
Barry scanned the destruction again, his mind racing. Trickster didnât just cause chaosâhe thrived on attention. If he was back in play, it wouldnât be long before he made his presence known in a much bigger way.
âHeâs not going to stay quiet,â Barry said, his voice firm. âThis? This was just the opening act.â He turned back to Singh. âWe need to find him before he takes things to the next level.â
Singh nodded. âThen letâs get to work.â
Barry crouched near a stack of toppled crates, his gloved hands brushing against the splintered wood. Most of the cargo had been destroyed in the blast, reduced to charred scraps and twisted metal, but something was missing. Trickster didnât just cause chaosâhe always had a purpose buried beneath the spectacle. Barryâs eyes narrowed as he spotted a shattered shipping label barely clinging to one of the crates. The faded logo still stood out.
Wayne Industries.
His brow furrowed as he shifted through the wreckage, inspecting the damage to the crates. Some had been completely obliterated, but a select few had been broken open with precisionânot by the explosion, but manually. Someone had pried them open, targeting their contents specifically. Trickster wasnât usually one for high-tech heists, which meant either he was working with someone smarter or he had a bigger plan in mind.
Barry turned to Singh, who was still surveying the scene with arms crossed. âDo we know what was stolen?â
Singh exhaled, shaking his head. âNot exactly. Just some high-tech stuff. Weâre waiting on Wayne Industries to send over an inventory list.â
Barry frowned, stepping closer to the remains of the crate. He traced the edge of a deep gouge in the woodâclean, deliberate. Not random destruction. Trickster wasnât just playing around this time.
âHis MO might be leading him to Gotham,â Barry muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Singh shot him a glance. âGotham, huh? Makes sense. If he stole something from Wayne Industries, heâll probably need more from them. Iâll contact the GCPD, let the precinct know to keep an eye out for Jesse.â
Barry nodded, straightening as he surveyed the rest of the wreckage. There was still evidence to gather, but his mind was already piecing together the next step. If Trickster was taking his act to Gotham, then Barry needed to move fast.
He turned, already making his way toward his car, his jaw set with determination.
Looks like heâll have to pay a friend a visit.
âSo⌠Youâre telling me,â Kon said, leaning forward, âyouâre avoiding talking to her, but you canât stop thinking about her?â
Tim shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the window as he glanced at Kon. âItâs not that simple, Kon,â he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. âItâs⌠complicated.â
The manor was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind against the old stone walls. The large, imposing structure loomed in the distance, casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. Tim sat in the library, his fingers absently tapping against the edge of a notebook that lay open in front of him.
Kon sat across from him, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He had been trying, in his typical way, to pull Tim out of his spiraling thoughts. Not that Tim was particularly good at listening to advice. But Konâs frustration was palpable as he watched his best friend overanalyze everything, as he usually did.
âHow complicated can it be? Just talk to her, Tim. Iâm pretty sure sheâs not going to bite your head off.â
âShe might as well.â Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. He couldnât help itâKon was so simplistic, so carefree. âYou donât get it,â Tim said, his voice sharp, the frustration rising in his chest. âItâs not that easy. Itâs not just about talking, okay? You donât know what itâs like. You donât know her.â
Kon frowned, clearly not understanding. He was the type of person who didnât dwell on things, someone who made decisions on impulse. Talking to someone was easy for him. He couldnât comprehend the way Timâs brain workedâhow each decision was weighed, every word analyzed, every gesture broken down into a thousand potential meanings.
âYeah, maybe I donât know her. But youâre definitely overthinking this, Tim. Just⌠just go talk to her. Itâs not that difficult.â
Tim shot him a pointed look, not realizing how much tension had built in his chest. âItâs everything, Kon,â he said, voice barely controlled. âItâs the way weâve never ever talked outside of missions or patrols. Itâs the way we never have a simple conversation. Itâs a thousand unsaid things, a thousand missteps. Every time weâve been in the same room, Iâve been trying to find a way fix it, and itâs never as simple as just saying âhey, we need to talk.â I donât know how to fix it. Fix this.â
Konâs expression softened, but his response was only more frustration. âBut itâs (Name), Tim. Youâve known her for years now. Sheâs not someone you just ignore. I saw the way you looked at her that day at the cafe. Itâs obvious you care. So why are you making it harder than it needs to be?â
Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. âBecause itâs not that simple. â he muttered, voice tinged with frustration. âI just canât mess this upââ
But before Tim could finish, the sound of the front door opening caught their attention. Both teens turned, the familiar silhouette of Damian Wayne emerging from the shadows of the hallway. He was dressed in his usual dark attire, a slight frown on his face as he made his way toward the door, clearly about to leave.
Konâs curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward in his chair, the grin returning to his face. âHey, Damian, whereâre you off to?â
Damian shot Kon a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. âWouldnât you like to know, fool?â he snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. He made no effort to slow his pace as he reached the door.
âDonât bother with him,â Tim said, waving it off. âHeâs just an asshole.â
But just as Damian reached the door, his lips curled into a smirk, and he paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at them. âWell,â he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, âif youâre so curious, Timothy, why donât you go ask (Name) then? Maybe sheâll be willing to tell you where weâre going.â He emphasized we, letting it linger in the air like a challenge.
Tim froze.
His entire body went rigid, his mind stumbling over Damianâs words as they processed.
Wait⌠what?
Damian was going to where you were?
Timâs heart skipped a beat as his mind raced.
You werenât at the manor?
Where were you?
And why hadnât Tim known about it?
He should have⌠He should have known where you were.
Before Tim can question the younger boy any further, Damian has already made his way out.
Kon immediately sensed the shift in Timâs demeanor. The subtle change in posture, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way Timâs eyes narrowed in thought. It was all too familiarâthe way his mind was racing, overanalyzing every word Damian had just spoken. Tim was caught in that moment where the world couldâve just stopped for a second, and he could process it all, but instead, it was as if everything was happening too fast for him to catch up.
âDo I need toââ Kon started, but Tim cut him off with a sharp, urgent tone.
âI already sent them the message,â Tim said, his words almost automatic, his brain already halfway to the next step. His fingers twitched at his side. âLetâs go.â
Without waiting for another word, Tim pushed past Kon, already heading toward the door. His mind was in overdrive, a storm of questions swirling through his head. Damian knew where you were. And if he was going there now⌠what did that mean for them? What did that mean for him?
âTim, wait up,â Kon called, trying to catch up, but Timâs pace never slowed. His thoughts were a whirlwind, and he couldnât let Damian get ahead of himânot now, not when it felt like everything was slipping out of his control. Tim had to get to you first. He had to understand what was really going on. With you. With this. With everything. He had to fix it.
Tim wasnât sure how they got hereâcrouched in the bushes outside an orphanage, watching his younger siblings through the railings like some second-rate stalkers.
Well, no.
He knew exactly how they got here.
One offhand comment from Damian had sent his paranoia into overdrive. Tim hadnât even thought before acting. His body had moved on autopilot, his brain running through a thousand possibilities at once. And before he knew it, he and his team were tailing him to figure out where you were. Now, his friends were watching him with varying levels of concern, amusement, and exasperation.
A normal personâany rational personâwould probably question why he had felt the need to drag his team into this.
Luckily, Tim didnât keep normal friends.
Unfortunately, he did keep nosy ones.
âYou know,â Bart whispered, shifting beside him, ânormal people just say âhiâ to their siblings instead of full-on stalking them.â
âI am saying hi,â Tim muttered, adjusting his binoculars.
âThis is not saying hi, dude,â Kon chimed in, his arms crossed as he hovered slightly above them. âThis is âweird obsessive surveillance.â Big difference.â
Cassie arched a brow. âYeah, Tim. Not that Iâm judging your methods, but why are we spying on your siblings?â
Kon leaned back on his hands. âShe looks fine to me. Volunteering, playing with kidsâkind of the opposite of suspicious, dude.â
Timâs brows furrowed as he watched you kneel next to a child, helping them with something on the floor. You looked so at easeâcomfortableâin a way he hadnât seen in a long time. His grip tightened. âThatâs the thing. Sheâs never done this before.â
Bart blinked. âWhat, helping kids?â
âNo, volunteering,â Tim clarified. âShe never mentioned it. Never showed interest in it before. No mention of it. No hints. No reason to be here.â His grip on the binoculars tightened. âAnd now, suddenly, sheâs here? With him?â He gestured at Damian, who stood next to you, listening as you spoke. You were looking at him directly, face open and unguarded.
Kon scoffed. âMan, I know you have trust issues, but is her doing something like this without you knowing really that shocking?â
Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to bristle. They didnât get it. It wasnât just that you were hereâit was why you were here, who you were here with. His mind raced through the possibilities, dissecting every expression, every shift in body language.
Since when did you do this sort of stuff with Damian of all people? Why was this the most relaxed heâd seen you in months? And why did the idea of Damian having an easier time talking to you than he did make something tighten in his chest?
âMaybe she just wants to do something good other than just being Batgirl, like Cissie.â Cassie suggested. âNot everythingâs a mystery that needs solving, Tim.â
Bart hummed in agreement. âYeah, man. Maybe youâre just looking for problems where there arenât any.â
Tim shook his head. âNo. You donât understand. Thereâs something here.â
Tim hated that answer.
Because that would mean he was overreacting.
He knew how this looked. He knew he sounded paranoid.
But it meant something.
Everything meant something.
And maybe it wasnât just about the volunteering or you doing this without telling anyone. Maybe it was about the fact that you were talking to Damian with an ease that he hadnât gotten from you in months. Years.
Maybe it was the way you looked him in the eyes without coldness, without any hesitation.
Maybe it was because you were here with him instead ofâ
Tim inhaled sharply.
Was that what was bothering him? The fact that you were with Damian, talking to him, laughing with him, actually looking him in the eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world? ike he wasnât just some impossible force you had to brace yourself against? Like he was just your little brother?
Because you didnât look at Tim like that. Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
âOh, wow, heâs spiraling,â Bart whispered.
Kon smirked. âYup. Called it.â
âShut up,â Tim snapped.
Kon grinned. âCâmon, man, whatâs actually bothering you? That sheâs volunteering? Or that sheâs with Damian?â
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. âThatâs notââ
Bart gasped dramatically. âOh my god, is Tim jealous of Damian?â
âExcuse me?â
Konâs grin widened. âOh yeah, no, I see it now. Youâre totally jealous.â
âI am not jealous,â Tim gritted out. âIâm justâconcerned. This isnât normal behavior for her. Somethingâs going on.â
Cassie hummed, unconvinced. âUh-huh. And that âsomethingâ isâŚ?â
Tim didnât answer. Because he didnât know.
But he was going to find out.
Unfortunately, he didnât have much time to come up with a strategy, because before he could, he saw one of the kids tugging at your sleeve, whispering something to you.
âUh, (Name)?â Elliot whispered, pointing toward the bushes. âThere are four weird people staring at us.â
Tim barely had time to duck before your gaze snapped toward him.
He knew the exact moment you realized who was watching, because your entire face shifted into one of deep, exhausted frustration. You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose before muttering, âIgnore them. Theyâre just weirdos.â
âHey, wait a damn minute,â Adrien said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. âIsnât that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne?â
Damian barely spared a glance toward the bushes. âThat imbecile and his friends have been watching us for the past twenty minutes now.â
You turned toward Damian so fast Tim swore he could feel the irritation radiating off you. âYou noticed them and you didnât say anything til now?â
Damian arched an unimpressed brow. âYou didnât notice them?â He tilted his head slightly. âHow perceptive of you.â
Your eye twitched. âI hate you.â
Caitlyn, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat. âSooo, are we just gonna sit here and let them keep spying on us, orâŚ?â
You groaned, rubbing your temples, then marched straight toward the bushes.
Tim barely had time to react before you reached them, and stared down at the four teens barely hiding behind the bushes.
âBustedâŚâ Kon muttered, before Cassie shoved him in the shoulder, shutting him up. âOw!â
The sound of laughter filled the air. Children ran past, their small, eager feet kicking up loose gravel as they shrieked in delight. Conversations overlappedâvoices blending together into an indistinct hum.
Somewhere in the distance, Bart, Adrien, and Kon were loudly arguing as they were playing football with some of the young boys there, whilst Cassie and Caitlyn were talking and effortlessly charming a group of girls. And even Damianâwho had initially scowled at their presenceâhad begrudgingly been roped into Adrienâs antics, taking part in the scuffed football match.
And yet, despite all of it, amidst all of that, amidst the warmth and joy, there was you and Tim. Standing in a corner.
Silent.
You felt it acutely. Pressing down on you, sinking into your skin, threading through your veins. It had been there the moment your gaze landed on that familiar, yet distant, figure standing just a few inches away from you.
Tim.
You hadnât expected him to be here. You hadnât wanted him to be here.
And yet, here he was.
Standing in the periphery of it all, watching.
Watching the children play.
Watching his friends mingle with yours.
Watching you.
Your first instinct was to ignore it.
You had spent years learning how to ignore it.
Because this was Tim.
And Tim knew how to pick people apart.
Tim liked picking people apart.
His eyes had always been observant, always quick to catch the things no one else noticed. The slight shifts in body language, the tension in someoneâs shoulders, the weight behind a hesitationâhe saw it all.
And it took everything in you not to visibly tense under his gaze.
Tim had always been good at reading people. Too good.
His eyes had a way of seeing things no one else did, of picking apart truths you didnât even realise you were giving away. And right now, you could feel his stare burrowing into you, scrutinizing, analyzingâ
And you knew what that meant.
It meant that you had slipped. That somehow, in some way, you had left something exposedâsome stray emotion, some unguarded expressionâsomething that had caught his attention.
And that was a problem.
Because Tim Drake never lets things go.
It made your skin crawl.
The air between you two was suffocatingly tense, pressing against your skin like a thick, unshakable weight. Neither of you spoke, neither of you moved. Just standing there, existing, as if acknowledging the other would set off some kind of inevitable explosion.
You werenât sure what you hated moreâthe fact that he was here at all, or the fact that you couldnât even read a single thing off his face.
Tim had always been good at reading people, but he himself was hard to read.
But right now, right at this moment, it felt like there was somethingâsomething simmering just beneath the surface of his carefully controlled expression. And you hated that you couldnât tell what it was.
What the hell was he thinking?
Then againâwhat did you even know about Tim anymore? What more could you possibly know about him?
Your fingers curled into fists, frustration swelling inside you like an unspoken scream, and you exhaled sharply through your nose, an exasperated sigh escaping before you could stop it.
You could walk away.
You should walk away.
But you knew Tim well enough.
Well enough to know that if you didnât talk to him now, he would find another time, another place. It didnât matter when. It didnât matter where.
Eventually, he would corner you.
And you refused to let him have that power over you.
Not anymore.
Your sigh must have been loud enough to shake Tim from his own thoughts, because his head tilted slightly, his eyes shifting toward you. A flicker of something passed over his faceâsomething you couldnât quite placeâbut then it was gone, buried beneath that infuriatingly unreadable mask.
Because he was looking at you now, now, after everything, after all this timeâ
Like he suddenly cared.
Like he suddenly wanted to understand.
It made you want to laugh. To scoff. To spit something sharp and biting just to cut this tension in half.
Instead, you exhaled sharply, tilting your head to meet his gaze head-on.
âSo. Why are you here?â
It came out flat. Cold. No anger, no warmthâjust⌠nothing.
Tim blinked, almost as if he hadnât expected you to address him first.
For a brief moment, you thoughtâhoped, evenâthat he wouldnât answer. That he would realize this wasnât something he could just waltz into. That he would turn around and leave, sparing you both from whatever this conversation was bound to become.
But of course, he didnât.
ââŚJust wanted to know what youâve been doing.â
That was all he said.
Like it was that simple. Like it made sense.
As if he could just say something like that and expect you to accept it.
You let out a breathy scoff, eyes narrowing slightly as your lips curled into something that wasnât quite a smile.
âWow.â
Tim didnât react. He just stood there, waiting.
Waiting for you to say something else.
So you did.
âWhy?â
Your voice carried a weight to it now. Heavier.
Timâs brows knit together slightly, as if confused by your reaction. âIs it wrong for me to be curious?â
You let out a dry laugh. âNo. But it is unlike you to want to know what Iâve been doing.â
And there it was.
The first visible crack in his carefully controlled expression.
It was subtleâthe way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sidesâbut you saw it.
You saw all of it.
And it made something bitter rise in your throat.
âWhy is it unlike me?â he asked, voice quieter now.
You stared at him.
You stared at him.
Was he serious?
Was he actually serious right now?
Your breath came out slow and measured as you crossed your arms. âAre you seriously asking me that?â
Silence.
Tim didnât say anything.
Didnât deny it. Didnât confirm it.
And that was answer enough.
Something in you cracked.
It shouldnât have bothered you this much. It shouldnât have.
But it did.
Because the way he was looking at you nowâlike you were some unsolved puzzle, like you were some missing piece he was only now realising wasnât where it should beâ
It pissed you off.
It pissed you off.
Because where the hell was this before?
Where the hell was this when it mattered?
Your fingers dug into your arms as you inhaled sharply, forcing down the words clawing their way up your throat.
âYou didnât seem to care before.â
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Tim visibly flinched.
It was smallâbarely noticeableâbut you saw it.
You felt it.
And for some reason, that only made the frustration burn hotter.
Timâs lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say somethingâlike he needed to say somethingâbut nothing came out.
Nothing.
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. âUnbelievable.â
Timâs hands curled into fists at his sides.
His face was unreadable, but you could see the thoughts racing in his head. You could see the way his mind was whirring, processing, analyzingâ
Like this was some equation he just had to solve.
Like there was some answer that could fix this.
Tim was very quickly starting to regret this.
He hadnât even had time to process being dragged inside before his friends had immediately assimilated with the environment.
Leaving him alone with you.
You.
He should be happyârelieved, that he was finally given the opportunity to talk to you.
Alone.
Without anyone interrupting you both.
So whyâ
Why was this so awkward?
Why was this so painful?
Why were you being so⌠cold?
So unlike how heâd seen you just a few moments ago.
Sminling, laughing.
Every bit of that had been erased from your face the moment you were left alone with him.
And Tim hates that.
Hates how youâre talking to him like heâs a stranger.
He wasnât.
He definitely wasnât.
Was he?
Your words echoed in his head.
Over and over and over again.
âYou didnât seem to care before.â
He should say something.
He should say something.
But the words wouldnât come out.
Because what was he supposed to say?
What could he say?
That he had cared? That he had noticed you?
But his throat felt tight, words stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth, refusing to come out.
You were standing right there, your arms crossed, eyes sharp and defensive, the tension so thick it was suffocating. And Tim hated it.
Why the hell couldnât he just say the things he needed to say to you?
He had never had a problem speaking his mind before. If something needed to be said, he said it. If something needed to be done, he did it.
So why was it that, when it came to you, he was just⌠stuck?
His mind scrambled for proof, for evidence, for something to counter your wordsâhe had checked in on your patrols, he covered for your mistakes, he had told you when you were being reckless, he made sure to tell you what not to do againâ
Because of the missions.
Because the missions had to go smoothly.
Because it was his job.
Because everything had to go right.
Tim felt his stomach twist.
That wasnâtâ
That couldnât be the only reason.
That wasnât the only reason.
So why the hell was that the first thing he thought of?
That wasnât the reason he had done those things, was it?
No. No, that couldnât be it. That wasnât it.
He had always cared about you. Not just as an asset. Not just as a partner in the field.
He had cared about you.
Hadnât he?
He did care.
Didnât he?
He still cares.
Doesnât he?
His fingers clenched tighter.
Why couldnât he find the answer?
Why couldnât he prove it?
Why couldnât he justâ
âYou didnât seem to care before.â
The words still rang in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull, refusing to leave.
What did you think of him now?
What had you always thought of him?
Had you spent all this time believing he hadnât cared? That you wereâwhat?ânothing more than some afterthought to him? That youâre just some colleague to him?
Was that his fault?
Did he make you feel that way?
Did he do that?
The thought made him sick.
He needed to fix this.
He needs to fix this.
But how the hell was he supposed to do that when he didnât even know where to start?
His breath was uneven now, his chest tighteningâ
ââŚI always cared.â
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
You froze.
Your entire body went rigid, eyes snapping up to Tim in disbelief.
He didnât flinch. Didnât waver. He just looked at youâhis expression unreadable, his hands still clenched at his sides. But his gaze was steady, as if he believed the words he had just said.
But did he?
Did he really?
Because you sure as hell didnât.
And thenâ
You saw it.
You saw the desperation in his eyes.
And for a moment, you almost believed him.
Almost.
âBullshit.â
And there it was.
The first crack in his carefully composed mask.
It was smallâsubtleâbut you saw it.
And it made something sharp twist in your chest.
Tim blinked, actually taken aback by that.
âWhat do you mean âbullshitâ?â he said, frustration creeping into his tone, a slight undertone of⌠hurt?
You shook your head. âI mean thatâs bullshit, Tim. You didnât care.â
âI did, (Name). I still doââ
And you hated how much he sounded like he meant it.
Hated how much you wanted to believe him.
Because what did he expect?
What did he think was going to happen here?
Did he think youâd justâwhat?âdrop everything, smile, and act like nothing had changed? Like the years hadnât happened? Like the distance between you both hadnât grown into something wide and impassable?
That wasnât how this worked.
But you knew what would happen.
Because you had seen it before.
Because this was what Tim did.
Because for Tim, every problem was a puzzle, a mystery to solve.
And right now?
Right now, he was trying to figure you out.
Trying to find some angle, some logic, some answer that would make all of this make sense.
And the worst part?
The worst part was that he genuinely didnât realize that this wasnât something he could fix.
That there wasnât some logical answer to find.
That this wasnât about some mystery.
That this was about you.
About him.
About you both.
About what you did and didnât do.
About what he did and didnât do.
About what was there and what wasnât.
And suddenly, you were tired.
So, so tired.
âNo, Tim.â You inhaled sharply. âDonât. Iâm not here to listen to whatever this is. The least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.â
Timâs lips parted slightly, his expression shifting.
But you werenât going to let him get another word in.
âYou donât have to bother yourself with me anymore. Iâll make sure of that.â
And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there.
Alone.
Timâs breath hitched.
Because thatâthat felt final.
That felt like a goodbye.
Did you really think that was all you were to him?
A bother? A nuisance?
Did you really believe that?
Andâfuckâhad he shown anything otherwise?
He wanted to go after you. To make you hear him out.
But for the first time in his life, Tim didnât know what to say.
And that realization was a punch to the gut.
It shouldnât have hurt as much as it did.
But it did.
Because this was Tim.
Tim, who had always been too smart for his own good.
Tim, who had always known how to read between the lines.
Tim, who had always been able to see the things no one else could.
And yetâ
Yet, when it came to youâ
He was blind.
Or maybe he had just never bothered to look.
But right now, his eyes were wide open, and he was seriously looking.
And he was starting to see things heâs never seen before.
lol second part of chapter 7 𫣠this is definitely way shorter than part 1 but part 3 will kind of make up for it (hopefully đĽ˛) and also guys tim is one of my favs pls donât be too harsh on him in the comments (even though he kind of deserves it in this series, but hopefully yall can see that itâs kind of reader and timâs fault for whatever nonexistent bond they have going on, prob will have more backstory/flashback scenes to them soon) part 3 soon but not kinda soon but eventually
âI canât believe youâve actually roped us into this.â
Caitlynâs voice cut through the soft hum of chatter filling the orphanageâs main hall, carrying that distinct tone of exasperation she reserved for situations she swore she wouldnât get involved inâbut inevitably did anyway. Her arms were crossed, her stance one of feigned reluctance, but the way her gaze flickered to the children running past, the small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips as one of them called out her nameâit told a different story.
Adrien snorted beside her, nudging her side. âOh, please. You say that like youâre not already attached to half these kids.â
Caitlyn scoffed, glancing away as if that would somehow disprove his statement. It didnât.
It had been a week. A week since you first suggested volunteering here. A week since you first stepped into this building and felt something settle beneath your skinâsomething quiet, something wrong.
And yetâ
Nothing.
There was nothing.
No alarms. No leads. No proof. No reason to feel this way.
Even after you snuck into the cave to tap into the Batcomputerâtiming it precisely for when no one would be around, combed through records, permits, reports, and analyzed every file you could find that could tell you that this place wasnât what it seemedânothing. The orphanage was clean. The reports were routine. The funding sources checked out.
And that was what upset you the most.
It should have been a relief.
But it wasnât.
Because you still couldnât shake that feeling. That deep, gut-wrenching sensation that something was staring you in the face, something was waiting just beneath the surface, something was wrong.
Because you knewâyou knewâyou were missing something.
But what?
You stared across the room, watching the way the children moved, how the staff interacted with them, how everything seemed so perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that made your stomach twist, that made something cold crawl up your spine because nothing in Gotham was ever truly perfect.
You crossed your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, tension knotting itself between your ribs.
You could really use Timâs smartness right nowâ
The thought barely formed before you crushed it.
No.
You werenât going to burden him with this.
Things were still⌠complicated. You had distanced yourself for a reason. Bringing him into this would only drag up all the messy emotions you werenât ready to deal with.
Maybeâmaybe this really was just you overreacting.
Maybe you were seeing ghosts where there werenât any.
Maybe that âvisionâ you saw was something made up in your head.
But that doesnât explain why it was so vivid. Why it felt so raw, so realâ
âYouâre doing that thing again.â
Caitlynâs voice pulled you back, and you blinked, finding both her and Adrien watching you with unreadable expressions.
âWhat thing?â
âYou always get that look,â Adrien added, arms still crossed but his smirk growing. âLike youâre five seconds away from spiraling into an existential crisis.â
âI do notââ
âYou do,â Caitlyn confirmed immediately. âYou get all quiet, and your face does this thing where you look like youâre trying to solve the worldâs biggest mystery when, in reality, youâre probably just making stuff up in your head.â
âI do not.â
Adrien huffed out a laugh. âOh, yeah? Then what were you just thinking about?â
You opened your mouth, then promptly shut it, refusing to dignify that with an answer.
Caitlyn gave you a knowing look. âThatâs what I thought.â
âCan we focus on something else?â You huffed, shifting your weight to one side. âLike the fact that you two are terrible influences?â
Adrien snorted. âYouâre the one who dragged us into this.â
âYou didnât have to come,â you pointed out.
âYou think weâd actually let you volunteer at an orphanage alone?â Caitlyn raised a brow. âBe real.â
You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
âYou should be thanking us,â Adrien added smugly. âEspecially since weâre the ones keeping you sane.â
âYou call this sane?â
âWell,â Caitlyn starts, âyou havenât completely lost your mind yet, so Iâd say weâre doing a decent job.â
Before you could respond, a familiar weight latched onto your side, small hands gripping onto the fabric of your sleeve.
Elliot.
You glanced down, only to be met with the boyâs wide, expectant gaze.
Elliot had latched onto you like a baby duck the second you stepped foot in this place again, and over the past few days, he had only gotten more attached. He followed you everywhere, immediately sought you out whenever you arrived, and if you so much as moved an inch away from him, he was quick to close the distance again.
And truth be toldâyou werenât used to this.
This kind of closeness.
Not really.
Of course, you had experience closeness with Caitlyn and Adrien.
But Elliotâ
Elliot was different.
Elliot didnât hesitate.
Elliot didnât keep his distance.
Elliot clung to you like you were something safe.
And you didnât know how to handle that.
Not when you didnât even feel safe with yourself.
âArenât you gonna play with us today, (Name)?â His voice was soft, hopeful, like he had already decided that whatever you answered, he wasnât going to accept a no.
You hesitated, opening your mouthâonly to stop when he gave you that look. The one you were slowly realizing was his greatest weapon. The one that made your defenses crumble.
The wide-eyed, unblinking stare.
The slight, pleading tilt of his head.
The tiniest wobble of his lower lip.
It was lethal.
And the worst part? He knew it.
ââŚYeah,â you found yourself saying before you could even think about it. âYeah, okay. Just give me a minute, okay?â
Elliot beamed.
If you had even an ounce less self-control, you might have visibly melted.
You watched as the boy ran off towards where the other kids were playing.
âOh my god,â Caitlyn whispered dramatically.
âPrecious,â Adrien added, looking between the two of you like he had just discovered his new favorite thing in the world.
âYou two need to get a grip.â
âItâs cute,â Caitlyn commented. âYouâve basically adopted him at this point.â
âI have not.â
âYou so have,â Adrien smirked. âItâs adorable.â
âYou two seriously need hobbies.â
Caitlyn just grinned. âSays the person who dragged us here for no apparent reason.â
You opened your mouth to argue, to tell them it wasnât for no reason, that there was something wrong with this placeâ
But then the air shifted.
The room didnât go quiet, not really. The children were still playing, voices still carrying, footsteps still echoing against the floor. But something in the atmosphere changed, something subtle yet immediate, something that made the back of your neck prickle.
Something you felt more than saw.
A presence.
Mrs. Cole.
She entered the hall with a soft, pleasant smile, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her posture calm, collected, perfect.
And yetâ
Something in you immediately recoiled.
It had been this way from the beginning. The first time you met her. The first time she spoke to you. That deep, instinctive discomfortâthe kind you couldnât explain, the kind that settled beneath your skin and refused to leave.
And the worst part?
You were alone in that feeling.
Adrien and Caitlyn greeted her like normal, their smiles easy, their voices light. The other volunteers, the staff, the childrenâthey all liked her.
But youâ
You just stood there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And that gnawing feeling of unease only grew stronger.
Because something was wrong.
But you just couldnât see it.
Mrs. Cole approached with the same composed, effortless grace she always carriedâher steps measured, her smile gentle, the kind of expression that made it impossible to distrust her. She looked at ease, radiating a warmth that made people lean in instead of pull away.
But you didnât lean in.
You were staring.
âAh, there you all are.â Her voice was warm, measured, like honey drizzling over words that had been carefully chosen before she even spoke them. âI was just telling the staff how lucky we are to have such dedicated volunteers.â
Caitlyn beamed. âWell, itâs been great so far! The kids are all super sweet.â
You were watching.
Mrs. Coleâs reaction came exactly when it should. A gentle smile, an approving nodâtextbook-perfect in a way that sent something unpleasant curling in your stomach.
âYouâve been wonderful with them,â she said smoothly. âTheyâve taken quite a liking to all of you.â
A normal thing to say. A reasonable thing to say. And yetâ
Something about it snagged in your brain, like a thread pulled too tight.
Theyâve taken quite a liking to all of you.
Not âyouâve made a great impact on them.â
Not âthey enjoy having you around.â
The wording was⌠off.
Why was it off?
You barely noticed Adrien chuckling beside you. âWell, Caitlynâs the favorite, obviously. The girls follow her around like ducklings.â
Caitlyn nudged him. âPlease. Youâre the one they treat like a jungle gym.â
Mrs. Cole gave a small, polite laugh, like she was indulging their banter rather than truly engaging in it.
You noticed that.
You noticed everything.
You noticed how detached it felt, how it landed exactly where it needed to but carried no real weight.
The way her shoulders never fully relaxed, despite her friendly demeanor. The way her eyes lingered just a second too long before moving on. The way her responses never carried the slight unpredictability that came with casual conversationâeverything was too smooth, too well-placed.
You noticed that.
And thenâher eyes flicked to you.
There was no shift in expression, no telltale sign that she had noticed you just staring, analyzing every micro-movement, every carefully placed word. But the second her eyes met yours, you felt something in you go rigid, your body instinctively preparing to mask whatever she might have caught.
Which, ironically, felt unnatural.
Because you couldnât let her see that you were suspicious of her.
âAnd you,â she said, the warmth in her tone undisturbed, like she hadnât just caught you in the act of scrutinizing her. âElliot seems especially fond of you. Itâs lovely to see how much he trusts you already.â
You ignored the way Caitlyn and Adrien both smiled knowingly at the mention of Elliotâs attachment to you.
You knew you should say something pleasant. Something easy. Something neutral. Something normal.
Instead, the words that came out were flat, toneless.
âYeah. Heâs a good kid.â
An awkward pause.
Too short to be obvious, too long to go completely unnoticed.
Caitlynâs smile faltered slightly. Adrien shifted beside you, like he could feel the weird tension in the air but wasnât sure if he should acknowledge it.
And Mrs. Cole?
She didnât even blink.
She absorbed the bluntness of your answer like it didnât affect her at all, her expression remaining perfectly composed, perfectly pleasant, as if she hadnât just been met with a wall.
âThat he is,â she agreed, gracefully moving past it, as though she hadnât just walked into a conversational dead end. âWell, I wonât keep you from the children. Thank you again for all your help.â
She excused herself with the same quiet ease she always carried, stepping away to tend to the other kids.
The second she was out of earshotâ
Adrien whirled on you. âOkay, what the hell was that?â
Caitlyn groaned. âGod, could you have been any drier? That was painful.â
You exhaled sharply. âI answered her, didnât I?â
âYou barely did,â Adrien shot back. âYou sounded like someone forced you to acknowledge Elliot at gunpoint.â
Caitlyn smacked your arm lightly. âDude, whatâs your deal with her?â
You crossed your arms. âItâs nothing.â
âThatâs definitely not nothing,â Adrien shot back. âYouâve been like this since day one. What is your deal with her?â
You opened your mouthâthen closed it.
How were you supposed to explain this?
What were you supposed to say?
That something about her felt wrong, but you couldnât prove it? That every interaction with her left you feeling like you had just missed something? That her presence made you instinctively wary in a way you couldnât rationalize?
That no matter how hard you looked, you still couldnât find anything to justify it?
ââŚI just donât like her,â you muttered.
Adrien scoffed. âYeah, no shit.â
Caitlyn and Adrien werenât going to let this go.
You knew it from the second Caitlyn narrowed her eyes at you, that sharp stare she always gave when she smelled something offâwhen she knew someone wasnât telling the full story. Her arms were crossed, her weight shifted slightly onto one foot, but there was a tension there, like she was waiting.
Adrien was the same. Standing beside her, his arms folded, his brow raised in quiet expectation. He wasnât impatientânot yetâbut he was watching you, like he was giving you the chance to explain yourself before he dragged it out of you.
You didnât give them anything.
Adrien broke the silence first. âOkay, seriously. What is your problem with her?â
âI donât have a problem with her,â you replied immediately.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Adrien scoffed. âRight. You just happen to tense up like a goddamn statue every time sheâs around.â
Caitlyn gave a dramatic huff. âYou act like she personally wronged you in another life. Or murdered your dogs or something.â
âTitus and Ace are fineâŚâ you muttered.
âExactly!â she said, exasperated. âThatâs what makes this so weird! Thereâs no reason for you to act like this!â
You didnât respond.
But Adrien wasnât done. âLook, if she said something to you, if she did somethingââ
âShe didnât.â
âThen why are you acting like this?â
âIâm not acting like anything.â
Another lie.
But you said it so smoothly, so effortlessly, that it almost sounded convincing.
Almost.
Caitlynâs eyes flicked over your face, sharp and discerning, scanning every microexpression, every flicker of something that might betray you. Adrien wasnât even trying to be subtle about his suspicion anymore.
Yet, you still didnât give them anything.
You were stubborn. Tight-lipped. Unyielding.
Because you couldnât tell them.
Not yet.
Not when you still didnât know what was wrong.
So instead, you acted.
Acted like everything was fine.
Like you werenât uneasy.
Like you werenât drowning in the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers.
Your gaze drifted past themâtoward Mrs. Cole.
She was across the room, surrounded by children, laughing at something one of them had said. She knelt slightly, leveling herself to their height, hands gentle as she adjusted the collar of one childâs shirt. She was warm, present, soft-spokenâexactly what a warden of an orphanage should be.
And yetâ
You couldnât shake it.
That feeling.
That deep, gnawing unease that clung to your ribs like a second skin.
You watched her closely. The way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way her hands moved as she patted a childâs head. Everything was measured. Natural.
But was it?
Or was it too natural?
Too perfect?
Her movements were fluid, seamless, her expressions genuine. Nothing about her demeanor was off. Nothing about her gave you any reasonâany reason at allâto feel this way.
And that was what unsettled you the most.
Because there had to be something.
There had to be a reason.
You just couldnât see it.
Gotham was shifting.
Bruce could feel it.
It wasnât something obviousâno, this was something far more subtle. A change beneath the surface, insidious and creeping. It was the kind of shift that haunted the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the unsettling sense that something was on the brink of happening. Bruce had learned to trust that feeling, that gnawing instinct that had saved Gotham more times than he could count. And right now, it was telling him that something was very, very wrong.
Another murder. A woman in her early twenties, found in a dark alley just outside a prestigious club.
Bruce sat at the Batcomputer, his fingers hovering over the keys, eyes tracing the same reports for the hundredth time.
This was the third this month.
There was nothing connecting the three victims, other than the fact that they were all young Gotham socialites.
But there was something else.
The way they were murdered. Stabbed and slashed. And the slashesâthose markingsâthey were unmistakable.
They all had markings from a Talon. Meaningâ
The Court of Owls.
Gotham was shifting, sliding beneath the surface like a shadow.
And he knew that feeling.
He had felt it before.
It wasnât paranoia. It was an instinct.
An instinct heâd developed after all these years, after all the lies and manipulation, after the near-destruction of Gotham.
He couldnât afford to let it happen again.
The last time the Court of Owls made their presence known, it was a brutal awakening.
The Court had been quiet for months since then. But the stillness only made him more wary. He knew how they workedâsilent, methodical, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And now, with another death on his hands, he couldnât shake the feeling that the Court was making its move again.
And then, as if Gothamâs problems werenât enough, another report came through. The Riddler had escaped Arkham. Again.
It had barely been two weeks since Riddlerâs last stunt. Arkham had barely contained him long enough to let the city breathe before he escaped again.
Bruce could feel the weight of both issues pressing down on him, the combination of old ghosts and new ones tangled together in a knot that was suffocating.
He rubbed his temples, trying to block out the noise, the weight of it all. Gotham was shifting, and every move it made felt like it was slipping further out of his control.
And Bruce had no doubtâNygma had already set the board.
His fingers moved across the keyboard, cycling through city surveillance, tracking movements, patterns, anything that might give him a lead. There was always a pattern with Riddler. Always a thread to follow. But right now, with the Court making their move from the shadows, Gotham couldnât afford another high-profile attack.
He needed to tackle this immediately.
He rubbed a hand over his face, then ran it through his hair. It was too much. Too many pieces of the puzzle scattered in front of him, too many possibilities. But there was no time.
His gaze focused on the web of information splayed across the massive screenâpatterns, reports, whispers of activity. Pieces that didnât quite fit yet, but he could see the shape they were forming.
Behind him, Dick leaned against the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He was here. He was listening. He was doing everything Bruce had asked of him.
But Bruce could tell.
He was distracted.
Not in a way that was obvious. Not in a way that would compromise the mission. But it was there.
A slight delay in his responses. The way his gaze lingered on nothing for a second too long. The tension in his postureânot the kind that came from exhaustion, but from something else.
Bruce had seen it before.
But this time, he didnât know what was causing it.
Not exactly.
Heâd been watching him for days now, and every time they spoke, it felt like Dick wasnât really there. His focus was on the case, sure, but it wasnât complete. There was something else pulling at him. Bruce had tried to push it asideâhe couldnât afford to get distracted by personal issues, not with Gotham at riskâbut it was hard to ignore. Dick wasnât just distracted. He was withdrawn. And Bruce had seen that behaviour before. He knew that behaviour.
It was the way Dick stood, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched, his eyes never fully meeting Bruceâs. It was the way he moved through the cave like he was running on autopilot. Like he wasnât really present. Like he was fighting something inside of him. And the longer Bruce let it go unspoken, the more it gnawed at him. Because Bruce knew Dick better than anyone. He knew when something was eating at him. And he couldnât let it fester.
Not now.
âWhatâs on your mind?â
Dick blinked, looking up from where he had been staring at the ground. âWhat?â
Bruce glanced at him. âYouâre distracted.â
Dick huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. âIâm not distracted.â
Bruce didnât say anything. Just watched him.
âOkay, maybe Iâm a little distracted.â
Bruce didnât push. He just waited.
For a second, it seemed like Dick wasnât going to say anything else. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Bruce saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. It was that familiar lookâthe one Dick wore when he was trying to hold something back. Bruce could see it now. The weight he was carrying, the quiet frustration. He could see it, feel it, radiating off of him in waves. He shifted, arms tightening around himself. Then, finallyâ
âItâs (Name).â
Bruceâs shoulders tensed.
Of course.
He had heard bits from Alfred. How you were avoiding Dick, the way he had been silently carrying the weight of your distance. The way you hadnât been talking to Dick the way you used to.
Bruce could feel it too.
Alfred had asked him to check on you. It shouldnât have been that hard. Except, for some reason, he could never find a moment with you.
Not really.
Had it always been this hard?
No. That wasnât right. He wouldâve noticed if it had been.
Wouldnât he?
But now Bruce was thinking, really thinking.
The last few weeks. The subtle shifts in your behavior, the way you had started slipping through the cracks before he could catch you. The way Alfred had gently suggestedâmore than onceâthat he should talk to you. The way you never seemed to be in the same room as him anymore.
The way he couldnât remember the last time you had really spoken to him.
Not since you decided to quit being Batgirl.
Ah.
Was that what this was about?
Him letting you quit?
He had given you space because that was what he always didâhe never pried, never pushed, never asked for more than you were willing to give.
But what if that was the problem.
What if he had let you drift too far?
His fingers curled against the edge of the desk, a slow, controlled movement. He hadnât wanted to think about it before. Hadnât wanted to believe it. Because the idea of you avoiding himâ
It wasnât possible.
Was it?
Bruceâs throat felt tight, and he didnât understand why.
Dick exhaled sharply beside him, running a hand through his hair. âShe barely looks at me anymore.â His voice was quiet, resigned. âBut you already knew that.â
Bruce swallowed.
No. He hadnât. Not really.
But if he admitted that you were avoiding Dick, then heâd have to admit that you were avoiding him too.
And he couldnât accept that.
He wouldnât.
He wasnât sure why the thought unsettled him as much as it did. People had walked away from him beforeâpeople he had cared about, people who had once looked at him the way you used to. And he had let them go, because that was what he did. He didnât hold onto things that werenât his to keep.
But this was different.
Because it was you.
You. His daughter.
His flesh.
His blood.
Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch between him and Dick. He wanted to askâwanted to know just how far this distance had spreadâbut he wasnât sure he was ready for the answer.
Dick, however, wasnât finished.
âI donât even blame her,â he admitted, his voice quiet, restrained, like he had already gone over this a thousand times in his head. Maybe he had. âShe has every right to be pissed at me. I justââ His voice faltered for a second before he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. âItâs different now. She doesnât look at me the same way. I donât think she ever will again.â
Bruce studied him carefully. He could see itâthe guilt, the regret that had been eating at him.
But what unsettled Bruce the most wasnât Dickâs regret. It was the realization that he had assumed this was only about Dick.
That it had never once occurred to him that you were avoiding him too.
The thought lodged itself in his chest like a shard of glass. A slow, cutting thing that he couldnât pull free.
No. That wasnâtâ
You werenât avoiding him.
You wouldnât.
Would you?
If it was true, if you were avoiding him, it was justâjust a misunderstanding. Justâ
His jaw tightened.
This wasnât supposed to happen.
Not with you.
Of all the people he had failed, of all the people who had ever walked away from him, you were the one person he thought would never do that.
But had you?
Had you already left, and he just hadnât noticed?
Bruce didnât react. Not immediately, at least.
But Dick saw it.
The shift. The way Bruceâs shoulders tensed just slightly, the tightening of his grip against the edge of the console, the way his jaw locked. To most people, it wouldâve looked like nothing. Just another one of Bruce Wayneâs unreadable silences. But Dick had spent too many years watching, reading between the lines, noticing the things that no one else did.
Bruceâs silence was never empty. It was full. Full of things he didnât say, things he wouldnât say.
And right now?
Right now, Bruce wasnât just listening. He was realising something.
Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
âYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs what I thought.â
He hadnât meant to bring you upânot like this, not here. But Bruce had called him distracted, and, well⌠he wasnât wrong.
You had been stuck in his head for days. Weeks.
Every unanswered call. Every delayed text. Every excuse you made to get away from him as soon as possible.
Dick had tried. God, he had tried.
That lunch a few days agoâhe had been hopeful, maybe even stupidly so, thinking that things could be⌠normal. That he could talk to you without feeling like there was a wall between you both, that you wouldnât keep him at armâs length.
But the moment you saw him, you were already looking for an exit.
You barely stayed long enough to eat. Said you were busy. That you had somewhere to be.
And Dick had let you go.
What else could he have done?
You had every right to do this. To be mad, to resent him, to ignore him, to pretend like he didnât exist.
He deserved it.
Especially after what he did.
Especially after what heâs been doing for years now.
Itâs not like he didnât understand your anger towards him. He did.
He knew what it was like to feel replaced, he experienced it first-hand. He should have understood what he was doing the moment he benched you. He should have known how itâd feel like to you.
He should have handled it better. Especially since he knew at the time, you were still grieving.
But that didnât mean it didnât hurt. That this didnât hurt.
But⌠this wasnât just about him benching you, was it?
No.
This wasnât the first time he made you feel like this, was it?
This wasnât the first time heâs made you feel like you didnât belong.
Like you were something temporaryâsomething easily set aside.
Maybe that was the worst part.
How long had it been like this?
How long had he been like this?
He swallowed hard, staring blankly at the Batcomputer screen, but his mind was already somewhere else.
The first time he saw you, you were a baby.
He hadnât even really processed it at the time.
Everything had been a blurâhis parents were dead, his life had been turned upside down, and now he was in some massive, unfamiliar mansion with a man he barely knew and a butler who spoke to him with a kind of patience he didnât know how to handle.
And then there was you.
Youâd been brought to the manor not long after he had arrived.
A tiny thing, barely able to walk on your own.
He remembered that moment, the moment Alfred brought you into the manor. That moment burned into his memory in a way he never really questioned before. Maybe because it had been one of the only stable things in those early days, when the ground had been ripped out from under him and his life had been shattered beyond repair.
He hadnât thought much about you at first.
He hadnât thought much about anything except the overwhelming, gut-wrenching anger that had settled in his chest, the grief that was still raw and sharp, the sheer, desperate need for revenge that burned beneath his skin.
So he ignored you.
Or at least, he tried to.
Because you didnât ignore him.
It didnât matter.
It shouldnât matter.
But time had a way of changing things.
Little by little, your presence became something else.
He didnât know when it started. When you stopped being a stranger and started beingâ
Well.
You were way younger than him, but that never stopped you from being stubborn, from trying to talk to him, from wanting him to be happy. And maybe that was what got to him the most.
That innocence. That kindness.
You just wanted him to smile.
And, somehow, eventually, he did.
He hadnât known how to deal with you.
You werenât annoying, exactly.
You were justâ
There.
Soft and small and persistent, constantly hovering on the edges of his grief, constantly reminding him that there was still something else in this house besides darkness and vengeance.
He didnât know what to do with that.
Because somewhere along the way, things changed.
He wasnât sure when.
Maybe it was the first time you climbed onto the couch beside him and fell asleep against his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was the first time you grabbed his hand and pulled him outside, insisting that he chase you around the garden, that he play with you, that he let himself just be a kid, if only for a little while.
Maybe it was the first time you hugged him, your tiny arms wrapping around his waist, telling him that you loved him in the simple, easy way that only children could.
Whatever it was, it had stuck.
You had become his family.
His little sister.
His responsibility.
Dick didnât know how much of who he is today had been shaped by you, but it was more than heâd ever admit.
And maybe that was why he wanted to keep you away from the truth for so long.
From the pain, from the violence, from the endless cycle of grief and vengeance that had become his life.
He didnât want to ruin that part of you.
Didnât want you to know about the things he did at night. Didnât want you to see the kind of world he and Bruce lived in.
So he never told you about Robin.
Not at first.
Not for a long time.
Not when he went on to build a new name for himself.
Not when he left Gotham and became Nightwing.
You didnât need to know.
You werenât supposed to know.
You were supposed to have a normal life. A safe life. One that wasnât filled with violence and blood and pain.
That was what Bruce had wanted for you.
That was what he had wanted for you.
That was why he hadnât told you.
And maybeâmaybe, that had been a mistake.
Because when you had found out that dayâ
When Tim sought him out, asking him to be Robin again. When he had come to Dick with that relentless, unwavering certainty that he needed to be Robin again. That Batman needed a partner. That Gotham needed balance.
After Jasonâs death had fractured something irreparably in Bruce, in Alfed, in you, in himâ
God, Jasonâs death.
The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, insidious, something he never let himself think about too long.
Because Jason had died wearing his colors.
Jason had died playing the role Dick had walked away from.
Being Robin. And being your brother.
Jason had died, and Dick hadnât even been there.
Not for Bruce, not for Alfred, and not for you.
Dick hadnât been there to stop him from taking on the job, he had not been there to stop him from going to Ethiopia, hadnât been there toâ
He just wasnât there.
And youâ
You didnât even know the true cause of Jasonâs death.
You had to find out the truth about Jasonâs deathâ
The truth about the lives he and Bruce ledâ
From some random kid who somehow knew the truth before you did.
Instead of hearing it from him. From Bruce.
God.
He still remembers the way you looked at him on the day you found out the truth.
The moment you stepped into the cave that Bruce had hid from you for years.
Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your expression unreadableâexcept for your eyes.
Your eyes were always so damn expressive.
And that day, they had been filled with something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Betrayal.
Dick could feel Tim watching from across the cave.
He wasnât saying anythingâwasnât even movingâbut he was there, standing next to Alfred at the bottom of the stairs, barely in the shadows.
Dick almost felt sorry for the boy, for having to witness some family drama he wasnât apart of unravel before him. But then again, he walked himself into this the moment he went to find him.
ââŚHow long?â
Your voice was steady. Controlled.
But he knew you. Did he?
Knew how your hands clenched subtly at your sides when you were trying to keep yourself from shaking.
Knew how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to cry.
You were trying not to cry.
And itâs all his fault.
ââŚHow long have you been lying to me?â
He didnât know how to answer that.
Didnât know how to explain that he had never wanted you to find out like this.
Didnât know how to justify the years of secrecy, the years of letting you believe he was just your older brother, just the normal, easygoing Dick Grayson who had left Gotham to make a life for himself aside from being Bruce Wayneâs ward.
The years of letting you believe that he didnât hide anything from you.
But the silence stretched too long.
And that was an answer itself.
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head.
âYou were Robin.â you said, and it wasnât a question.
It was a fact.
A truth you had just put together, piece by piece, and now it was unraveling everything you thought you knew.
Dick swallowed.
ââŚYeah.â
You blinked, staring at him like you didnât recognize him.
Like you werenât sure if you ever had.
âOur father is Batman.â
âYes⌠he is.â
âAnd Jason?â
Dickâs breath caught.
He looked away.
But that was answer enough, too.
Your expression twisted, something like realization dawning on your face.
âThatâs whyââ
You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply.
âThatâs why he died? He died because he was Robin too..?â
The words hit him like a gut punch.
Dick could barely breathe.
You were staring at him, waiting for an answer, but he didnât have one that wouldnât make this worse.
Jason.
Jason, who had died in his colors. Jason, who had been Robin because Dick had left. Jason, who had never gotten the chance to grow up, to get out, to become something more than just a ghost haunting all of them.
Jason, who you had mourned, who you had cried for, who you had spent weeks asking Bruce about only to get nothing in return.
And now you knew the truth.
You knew everything.
And Dick felt sick.
âIââ His throat was tight. Dry. He forced himself to swallow. âIt wasnâtââ
But you had already taken a step back.
Away from him. And for some reason, that single step had hurt more than any punch heâd ever taken.
âHow could you not tell me?â you asked, voice sharp with something between betrayal and disbelief. âHow could you justâjust let me thinkââ You exhaled, shaking your head, hands clenched into fists. âI grieved him, Dick. I stood at his grave, wondering how he could just die like that, and youââ Your voice broke. âYou knew. You knew the whole time.â
Dick winced. He wanted to reach for you. To fix this. To explain.
But what was there to explain?
That he hadnât wanted you to know? That he had convinced himself that if you never found out, youâd be safe?
That it hadnât mattered, because Jason was dead either way?
That was worse, wasnât it?
So he stayed quiet.
And that silence was answer enough.
You let out a shaky breath, your expression twisting. âSo thatâs why you were always busy, huh? Because you were Robin. Because youâre Nightwing now. You always had something to do. Something more important.â
Dickâs hands curled into fists at his sides. âI wasââ
âYou were lying,â you cut him off, and Tim could see the way that made Dick flinch. âYou were always lying, werenât you?â
âI didnât want you to get involved in this life,â Dick forced out, his voice tight, defensive in a way he hated. âI couldnât let youââ
âOh, right, because lying to me was so much better,â you snapped. âKeeping me in the dark was so much betterââ
âI was protecting you!â Dick snapped back, his voice louder now, sharper than he meant it to be.
It echoed through the Batcave.
Tim flinched slightly in his peripheral vision.
Alfred didnât move.
You let out a bitter laugh, something short and humorless. âProtecting me?â you echoed. âJason is dead, Dick. And you want to talk about protection?â
Dick clenched his jaw.
You werenât wrong.
And maybe that was the worst part.
âWhy?â You took a step forward. âWhy, Dick? Why wouldnât you tell me? I thoughtâI thought maybe, maybe, if you didnât have time for me anymore, the least you would do is not lie to me. That you wouldnât keep something this huge from me.â
Dickâs mouth opened, but no sound came out.
That was what did it. That was what ruined him.
He had nothing to say, because you were right.
âI just wanted to protect you,â Dick finally said, and it was almost desperate, like he was trying to hold together something that had already cracked beyond repair.
âAnd you thought lying was the way to do that?â Your voice was shaking now. âYouâyou let me believe you just didnât care anymore. I was so naive that you could just continue to lie to me for years, isnât that why?â
âThatâs not true,â Dick said quickly, stepping forward, but you stepped back just as fast.
You inhaled sharply. âI just want to hear you say it.â
Dick stilled.
You swallowed. âTell me that you didnât want to keep it from me. Tell me that it was Dad. Tell me this wasnât your choice.â
Dick clenched his jaw.
And for a secondâa brief, terrible secondâyou saw it.
The truth.
The answer before he even said it.
His shoulders squared, his expression unreadable, and thenâ
âI didnât want you to know.â
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
You took a step back, blinking.
âWhat?â
Dickâs face was set, his voice firm. âBruce told me not to tell you, but I didnât want you to know either.â
You stared at him, uncomprehending.
âYouââ You swallowed hard, your throat burning. âYou didnât want me to know?â
The betrayal was sharp, almost dizzying.
Dick flinched.
âI had to find out from him,â you suddenly snapped, pointing directly at Tim, who stiffened, eyes going wide.
âI had to find out from some random kid that has nothing to do with thisââ
Tim opened his mouth. âUhââ
âAnd not from youâmy brother..!â
âThis isnât how you were supposed to find out,â Dick said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper.
âYeah?â You let out a short, humorless laugh. âWell, then how exactly was I supposed to find out then? Were you even planning on telling me the truth?â
â(Name)ââ
âOr were you going to keep this from me âtil the day I die?â
Dick took a step closer. âPlease, just listenââ
âNo,â you cut him off, shaking your head. âI canât do this.â
Dick froze.
You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.
âWaitââ
But you were already gone.
Tim hesitated, looking between the empty space where you had been and the absolute wreck that was Dick Grayson standing there, unmoving, like if he did, he might actually collapse under the weight of the argument that had just happened.
The silence stretched.
And then Alfred stepped forward.
âMaster Bruce is still pursuing Two-Face,â he said evenly. âI will go check on Ms (Name).â
Dick exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.
Right.
There were more pressing matters.
And they werenât going to wait.
Dick doesnât even know what happened after that. You two just⌠avoided each other.
Avoidance wasnât new between you two, but that time, it felt different. Alfred had told him you werenât just avoiding himâyou were avoiding everyone. That shouldâve made him feel better, knowing he wasnât the only one left out in the cold. Instead, it only made the weight in his chest heavier.
For a while, he didnât know how to fix things. Didnât even know where to start.
Maybe that was the problem.
Then and now.
It had always been you who stepped up first, the one who reached out, patched things up, and smoothed over the cracks in whatever had fractured between you. Even back then, after weeks of avoiding him, it was you who sought him out firstâapologizing for your outburst, telling him you wanted to be Batgirl.
He hadnât been happy about it.
Of course, he hadnât.
The last thing he wanted was for you to get pulled into this life, the same way he had, the same Jason had. But at the same time⌠he didnât want you to think he didnât trust you. Because he did.
Didnât he?
Maybe he shouldâve helped more. Trained you. Guided you the way Bruce had done for him, the way he had done for Tim. But things had been complicatedâBludhaven was drowning in corruption, Blockbuster was tightening his grip on the city, and Dick had been stretched too thin to be what you needed.
Maybe that was why things had always felt strained between you.
Why things always felt off with you and him.
He hadnât been there for youânot the way he had been for Tim, who had started out at the same time you did. And now, he couldnât stop himself from wondering: Was it because Tim was Robin while you were Batgirl? Was it some misplaced instinct, some part of him that thought Barbara could help you better just because she had worn the mantle first?
Or was it just him? His failure?
Dick has many regrets.
And youâyou are one of them.
Not because of who you are, but because of how he handled you.
Or rather, how he didnât.
How he stood by and watched, too consumed by his own battles, by his own pain, to see you needing him. How he told himself it was okay, that you were strong enough to handle it alone.
And maybe you were. But that doesnât excuse him from not being there when you needed him most.
And now, for the first time, you arenât the one bridging the gap between you.
And he hates that heâs only realising this now.
He could have fixed thisâmaybe. If only heâd made the effort sooner. If only heâd found the courage to do something. To make up for what he failed to do. But now, everything feels too fractured, too far gone.
And thatâs what hurts the most.
The fact that you donât seem to need him the way you once did. That maybe, just maybe, youâve moved on from him.
The thought suffocates him.
He wants to fix it. He wants to scream at the walls, to do something to make it right, but heâs frozen. Because what if itâs too late? What if youâre done with him? What if youâve already written him off, already decided you donât need him in your life anymore?
The overwhelming guilt twists tighter, leaving him suffocated, alone in his own mind.
Youâve stopped waiting for him.
And it kills him.
Dick knows heâs running out of time. And for the first time in his life, he doesnât know what to do. He doesnât know how to fix it.
Not when you were avoiding him. Not when everyone heâs asked tells him to give you space, to leave you alone.
But how long more can he continue leaving you alone? When that was the exact reason you two were in this position?
His instincts tell him to give you time, let you breathe, to let the air clear before trying again. But that voice in the back of his mind screams that itâs too late. That if he waits too long, if he doesnât move now, thisâthisâwill be the end of whatever was left of your connection.
And the thought terrifies him.
Heâs not sure if itâs pride or fear that holds him back now. Maybe a mix of both. Because even if he did try, what if you didnât want him as your brother anymore? What if you didnât need him in the way he still needed you?
What if the space you wanted from him was one he could never fill again?
What if itâs too late?
The coldness in the way youâve pulled away, the way youâve stopped needing him⌠heâs afraid thatâs the reality.
And maybe thatâs the hardest pill to swallow: that heâs powerless here. That even with all the skills, all the experience heâs had, this is one thing he canât control.
This feels wrong. It feels so wrong, and he canât shake the feeling that something is slipping through his fingers, something irreplaceable. Youâre not just anyone. Youâre his sister.
You are his little sister. And thatâs why this hurts so much more.
The space between you isnât just the distance of an argument, or a fight that can be fixed with a few words. Itâs a gap between familyâbetween two people who were supposed to always be there for each other, no matter what. And somehow, he let it slip away. He let it stretch farther and farther, until now, when it feels like he canât reach you.
He hates this.
He hates feeling lost, unsure of how to fix something that should be simple. Heâs always known what to do, always known how to make things right with his team, with anyoneâeveryoneâbut not with you.
Not now.
The years of you looking up to him, trusting him, believing in him⌠and now, youâre turning away. And itâs because of him. Because he wasnât there when you needed him, and because now, when everything has broken, heâs just letting you walk away.
His thoughts spiral, each one heavier than the last. He shouldâve done better. He shouldâve noticed the small thingsâthe moments where you tried, where you reached out, when you needed him to show up. He shouldâve noticed everything.
But he didnât.
It feels like too much to fix now. How can he bridge this gap? How can he even begin to make things right when youâre already gone from him, retreating, pulling away from the only person who was supposed to be there for you through everything?
How can he let you go?
He canât. He just canât.
Because youâre his sister. And no matter whatâs happened, no matter how much space you need, he canât just let this be. He canât let you slip away from him, not when he still loves you so damn much, not when heâs still your brother.
Dick hates that even now, it feels like heâs still not prioritizing you. Not when Gotham is on the verge of chaos, when everything is unraveling faster than he can keep up with.
Bruce needs himâGotham needs him. And he hates himself for thinking this, but it almost feels easier to focus on the city, on the madness, on the constant fight to keep everything from falling apart, than to face whatâs happening with you. He hates that he canât just put his focus on you without it feeling like heâs failing the entire city.
Not when the Court of Owls is seemingly starting to creep back into the shadows, when theyâre pulling strings from behind the scenes. Not when Riddler is out again after his bombing less than two weeks ago. The city feels like itâs shifting into new, terrifying territories, with danger lurking in every corner.
Itâs easy to justify the exhaustion, the endless grind, when the cityâs on the line. But it doesnât make the guilt disappear.
The guilt that he still hasnât gone after you. That he still hasnât made things right yet. Not when Bruce needs him for this, not when Gotham seems to be shifting into unknown territories.
He tried to shove it downâtried to bury the guiltâand just focus. Focus on the bigger picture.
But itâs hard.
Itâs so hard.
Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind inevitably goes back to you. He hates it.
Bruceâs brooding presence is a constant reminder that thereâs always something more pressingâalways a new threat looming. And yet, Dick canât seem to escape the nagging pull of you.
âBruce,â Dick snaps suddenly, his frustration slipping through. He didnât mean to. He didnât mean to bring you up again, but he needs something to clear his head. âIt doesnât matter. I didnât mean to bring her up. Letâs get back on track.â
He barely registers the way Bruceâs gaze sharpens, the way his lips tighten in a fleeting moment of somethingâconcern? Worry?
No, it looked more like⌠guilt.
But Bruce doesnât voice it. Instead, thereâs a brief pause, and then, a subtle shift in his eyes. His entire demeanor falters for the briefest second, and Dick feels it, like a change in the air, as though Bruce is about to say something.
But Bruce just sighs, a deep, tired sound, and mutters, âAlright.â
The conversation moves on, like it always does. The case file is opened again, the details of the recent murder presented to them both, as if nothingâs changed, as if everythingâs fine.
But things definitely werenât fine.
And it wouldnât be for a long time.
Damian wasnât one to get caught up in things that didnât concern him. Thatâs what he told himself. But when it came to you, he doesnât know why things are different now.
It wasnât that he cared. Not really.
He was Damian Wayne, after all.
He was above things like worry, like caring too much.
But when he started noticing how youâd been waking up earlier and earlier to bake thingsâtreats, he noted with growing curiosityâand then leaving for school with them in tow, he couldnât stop thinking about it.
You werenât just baking for no reason. You werenât baking for yourself, like he had first assumed. No, youâd been bringing them to school, and that⌠that didnât make sense. You werenât that kind of person. Unless you were making it for your schoolmates.
No, that was certainly beneath you. You had to know that.
But then you started coming back late. Very late. Far later than what could be excused by a few extra-curriculars or staying after school.
That was when Damian decided to⌠observe.
He wouldnât call it stalking, no. Stalking was a bit too⌠intrusive, in his opinion. He preferred to call it a âcareful examination of your recent activities.â That was much more appropriate. And so, with his usual precision, he followed you, quietly keeping his distance, ensuring you never knew he was there.
It wasnât as if he cared. He didnât care at all. Obviously.
But he was curious, and he wasnât about to admit to himself that he was starting to care a little more than he should.
And thatâs when he saw it.
You and two other peopleâa blond guy and a brunette girlâheading towards anâŚ. orphanage?
Damianâs sworn heâs seen the blond guy somewhere, but he canât place a finger on it.
The place wasnât far from the manor, but it wasnât somewhere he expected you to be.
He kept his distance, blending into the shadows as he watched you hand out the treats youâd baked to the children there. So thatâs who you were making them for, he thought, his mind almost too sharp for his own comfort.
From where he stood, he observed the way you moved among the children there, your every action contrasting with the other two people you came with. Your friends, as he had identified them, were lively, and they were running around with some of the kids, laughing, playing. But not you.
No, you sat back. You were content just to watch. You were curled up on the grass with some of the other children around you, reading them books.
Books?
Damian frowned. Was that really you?
The same you who never seemed to have time for things like that? The one who always preferred to be out in the field, out on patrol with the rest of the family?
He couldnât recall a time where youâd ever been the type to sit and do something so mundane. Yet here you were, doing it effortlessly, surrounded by the kids.
And then, of course, there was him.
A little brunette boy. Always near you. Always by your side. Clinging to you like you were his only source of comfort.
Damianâs fingers tightened into fists. His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed on the boy. For some inexplicable reason, he hated how close he seemed to be to you. How you didnât seem to mind. No, you were indulging himâletting him climb all over you, laughing at whatever he said.
Damian hated it.
He didnât understand it. He didnât understand why this bothered him so much. Why the sight of some random, orphaned kid getting your attention like that twisted something inside him.
He now watched as you and the same boy were sitting off to the side, away from the others, in a quiet corner of the yard. The kid was holding up a stuffed animal, trying to make it talk in a high-pitched voice, and youâyouâwere playing along, mimicking the voice and laughing as if it was the funniest thing youâd ever heard. Damianâs gaze never wavered. He could see itâthe way you were smiling at him. At him, not at anyone else.
Damian didnât get it. What was so special about this kid? Why did he have to be so attached to you?
And why did you seem so attached to him?
Why were you so at ease with a kid you barely knew for more than a week at most?
Damian hates the fact that heâs feeling like this, that heâs thinking such stupid thoughts.
He watches as the kid tug at your sleeve, saying something in your ear. How much more were you going to indulge this kid?
âHey, (Name),â Elliot asked in his little voice, âwhyâs that kid just standing over there, staring at us?â
You blinked, and without thinking, your gaze followed his.
And there, standing by the fence, was Damian. His figure was stiff, unmoving, his gaze intense and unwavering as it locked onto you. His eyes were cold.
Damianâs heart skipped a beat when he saw you look up, your expression morphing from confusion to realization as your gaze fixed on him.
Damn it, he thought.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
You knew.
You knew he had been watching.
You didnât say anything, but he could tell. And the worst part? He didnât even care that you caught him. He didnât care that youâd seen him there. What bothered him was the way youâd stopped laughing, the way youâd looked away from him. That distant, almost guilty feeling he got from you.
It was clear. You were aware now.
And somehow, that made it worse.
You groaned slightly, already knowing what was coming. It wasnât like you hadnât expected him to follow you; it was just⌠typical. Rolling your eyes, youâd excused yourself from Elliot, and made your way toward the edge of the orphanage, where Damian stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the railings. The only thing separating the two of you was the metal bars, but that didnât seem to stop him from making his presence known.
You stopped a few feet away from him, taking in the sight of his usual stubborn posture. âWhat the hell are you doing here?â you asked, keeping your tone casual, though there was a sharpness beneath it.
Damianâs response was as expected. âJust passing by,â he said, but you could tell it was a lie by the way his eyes darted, refusing to meet yours directly.
You deadpanned, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. âReally? Youâre just âpassing byâ on this side of town? Whenâs the last time you took a stroll over here, hmm?â you remarked, giving him a knowing look. The whole situation screamed of him being here for some other reason.
Damian scoffed, clearly not fond of being caught. He straightened up, trying to act casual, but you werenât buying it for a second. âI donât need to explain myself to you.â
You sighed, rolling your eyes. âYouâre so stubborn, itâs exhausting,â you muttered, turning to walk towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder, your voice softer but more commanding now. âCome inside. Stop standing out here like a loner. Itâs an orphanage, not some shady alley.â
Damian shot you a look of annoyance, but instead of refusing, he followed you, clearly annoyed by your comment. âIâm not a loner,â he muttered under his breath, but you could hear the bitterness in his tone.
You smirked, knowing you had won this one. He didnât even try to argue as you dragged him inside, making sure to ignore his huffing and groaning. Once inside, you immediately caught Caitlyn and Adrienâs surprised expressions when they saw Damian lagging behind you.
Adrien was the first to speak, his jaw nearly dropping. âIs that Damian freaking Wayne I see?â he asked, a cheesy smile on his face.
Damian stood with his usual unimpressed look, glaring at Adrien like he had just been asked the dumbest question in the world. âIs he an idiot or just plain stupid..â he muttered, not in the mood for any more attention.
Caitlyn turned to you, a hint of confusion in her voice. âYou invited your brother?â she asked, raising an eyebrow.
âMore like he invited himself,â you replied, giving him a side-eye.
Damian just scoffed, his expression unreadable. âIâm just making sure sheâs not getting herself involved in some shady business,â he muttered, clearly irritated, and yet somehow still reluctant to admit he had followed you because he wanted to.
You laughed quietly, rolling your eyes. âYeah, sure. Whatever you say.â
Before Damian could open his mouth to retort, one of the staff came in, calling the children for their meal time. You glanced at Damian, who looked like he was trying to figure out how to stand still without getting involved, but then you pulled him over to the table where everyone else was sitting.
Damian was unceremoniously slotted between you and Adrien, who immediately started up a conversation, not sensing the tense atmosphere Damian was giving off.
Adrien, the chatterbox that he was, began asking Damian a series of ridiculous questions, which only made Damianâs discomfort more apparent. âSo, Damian, heard you were homeschooled before? Howâs it like going from staying in the comforts of your home to having to mingle with us commoners?â Adrien asked, his voice full of that teasing nature you were used.
Damianâs eyes narrowed slightly, though he gave nothing away. âTt. None of your business,â he muttered, though his tone was less sharp than usual.
You couldnât help but watch the interaction unfold, noticing how Adrien kept talking, seemingly without stopping for air, while Damian remained his usual, stoic self, barely responding but still staying present.
It wasâŚendearing in a strange way. You had always known that Damian wasnât someone who opened up easily, but watching him with Adrien was oddly satisfying. Adrien was persistent, and though Damian was clearly trying to distance himself from the conversation, there was a shift.
In the midst of the lighthearted banter, you caught yourself smiling a little. You knew it would take time, but somehow, Damian was warming up to Adrienâs constant energy. You knew that Adrien probably reminded him a bit of Jonâalways asking questions, always talking. And now, somehow, the two of them were starting to get along.
You glanced over at Damian, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and frustration, and you chuckled to yourself.
Yeah, heâll get used to him, you thought, enjoying the rare moment where your brother was forced to interact with one of your dear friends. It wasnât much, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.
As the kids were digging into their meals, the conversation around the table shifted, like it always did at some pointâtowards superheroes. One of the younger boys, Marcus, piped up with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, âWhoâs your favorite hero?â
The question quickly spread like wildfire, and before you knew it, the whole table was eagerly waiting for an answer from you, Caitlyn, and Adrien. Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances, clearly excited. You, however, already knew where this was going. The answer was obvious.
âDonât say Batman,â you interjected quickly before either could open their mouths. âThatâs such a cop-out answer. Everyone knows Batmanâs the go-to.â
Caitlyn looked at you with a mischievous grin. âWell, I wasnât even going to say Batman anyways,â she huffed out. âMineâs definitely Nightwing.â She leaned back, resting her arm on the back of her chair, eyes gleaming with a grin. âI mean, come on. Heâs hot as hell. And have you seen that ass? Dudeâs got the whole bakery goddamn!!â
You froze, your eyes wide for a split second, doing everything in your power to avoid crashing out at that. Did she really justâ?
Oh god.
Damianâs gruff voice came from beside you. âTch.â
You nudged him sharply, hoping heâd keep quiet. âShut up,â you muttered under your breath, trying to maintain some composure, but you could feel Damianâs growing annoyance from the side of your vision. He didnât even bother looking at you when he responded.
âWhat.â
âDonât react.â You said, your voice quiet but firm.
âRichard wouldnât like what your friend is saying.â
âHah, if anything, heâd be honoured.â
âNo he wouldnât.â
Your friends glanced at each other, confused by your hushed but tensed conversation with your brother.
And you didnât blame them.
After all, Caitlyn had no clue that Nightwing was your older brother, Dick Grayson, and thatâs exactly why you were doing your best not to let it show. You werenât about to explain that you didnât want to hear her gush about his freaking butt during a nice and peaceful meal.
Adrien, always the oblivious to these things, shifted his focus to the conversation. âWell, I didnât really mess with him before, but Robin is cool as hell. I mean, come on, he practically saved my life. Got to give the lil guy props for that.â
Damianâs posture straightened a little at that, clearly pleased by the compliment. However, he scowled the moment Adrien added, âthe lil guy.â
Damianâs eyes narrowed, and he muttered under his breath, âRobinâs not little.â
Adrien raised an eyebrow, teasing. âOh really? Well, heâs aboutâŚâ He trailed off, glancing from Damian to you before continuing, ââŚabout your height, actually.â
You almost choked on your drink, your eyes going wide.
Oh no.
Was he literally about to connect the dotsâ
âWhat a coincidence. Maybe you should cosplay as him sometime.â
Oh.
At least Adrienâs blondness is still going strong.
Damianâs answer came with no hesitation, voice completely unbothered. âSure.â
You sighed with relief, though internally, you were in full panic mode.
Thank god thatâs over.
One of the little girls, Emma, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, raised her hand excitedly. âI like Batgirl a lot!â she said with a beaming smile.
Or not.
Caitlyn turned to her, a playful glint in her eye. âOh, really? Which one?â
Emma blinked, confused. âThereâs more than one?â
Caitlyn laughed, shaking her head. âOf course! Thereâs the original Batgirl, then thereâs⌠the replacement, then the ninja one that came out of nowhere, and now the really nice and friendly one.â
You frowned slightly when Caitlyn called youâor wellâ the former second batgirl, the replacement. But she wasnât wrong. You had been a replacement. But you had tried making it your own, hadnât you? That should at least be recognised, right?
You watched as Caitlyn went off into a long rant, detailing the various Batgirls from across the years. Emma and all the other girls looked wide-eyed, clearly taking it all in, though you were sure half of what she was saying was going out the other ear.
You couldnât help but shake your head, muttering under your breath, âThereâs only one right answer.â
Caitlyn, not missing a beat, grinned. âYes, and thatâs obviously the OG!!! I miss her. I wonder what happened to her. She just stopped showing up for years now.â
Oh.
You grumbled, unable to refute the fact that she was right. The OG Batgirl was the best, no question. Barbara created Batgirl on her own. She owned it. ButâŚcome on, you had to back yourself up here.
Adrien piped up, âNah, the blonde oneâs the best. Sheâs cool and real fun.â
You deadpanned at him. âYouâre kidding, right? Thatâs your pick?â
âWhat? Am I wrong?â Adrien asked, genuinely confused.
You huffed, leaning back in your chair. âVery.â
âYouâre both wrong.â
At that moment, Damianâs voice broke through, and everyone turned to look at him.
You glanced at him, not sure if you had heard him correctly. âWhat did you say?â
Adrien looked at Damian, raising an eyebrow. âOh yeah? Who is it, lil guy?â
Damianâs gaze shifted to the table, his voice as steady as ever. âThe best Batgirl is obviously the third. Sheâs the most proficient and the best fighter.â
You stared at Damian, deadpan.
Of course he picked her.
Of course, heâd back the best fighterâalways.
For one fleeting second, you actually thought he was talking about you.
But of course he wasnât.
You didnât know why you even entertained the possibility of him choosing you. For half a second, you thoughtâjust thoughtâthat maybe, just maybe, heâd acknowledge you. But no. Obviously not.
You shouldâve known better.
âWhat?â Damian asked, noticing your stare.
âNothing,â you muttered, though the way you immediately crossed your arms said otherwise.
But it wasnât nothing. It was mild irritation mixed with some very well-earned pettiness. It wasnât like you expected him to say you were the best Batgirl, but still! Youâd think your own brother would at least pretend you were a contender! For a moment, you really thought Damian would pick you.
But of course he didnât. You werenât even in the running.
Fine. Fine.
If Damian was going to be like that, you werenât going to let him off easy.
âYou know whoâs not the best?â You paused for effect. âThe current Robin.â
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Adrien and Caitlyn both turned to you, looking confused. Meanwhile, Damianâoh, Damian froze. His head snapped toward you, expression shifting in real time, his usual blank stare morphing into something far more hostile.
âWhat did you just say?â His voice was calm. Too calm.
You leaned back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. âI said the current Robin is overrated. Heâs fine, I guess. But people act like heâs some unstoppable force of nature, and honestly? I donât see it.â
Damianâs eye twitched.
Adrien let out a short laugh, glancing between you two. âWait, why does it sound like you personally hate him?â
âI donât,â you said. âI just think heâs too aggressive. Like, okay, congrats, you were probably trained since birth, but does that really mean you have to act like everyone else is beneath you? Maybe try teamwork sometime.â
Damian scoffed. âTt. You mean like how the second Batgirl worked with her team? Oh, wait. She didnât even have one.â
You stiffened slightly. âExcuse me?â
âShe was reckless,â Damian continued, now fully engaging in the argument. âUnrefined. She relied on brute force and emotion instead of strategy, which is exactly why she never measured up to her predecessor.â
Your eye twitched.
Oh. Itâs on.
âWell, the current Robin acts like heâs the smartest person in the room,â you shot back. âAlways belittling everyone he works with, always convinced he knows bestââ
âBecause he does,â Damian cut in smoothly, sharp.
You narrowed your eyes. âOh, please. Batgirl was just as skilledââ
âSkilled?â Damian repeated, looking almost offended. âShe was a brute. She had no tactical foresight, no patience, no disciplineââ
âShe gets the job done,â you interrupted.
âAnd leaves chaos in her wake,â Damian countered.
âOh, because Robin doesnât leave a mess?â
âAt least his messes serve a purpose.â
You narrowed your eyes at him. âAnd at least she wasnât a condescending littleââ
âOkay, wait, wait, wait, pause,â Caitlyn suddenly cut in, raising her hands. She and Adrien were staring at you two, completely baffled. âWhat is happening right now?â
Adrien tilted his head, looking between you and Damian. âYeah, why do you two sound like youâve got some kind of personal vendetta against Robin and Batgirl?â
You and Damian both froze slightly, suddenly realizing just how heated this was getting.
You coughed, quickly forcing a neutral expression. âNo, definitely not.â
Damian straightened his posture, clearing his throat. âTt. Of course not.â
Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a look.
ââŚRight.â Caitlyn tilted her head. âYou sure you guys donât secretly have some grudge against them?â
Adrien hummed in thought. âOr maybe they just donât like heroes who remind them of themselves?â
The silence that followed was deafening.
You and Damian both turned to glare at Adrien, who just retreats behind Caitlyn.
You huffed, crossing your arms. âWhatever. The current Robinâs still annoying.â
âAnd the second Batgirl is too stubborn.â
Caitlyn frowned, looking thoughtful. âI donât knowâŚI always thought the second Batgirl and Robin actually worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each otherâs back, you know? At least, from what Iâve seen.â
Your jaw tensed. You pointedly avoided looking at Damian, and you knew he was doing the same.
Caitlynâs words echoed in your head, looping over and over again like an intrusive thought you couldnât shake.
âI always thought that Batgirl and Robin worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each otherâs, you know?â
No. No, you didnât know.
Because that wasnât true.
It couldnât be true.
Because if it was true, thenâ
Then what did that mean?
If you and Damian worked well togetherâif your fighting styles âfitââif you âjust got each otherââthen why hadnât it been enough?
Why hadnât it felt enough?
Why hadnât you been enough?
Why had it felt like you were always fighting for validation?
Why did it still feel like Damian only ever saw you as a burden on the field?
If you had actually worked well with him, then why hadnât he said anything back then? Why hadnât heâ
You exhaled sharply, shoving the thoughts away.
No.
Caitlyn was wrong. She had no idea what she was talking about.
âYouâre giving them too much credit,â you said, shaking your head. âThey didnât work well together.â
Caitlyn blinked. âWhat? No, they totally did.â
You scoffed. âThey barely tolerated each other.â
âI donât know about that,â she said, tilting her head. âThey just⌠understood each other. You could see it in the way they fought. Like, Robin always knew where that Batgirl was gonna move next, and vice versa. Itâs like they were in sync without even needing to say anything.â
Your fingers curled slightly.
No. That wasnâtâ
That wasnâtâ
That was just necessity.
That was pattern recognition.
That was forced proximity because you had no choice but to move together or risk getting each other killed.
That didnât mean you worked well together.
It didnât mean Damian saw you as an equal.
It didnât meanâ
âI suppose the second Batgirl is not⌠entirely incompetent.â
It was barely more than a murmur, but it was enough.
Enough to make the conversation still. Enough to make all of you turn.
Damianâs eyes flickered downward, arms crossed, his expression a mask of impassivity.
But that sentence. That one hesitation.
It meant something.
Your brain stuttered.
Of all thingsâthat was what he said?
Damian Wayneâthe boy who had no patience for weakness, who barely tolerated most people, who was damn near incapable of giving credit where credit was dueâjust admitted that?
And thenâ
Then he kept going.
âSheâs⌠effective,â he admitted, as if the words physically hurt. âHer combat style is instinct-driven, but adaptable. It lacks structure, but itâsâttâunpredictable. It forces opponents into a rhythm theyâre unfamiliar with. Itâs inefficient, but it works. Works for herself. And works for Robin too.â
You blinked.
That wasnât just some throwaway comment. That wasnât just begrudging approval.
That was acknowledgment.
You had spent years training. Learning to move, to fight, to make up for every weakness you had. You wanted someone to see that. Your father, Dick, Barbaraâhell, even Jason. But youâd never expected him to see it. To notice.
Much less appreciate it.
And yet, here he was, admitting that you wereâwhat? Unpredictable? Capable?
Your mouth opened slightly, but the words never came. You just stared, feeling something unfamiliar twist in your stomach.
You werenât used to this.
Werenât used to this at all.
Definitely not from Damian. After everythingâ
Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. âYeah, I suppose so. A lot of people in the East End like her, from what Iâve heard.â
The weight of Damianâs words still lingered, but Caitlynâs casual addition made something inside you shift again.
âBut I havenât exactly seen her in the past few weeks. Wonder what happened?â
And just like thatâ
That fleeting warmth vanished.
Your body tensed, fingers curling into your palm so tightly that your nails dug into your skin.
âShe quit,â you said before you could stop yourself.
It was too sharp. Too final.
You knew it the second it left your mouth.
And it showed.
Adrien and Caitlyn turned to you, their confusion immediate.
They werenât just confused by the statement itself.
They were confused by how you said it.
By how certain you sounded.
Realizing your mistake, you scrambled to correct yourself, forcing your voice into something lighter. âI mean, I heard she quit. I guess.â
There was a beat of silence.
Caitlyn hummed thoughtfully. âOh. What a shame.â
And thenâ
âItâs a load of bullshit.â
Damianâs voice was edged with something sharp.
You turned to him, frowning. âAnd what exactly do you mean by that?â
Damian exhaled sharply, arms still crossed. âThat Batgirlâassuming she really did quitâis an idiot.â
Your jaw clenched.
âShe wouldnât have quit if she didnât think she was making an impact.â
âBut she did,â Damian said, tone clipped, like it was obvious.
Your breath caught.
âShe made an impact. Gotham is worse with one less hero. But sheâs too dumb and socially inept to realize that.â
The words slammed into you like a brick wall.
It wasnât mockery. It wasnât insulting for the sake of it.
It was genuine frustration.
Damian was angryânot because he didnât like herâbut because she left.
You left.
Because you gave up.
As if you didnât see what you were to Gotham.
But did you even mean something to Gotham?
Your lips parted slightly, but the words wouldnât come.
Because what were you supposed to say?
What were you supposed to do with the fact that Damian cared?
That he was fighting for herâfor youâwhen you had convinced yourself no one would?
Damian never defended things like this. He never cared enough to.
But here he was, riding this hard.
For Batgirl.
For you.
And youâ
You didnât know what to do with that either.
The air was too thick. Too heavy. The tension sat like a weight between you both.
You turned away, pressing your lips into a thin line. Damian did the same.
And you could feel your friends shift uncomfotably in their seats after that awkward conversation that they got lost in.
âI like whoever (Name) likes.â
Elliot, small but absolute in his convictions, piped up with the kind of unwavering certainty that only kids had.
You barely had time to react before something in your chest tightened, an ache so unfamiliar that you almost mistook it for something else.
Fondness.
You ruffled Elliotâs hair gently, watching as he beamed under your touch, his loyalty so simple, so unquestioning.
âAt least someone knows who truly is the best,â you said, your voice soft but amused.
Adrien, clearly irked by the favoritism, complained, âHey, no fair! That lil guy just goes along with whatever you say. Thatâs not counted.â
The words were playful, but they settled something in youâif only for a moment.
A brief, fleeting peace.
You risked a glance at Damian, but found his expression unreadable.
And that made you tense even more.
Because how did one conversation just destroy whatever rapport youâd built with him over the last few weeks?
You opened your mouth to say something butâ
âOh! Looks like youâve brought along another person.â
And just like thatâ
Everything in you froze.
Your breath stilled.
Your fingers twitched.
Something cold wrapped around your ribs, tightening.
Mrs. Cole.
She moved toward your group, all warm smiles and polished perfection. But you knew.
You knew better.
The warmth didnât reach her eyes. The perfection was too smooth, too calculated.
And yet, your friends didnât see it.
They didnât feel it.
They didnât feel the unease sinking into your bones, clawing its way under your skin.
You straightened instinctively, every nerve in your body suddenly alert.
You felt your jaw lock.
And you just stared at the old woman standing in front of you and your friends.
When you didnât move to introduce Damian, Caitlyn, ever polite, started to do it for you.
âOh, this isââ
âDamian Wayne,â Mrs. Cole interrupted smoothly, smiling. âSon of Bruce Wayne. Of course, I know him.â
Then, with a turn of her head, her gaze landed on you.
And despite the kindness in her expressionâ
Something inside you shrank.
âI apologise,â she said gently. âI should have realised earlier that you were, in fact, (Name) Wayne. I hope you werenât too offended.â
Every syllable was measured. Smooth.
There was nothing wrong with what she said.
But your mind churned.
Something in you twitched.
Something itched beneath your skin, something you couldnât place.
A meaningless pleasantry? Or a subtle dig? A test? Did she expect you to be offended? Was she gauging your reaction?
Your eyes flickered to her face, scanning for any indication of intent. The tiniest shift in expression. A microsecond of amusement. A twitch of satisfaction.
A crack, a slipâanything.
But there was nothing.
Just polite words and a soft tone.
Just surface-level kindness.
Not a misstep. Not a single crack in her perfect facade.
It made your stomach turn.
Your thoughts tangled, looping over themselves, spiraling deeper into your own paranoiaâ
And then you realized you had been silent for too long.
Too long for it to be normal. Too long for it to be anything but weird.
You scrambled for a response, grasping for something, anythingâ
âItâs fine.â
It came out rough. Stiff. Completely unnatural.
Like a person forgetting how to be a person.
Mrs. Cole only smiled. If she noticed your awkwardness, she was far too polite to acknowledge it.
Adrien and Caitlyn, however, were not.
You saw it immediatelyâthe way Caitlyn pressed her lips together to keep from groaning, the way Adrien squeezed his eyes shut like he had just physically felt secondhand embarrassment.
Yeah. Yeah.
That was bad.
You wanted to fling yourself out the nearest window.
Mrs. Cole, as if unfazed, turned back to Damian.
âI hope everything here has been to your liking.â
Damian regarded her for a moment before giving a clipped, formal response. âThe conditions appear satisfactory.â
âIâm glad to hear that,â she replied easily. âWe do our best to provide a safe environment for all the children under our care.â
You didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Didnât breathe.
Just listened.
You tried to read him.
Tried to see if he felt it too.
If he sensed that something was off with Mrs Cole.
Butâ
Nothing.
Damianâs expression was unreadable, sure. But that wasnât new.
What was new was that he didnât seem to think anything of her at all.
âWell,â Mrs. Cole finally said, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve. âI have other matters to attend to. It was lovely meeting you, Damian.â
She smiled, nodding at Caitlyn and Adrien before turning back to you.
âAnd you, of course, (Name).â
Thenâ
She was gone.
Moving seamlessly through the orphanage, weaving between staff and children like she belonged there.
You exhaled shakily.
You had overanalyzed every movement, every syllable. Had searched for something.
And yetânothing.
No proof. No reason for this unease gnawing at your ribs.
And yet, it didnât go away.
It never went away, no matter what you did.
No matter what you tried convincing yourself with.
And as you sat there, stiff and silentâ
You failed to notice the way Damian was watching you.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes sharp.
Like he had seen something.
Something off.
Something he couldnât quite place.
long awaited chapter 7 lol⌠did you guys miss me đĽ°đ¤ also ramadan mubarak to all my muslim homies and girlies đŤśđŤśpart 2 here in a few hours after posting this, will answer my asks after posting part 2 <3
Her name barely carried through the still air, but she didnât move.
Didnât flinch.
Didnât acknowledge the voice.
She sat there, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her entire body curled inward like she could somehow shield herself from reality.
From this.
From your name carved into stone.
The graveyard was too peaceful.
The world around her was too bright.
The sky was impossibly blue, the kind of endless, cloudless stretch that belonged to better days. The sun hung high, warm and golden, spilling light over everything as if this were just any other afternoon. A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, and the grass beneath her was still damp with morning dew. The air smelled freshâtoo fresh.
It was a beautiful day.
And Cassandra hated it.
It wasnât right.
Why wasnât the sky dark? Why werenât the clouds swollen with grief, heavy and suffocating? Why wasnât there a storm, wind tearing through the city, rain drenching the ground, filling the cracks in the pavement, turning the earth around your grave to mud?
Why wasnât the world mourning with her?
It should be.
Because thisâthis wasnât just another day.
This was the day Cassandra Cain sat in front of your grave, alone in the silence, mourning the loss of you.
You.
The person who was supposed to be her younger sister.
The person who shouldnât be hereânot like this. Not beneath the ground.
A shadow passed over her. She barely acknowledged it.
Duke.
He stood for a moment, just watching her.
Duke hesitated before he stepped closer.
His movements were slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.
And maybe thatâs what Cassandra was.
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
âYou canât stay here forever,â he murmured, his voice quiet, gentle.
Cassandra didnât respond. She just nudged his hand away, still staring at your name carved into the stone.
Duke exhaled, long and slow, before lowering himself to the ground beside her.
They sat in silence.
Neither of them wanted to be here.
But neither of them could leave.
Not when this grave was here. Not when it held you.
And it still didnât feel real.
Duke ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes. He didnât blame Cassandra for shutting down like this.
Because he was still trying to understand it too.
Duke stared at your name, carved into stone, like if he just looked at it long enough, it would make sense.
But it didnât.
It wouldnât.
Your deathâ
God.
It wasnât just tragic. It wasnât just painful.
It was sudden.
It didnât feel possible.
One day, you were here. And then you werenât.
And Duke didnât know how to process that.
He kept thinkingâkept replaying everything in his head. The details. The reports. The last time he saw you.
And the same question kept coming back to him, again and again and again.
Why didnât you call him?
You knew he would have helped you. You knew that.
Right?
You knew he wouldnât have thought twice.
Right?
Would he have thought twice�
No, surely not.
Right?
You should have known that.
So why didnât you?
Why didnât you tell him what you were doing? Why didnât you let him back you up? Why did you go after that drug ring alone?
You should have called.
You should have known he wouldnât hesitate. That he wouldnât have even thought before coming to help you.
You should have been standing here with him.
Not lying six feet underground.
Duke let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the gravestone, his chest tightening like something inside him was caving in.
It wasnât fair.
None of this was fair.
And the worst part? The part that made him feel sick?
Losing peopleâhe knew what that was like.
He lost his parents.
And nowâ
Now he had lost you.
And you werenât just anyone.
You wereâ
God, you were you.
You werenât perfect, but you were alive in a way that few people ever truly were.
You had this way of making things feel easier. Not because life actually was easier, but because you had a way of making it manageable. Making it bearable.
And you were stubborn.
God, you were so stubborn.
You never backed down, never walked away, never let things go when they mattered. You fought for people. You fought for him. Fought for yourself.
You werenât his sister by blood, but blood had never mattered in this family. Not really.
You had been his friend before you were his family.
And now you were gone.
And he was just supposed to accept that you were gone?
That he was supposed to sit here, staring at a piece of stone with your name on it, instead of looking you in the eye and telling you you were a dumbass for going in alone?
No.
No, that didnât make sense.
It didnât make sense that youâthe person who had somehow become his sisterâwas just gone.
And heâ
He hated this.
He hated this so much.
âWhatâŚ. do you think her last words wereâŚ?â
Cassandraâs voice broke through the silence, small but steady.
Dukeâs throat tightened. He barely held back a flinch.
âI⌠donât know,â he admitted.
And he didnât want to know.
Because the moment he let himself think about it.
The moment he let himself wonder what your last moments were likeâ
He wouldnât be able to take it.
Had you been waiting for someone to save you?
Had you been hoping for some kind of miracle?
Or had you known?
Had you known you werenât going to make it?
Had you realized that help wasnât coming?
Had you been scared?
Duke clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.
He didnât want to think about that.
He couldnâtâ
He couldnât think about that.
Cassandra didnât look at him, but she was still staring at your grave, her expression unreadable.
But he knew what she was thinking.
She was blaming herself.
And she shouldnât.
She wasnât even in Gotham when it happened. There was nothing she could have done.
But logic didnât matter.
Because you were dead.
And she hadnât been there.
Neither had he.
And he was always going to carry that with him.
Cassandra had learned you quickly.
How you liked your coffee, how you always leaned against walls instead of standing straight, how you tapped your fingers against your thigh when you were thinking.
How you always waited a second longer than necessary before answering a questionâlike you were testing the weight of your words before letting them go.
You had been sharp, but soft.
Blunt, but kind.
The kindest of them all.
You had been quiet, but so damn loud in the way you existed.
And nowâ
Now you were gone.
And Cassandra was still here.
And she didnât know how.
Cassandra didnât know how to fight that.
Didnât know how to fight the weight pressing against her chest, the grief that curled around her like a vice. It was strange. Loss was something she shouldâve been used to. Death was something she had faced time and time again. It was part of this life. It was part of the job.
So why did this feel so different?
Why did it feel like something was clawing at the edges of her ribs, carving out a hollow space where you used to be?
She had died before. Her heart had stopped beating, her body had given out. But she had been revived, dragged back to life before the darkness could fully claim her. She had cheated death, walked away with a heartbeat that wasnât supposed to be there anymore.
So why hadnât that been you?
Why had she gotten to wake up, gasping, with another chance at lifeâwhile you had been left to rot in the ground? Why had she been spared while you had been taken?
Cassandraâs hands curled into fists on her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to breathe.
It didnât help.
Her eyes flickered to your name on the gravestone. The letters carved into the stone were so sharp, so permanent. You werenât coming back. No second chances, no miracles. Just a name, a date, and the suffocating silence of your absence.
She swallowed thickly and let her gaze drop lower.
No flowers.
Cassandra stared at the empty space in front of your grave, and something in her chest twisted. No matter how hard she searched her mind, she couldnât remember what kind of flowers you liked.
What flowers did you like?
Did you like liliesâsoft, gentle, but heavy with the scent of mourning?
Did you like daisiesâbright and stubborn, growing even in the cracks of concrete?
Did you like marigoldsâbold, striking, impossible to ignore?
She hated that she didnât know. Hated that she had spent years at your side and still, she didnât know what flowers to bring you.
It was ridiculous, how something so smallâso insignificant in the grand scheme of thingsâfelt like another knife to the ribs.
Cassandra had always been good at reading people. She had always been good at reading you.
And yetâshe didnât know this.
Didnât know something so simple.
The realization made her stomach twist.
She had memorized the way you carried yourself, the way your fingers twitched when you thought too hard about something, the way you always paused before speaking, like you were testing your words before letting them go.
She knew how you fought, how you moved, how you breathed.
And yetâshe didnât know this.
This was all she knew.
What did you actually like to do?
What did you like to eat?
What was your go-to drink?
Did you drink coffee out of necessity, or was it your favorite?
What music did you listen to when no one was around?
What did you hum under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention?
Did you like the sun or the moon better?
Did you ever have a favorite book? A favorite movie?
Have you ever fallen in love? Fancied a guy or girl from afar?
Everything that a sister should knowâshe didnât.
And now, she never would.
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants.
To thinkâto thinkâof all the times you had tried to stay by her side.
Of all the times you had triedâtried to connect with her, tried to understand her, tried to make her feel like she belonged in this familyâand she hadnât let you.
She had been distant. Subconsciously pushing you aside. Not because she hated youâno, never because of that.
But because you two were so vastly different.
Because she saw you and thoughtâyou werenât built for this life.
Because she looked at you and thoughtâyou shouldnât be here.
You werenât a killer. You werenât a soldier. You werenât someone who should have had to claw and scrape your way through the darkness of Gotham.
You should have had a normal life.
You could have had a normal life.
And maybe, maybeâif she had pushed harder, if she had done more, if she had made you see what she sawâmaybe you would have left this life.
Maybe if she had pushed harder, you wouldnât have ended up like this.
You wouldnât be here, six feet under, with a name carved into stone and a body lost to the dirt.
Maybe she could have been there.
Maybe she could have saved you.
Cassandra clenched her jaw, her fists tightening further.
No.
That wasnât even it.
That wasnât even the truth.
It wasnât about whether you should have been a vigilante. It wasnât about whether or not you belonged in this life.
It was about her.
It was about the choices she had made.
If she hadnât thought she knew what was best for youâif she hadnât dismissed you before even giving you a chanceâmaybe things would have been different.
If she had helped you instead of discouraging youâif she had guided you instead of pushing you awayâmaybe you wouldnât have felt so alone in this.
Maybe you wouldnât have felt like you had to prove yourself at every turn.
Maybe you wouldnât have pushed yourself so farâso recklessly, so relentlesslyâthat your body had begged you to stop, had screamed at you to rest, and yet, you had ignored it anyway.
Because you had something to prove.
To yourself.
To everyone else.
To her.
And why?
Because she had made you feel like you werenât enough.
Like you werenât competent enough, werenât worthy enough, to stand beside them.
Like you had to earn your place in a way that no one else had to.
And thatâ
That was what crushed her.
That was what made her stomach churn and her chest tighten, what made her fingers twitch at her sides and her jaw clench until it ached.
Because she had done that.
She had made you feel that way.
And it had cost you your life.
If she had just been thereâif she had helped you, taught you, stayed by your side as a sister should, instead of leaving you to figure everything out on your ownâmaybe you wouldnât have needed to push yourself to the brink just to keep up.
Maybe you wouldnât have felt like you had to bleed just to prove you deserved to be by their side. By her side.
Maybeâjust maybeâ
You would still be here.
She didnât know where the thought came from, only that it settled deep inside her, heavier than stone.
She should be used to loss. It was part of the job, part of the life they all lived. People died. People left. That was just how things were.
But Cassandra Cain didnât know how to exist in a world that didnât have you in it.
Why?
Because your presence had been undeniable.
Not in the way that others were loudânot in the way Dick filled a room with laughter, or in the way Jason made his presence known with his sharp words and sharper gaze, or in the way Tim existed like a shadow, quiet but calculating.
No.
You were present in the littlest ways. The kind of ways that most people overlooked.
But she noticed.
She always noticed.
The way you drummed your fingers against your thigh when you were thinkingânot impatient, not absentminded, just⌠rhythmic, like you were keeping time to a song only you could hear.
The way you always lingered in a doorway before stepping inside, as if you were gauging the room, the people, the atmosphereâlike you needed to prepare yourself before crossing the threshold.
The way your shoulders stiffened whenever someone called your name unexpectedly, like you were always bracing for something, like you had learned a long time ago that being noticed wasnât always a good thing.
The way your eyes softened, just barely, whenever you looked at her.
The way you tilted your head when you were confused, the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were frustrated, the way your fingers twitched whenever you held back from saying something.
The way you carried yourselfâquiet, but never unnoticed. Soft, but never weak.
You had been everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
In the way the floorboards creaked in a rhythm only you walked in. In the faint scent of your shampoo that lingered in the halls long after you passed through them. In the way the air felt just a little different when you were aroundâcharged, like something unspoken was always hanging in the space between you and everyone else.
And nowâ
Now you were gone.
And the world felt wrong.
Her nails bit into her palms as she exhaled sharply.
The weight in her chest grew heavier, suffocating, pressing against her ribs until she could barely breathe.
She wanted to say sorry.
For not being there when it mattered.
For not being the sister you had wanted her to be.
For all the times you had reached for her and she had turned away.
But apologies were meaningless now.
There was no use in apologizing to a grave.
The dead could not hear the apologies of the living.
And she hatedâhatedâhow it seemed like she just wanted to get rid of the guilt, like this was just another weight on her shoulders that she was desperate to shake off.
It wasnât that.
It wasnât about making herself feel better.
But to anyone else, it might seem shallow, like she was just trying to justify her regrets.
And thatâ
That was when she exhaled sharply, her voice quiet, raw, and firm.
âI failed her.â
Duke stiffened beside her.
âCassâŚâ
âNo.â
She finally moved.
Finally stood.
Her knees ached from kneeling too long, but she ignored the feeling, ignored the way the world spun for half a second before steadying again.
She looked down at the graveâat your name, your absence, the proof that you were really, truly, gone.
âThereâs a lot of things I regret,â she admitted, her voice steady. âA lot of things I should have done. A lot of things I shouldnât have done.â
She exhaled.
âBut there is no use feeling this way whenââ
She stopped.
When what?
When you were already gone?
When nothing she did would change that?
When no amount of guilt, no amount of grief, no amount of anything would ever bring you back?
Duke watched her, silent, waiting.
And finallyâshe finished.
âThere is no use feeling this way when the only person who could have forgiven me isnât here anymore.â
Duke inhaled sharply. His lips partedâready to argue, ready to refute, ready to tell her that it wasnât her fault.
But he didnât.
Because she was right.
And they both knew it.
There was nothing either of themâor anyone elseâcould do.
The damage was done.
You were gone.
And Cassandra would have to live with that. He would have to live with that.
She turned to Duke, her expression unreadable, her body language tight.
Her shoulders were stiff, arms curled inwards, fingers twitching ever so slightly at her sides. A silent scream compressed into muscle and bone, into tension that refused to unravel. Her breath was steady, too steady, the kind of control that only came when someone was barely holding themselves together.
And then, after a momentâ
He moved first.
Slowly, carefully, as if giving her the chance to pull away, to reject the gesture before it even landed. But she didnât.
So he pulled her into a hugâstrong, firm, grounding.
A weight. A warmth. A presence she didnât realize she needed until she was sinking into it.
Cassandra didnât resist.
Didnât hesitate.
She didnât go rigid, didnât pull away out of habit, didnât keep that careful distance she always did when she wasnât sure how to accept comfort.
No.
She closed her eyes and let herself feel.
For the first time in hours. In days. In what felt like foreverâshe let herself be held.
Let herself be comforted.
Even though she didnât feel like she deserved it.
Because what right did she have to be comforted when you werenât here?
What right did she have to grieve you when she had been part of the reason you were gone?
But Duke didnât let go.
He held onto her like he understood. Like he knew that if he let go, she might just disappear, might crumble into something irreparable, something that grief would consume whole.
So she stayed.
And for nowâ
For now, that would have to be enough.
128 hours, 13 minutes, and 27 seconds.
Thatâs how long itâs been since Gotham fell into chaos. Since the family fell into shambles.
Since you took your last breath.
Timâs fingers twitched over the console, knuckles pale, hands locked into position as if frozen mid-action. The blue glow of the Batcomputer flickered against his face, casting long, sharp shadows that made the bags under his eyes seem deeper, his expression more hollow.
He hadnât slept. Hadnât moved. Had barely breathed.
Because he couldnât stop watching.
The footage looped again. And again. And again.
Warehouse. Low light. South Gotham docks. Camera angle, elevatedâone of Batmanâs hidden surveillance feeds.
You moved like a ghost. A shadow.
A blur of motion cutting through the dark.
Tim rewound the footage. Slowed it down. Watched. Memorized. Analyzed.
His eyes were red from the hours of staring at the screen. The footage ran in a constant loop, a ghostly reminder of everything that had gone wrong. He couldnât stop. He couldnât look away, even though he knew it wouldnât change anything. Maybe this time, thereâll be something he missed.
Thatâs what he told himself.
It was a sickening kind of hope, one born from desperation. He needed somethingâanythingâthat would prove this wasnât just another casualty of the mess they lived in. This wasnât an accident. He couldnât let it be an accident. If it was, then what was the point? What was the point of all of this? If it was just an accident, if this was just the way things always were, then what the hell was he even doing here? What was the point of it all?
What was the point of all the fights, the struggles, the years of fighting against the darkness if it could just snuff out a life like that, without any warning? Tim couldnât accept it.
His heart hammered in his chest as he hit replay again. He didnât even realize how many times he had watched this same clip. How many times he had gone over it, scrutinizing every frame, searching for something that wasnât there. Thereâs something.
There has to be something.
A sign.
A clue.
Anything to prove this was deliberate, something he can blame.
But no matter how many times he watched it, no matter how many hours he spent scrutinizing every damn detail, nothing would change. Nothing could undo what had already been done.
But still, he couldnât stop himself. He had to watch. He had to know. He had to find the why, the how, the reason behind it.
Why had you gone in alone?
Why hadnât anyone been there for you?
Why hadnât he been there?
The rest of the world had moved on, or at least tried to. Gotham was still reeling from the explosion of chaos that followed the takedown of the drug ring youâd infiltrated. The criminals, the ones youâd exposed, some of them were caught, while others were already on the run, their operations disrupted in ways they hadnât anticipated. The whole damn city had been thrown into disarray because of this.
Tim gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He felt a knot twist in his stomach, one he couldnât untangle, no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to blame the criminals. He wanted to blame them for everything. For the sudden rise in crimes. For the sudden disarray in Gotham. But it wasnât them. He couldnât make himself believe that. No. It wasnât their fault. Not exactly.
It was yours. It was yours and no one elseâs.
Itâs all because of you.
That thought stung, burned in the pit of his stomach, and yet it lingered, demanding to be acknowledged. Tim didnât want to think that wayâhe didnât want to blame you. But how could he ignore it? You had done your job, youâd exposed something they couldnât ignore, but now it was a nightmare. Gotham was chaos, because of you.
No.
He slammed his fist on the desk, glaring at the footage, refusing to accept that thought. No, this wasnât your fault. It couldnât be. It was never supposed to happen like this. You had been right about the drug ring, and you had fought damn hard to stop it, all by yourself. But thatâs where it went wrong, wasnât it? You hadnât called for backup. You hadnât reached out. If you hadâif you had just asked for someone, anything, anyoneâmaybe you would still be here.
Tim couldnât stop the wave of anger that crashed over him. But it wasnât at the criminals who had shot you, it wasnât even at the fact that Gotham had spiraled into a warzone. No. It was at you.
Fuck.
Even now, after everything, he was the one left to clean up your mess. The same way he always had. The same way he always would. The same he always did. But this timeâ
This time, you werenât there to hear him run through the details, to see the frustration in his eyes when things went sideways. You were gone.
And that was the most fucked up part of it all.
Where had it all gone wrong? When had things shifted from predictable to catastrophic? What had gone wrong between your last breath and his desperate attempts to piece together every detail, every frame of this damn footage? How many more people did he have to lose before he could just accept it?
Timâs hands tightened around the desk, nails digging into the cool surface, but his thoughts kept spiraling out of control. He should be used to this by now. Loss. Death. People getting torn away from him like everything was just so damn fragile. But no. He wasnât used to it. No matter how many times he told himself he should be, no matter how many people heâd lost, he wasnât.
It never got easier.
It was almost too much. Too much to bear, but it wouldnât stop. The losses he faced just kept looping over and over again. The image of you, falling to the floor of that warehouse, blood pooling beneath you.
Tim exhaled shakily, his nails scraping against the desk as he forced himself to take another breath. His chest was tight, his ribs felt like they were caving in, like his own body was rejecting the sheer weight of everything. But he couldnât stop. He couldnât stop watching. Couldnât stop looking at you, frozen in time, caught in the endless cycle of your last moments.
The footage looped again. And again. And again.
His brain wouldnât stop dissecting it, wouldnât stop scrutinizing every movement, every frame, as if the sheer force of his obsession could change something. As if watching it just one more time would suddenly make it all make sense.
But it didnât. It never did.
He slammed the replay button, forcing the video back to the start, watching as you darted through the shadows, your movements swift and efficient. You had been so sure of yourself. You had to be, because you wouldnât have done this otherwise, right? You wouldnât have gone in without backup unless you knew you could handle it. Unless you thought you had no other choice.
Right?
But why?
Why?
Why hadnât you asked him for help? Or anyone else for the matter.
Tim dug the heel of his palm into his eye, as if he could press the questions out of his skull, force them into submission.
Hah. Who was he fooling?
He knew why.
Because this wasnât the first time.
This wasnât the first time youâd come to him with a lead, eyes sharp and voice brimming with certainty. Youâd always been like thatâso sure, so goddamn convinced that you were right. And most of the time?
You werenât.
Tim had been the one to prove it almost every time, the one who always had to go back, retrace your steps, find the gaps in your logic, the flaws in your deductions. Heâd been the one who had to clean up after you when things didnât go the way you expected.
And this timeâ
This time, you had been right.
The realization hit him like a knife to the gut, twisting, tearing.
You had been right. You had exposed something big, something that should have been on their radar, something that had been festering in Gotham for longer than any of them had realized.
And it had cost you.
Timâs hands trembled over the keyboard, his fingers curling into fists. Thatâs why he canât blame you. Thatâs why he canât let himself be angry at you.
Not really.
Because if it hadnât been for you, this whole operation would have gone unnoticed. Would have slipped through the cracks, just like so many things before it.
You had forced them to see it.
And now Gotham was paying the price.
Now you had paid the price.
Tim gritted his teeth, his breath unsteady.
If you had justâ
If you had just waited.
If you had just asked for help.
If you had just asked him for help.
His vision blurred for a moment, but he wasnât sure if it was from exhaustion or frustration or something worse. He swiped at his face, barely noticing the wetness on his fingers before his hand hovered over the keyboard again. He had toâ
âTim.â
The voice cut through the haze of his spiraling thoughts like a gunshot.
He barely reacted. His shoulders tensed, his gaze stayed locked on the screen, his fingers frozen above the keys.
âTim.â
He heard her footsteps approaching, the sharpness in her tone laced with something elseâexasperation, frustration. Concern.
He ignored it.
The footage replayed.
Again.
And again.
âTim.â
He didnât turn. Didnât blink.
And then there was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him away from the screen, forcing him to look up, to register the anger, the exhaustion, the raw frustration carved into her expression.
Stephanie.
âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â
Tim blinked at her, dazed, uncomprehending.
Stephanieâs jaw clenched, her grip tightening. âAre you even aware of whatâs happening out there? Gotham is a fucking mess. And youâre down hereâwhat? Watching the same damn footage on repeat? Watching (Name) die over and over again?? Like itâs going to change something?â
Timâs fingers twitched. His throat felt dry, his voice rough when he finally spoke. âI have toââ
âNo, you donât.â Her voice cracked, just slightly, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something harsher. âYou donât, Tim. Youâre justââ She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. âJesus Christ, do you even know where Damian is?â
That made Tim hesitate.
Stephanieâs eyes narrowed. âYeah. Thatâs what I thought.â
Tim swallowed, his jaw locking. âIâmââ
âYouâre what?â she cut in, voice sharp and furious. âBusy? Too busy staring at a screen, trying toâwhat? Bring her back? Figure out some convoluted explanation that makes this make sense?â
Tim flinched.
And Stephanie didnât stop.
âBecause guess what, Tim? It doesnât make sense. It never makes sense. And you just sitting here, watching her die on repeat? Analysing her every move, every breath, every mistake? Itâs not going to fix anything.â
Tim exhaled, slow and shaky, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.
âBruce, Jason and Damian are god knows where. Dickâs gone on a rampage. Cass and Duke are off on their own, trying to keep shit from burning down completely. Helena and Kate are out there trying to contain the damageâwe had to call Dinah in because there arenât enough of usââ
Her breath hitched, her voice shaking now, but she pushed forward, because Stephanie Brown didnât stop when things got hard.
âAnd you? Youâre here. Acting like this is going to change anything.â
Timâs fingers curled into fists.
Stephanie shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. âSheâs gone, Tim.â
âSheâs not gone.â
Timâs breath was coming in quick, ragged bursts. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he wasnât sure if it was from frustration or the way Stephanie was looking at him right nowâlike she couldnât believe the words coming out of his mouth.
âSheâs not deadâŚ!â His voice cracked, but he barely noticed. His hands slammed against the desk, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles went white. âShe canât be deadâshe justââ
âTim, do you even hear yourself right now?!â Stephanie snapped, stepping closer. â(Name) is dead! Dead, Tim! And you need to startââ
âNo.â He shook his head, refusing to let her finish. âNo, because what about all the other people we thought were dead? Superman. Bruce. Conner. Bart.â His voice was climbing now, chest heaving as his mind raced faster than his words. âAnd youâyou, Stephanie. Every single one of you somehow came back to life, whether it was because you werenât actually dead, or you were brought back byââ
âThatâs not the same thing!â Stephanieâs voice was sharp, but Tim didnât stop.
âIt is the same thing!â His eyes were wide now, wild with something he didnât know how to name. âSuperman was literally killed, and what happened? He came back. Bruceâwe buried him, and guess what? He wasnât even dead! Connerâhe died during Infinite Crisis and came back! Bart sacrificed himself during ââ His breath hitched, and he barely held it together. âAnd you.â His voice was shaking now. âYou faked your death, Steph. You let me and everyone think you were dead for months...! And yetââ
Stephanie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. âBut this is different, Tim! Sheâs different!â
âHow?! How is this different?â
âBecause she was shot, Tim!â Stephanie practically shouted, frustration burning in her chest. âShe wasnât resurrected by some Kryptonian regeneration matrix, or caught in some bullshit time displacement! She wasnât lost in the timestream like Bruce, or cloned by some insane scientist, or mysteriously revived by the Speed Force! She was shot! Bullets went through her, Tim! Thereâs no coming back from that!â
Timâs breath stuttered, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head rapidly.
âNo,â he muttered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. âNo, that doesnât make sense. It doesnât make sense. Her suit was reinforcedâthereâs no way a bullet could haveââ
âBecause we werenât prepared, Tim!â Stephanie cut in, her voice cracking. âShe wasnât prepared! Those bullets werenât normalâthose werenât some cheap rounds from street dealersâthey were made of promethium, Tim. Promethium. Her suit wasnât designed to withstand that kind of impact.â
Tim faltered for half a second.
But it wasnât enough.
âNo.â His voice was flat, empty. âNo, because if thatâs true, then that meansââ His breath hitched again, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. âThat means she wasnât supposed to die.â His voice grew distant, his mind racing through every scenario. âThat means there was a way we could have stopped this. That means there was a way I could haveââ
Stephanieâs head snapped up, eyes narrowing.
âYou always do this,â she seethed, voice shaking. âYou always think itâs on you to fix everythingâto stop everything before it happens.â Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. âWell, guess what, Tim? Not everything is your fault.â
Tim let out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. âOh yeah? Because it sure as hell feels like it is.â
Stephanie inhaled sharply, rage flaring in her chest.
âSheâs gone, Tim,â she said, her voice dangerously low. âAnd youâre sitting here acting like youâre the only one who lost her.â
Tim flinched at that.
Sheâs right.
How could she not be?
âYou think youâre the only one hurting?â Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. âYou think youâre the only one who canât believe sheâs actually gone?â She shook her head, frustration bleeding into every word. âNewsflash, TimâI canât believe it either. None of us can.â Her breathing was uneven now, the weight of the past few days pressing down on her like a vice. âBut youââ She exhaled sharply. âYou and (Name)? You werenât even close.â
Stephanie saw Tim stiffen, and she felt her throat tightened, but she didnât stop. Even though she knew she didnât have any right to say the next few words.
âI mean, I canât even talk, right? Because itâs not like she and I were friends or anything. But whatever we had was at least somethingâmore than whatever the hell was going on between you two.â She swallowed, voice thick with something she refused to name. âSo why, Tim? Why are you acting like this? Like youâre the only one who lost her?â
Tim opened his mouthâthen closed it.
Because she was right.
And he hated that she was right.
Because he didnât know why.
Didnât know why this loss felt different.
Didnât know why it felt like he was suffocating on it.
Maybe because he had never taken loss well.
Maybe because every time he lost someone, it felt like another piece of him was being ripped away.
Maybe because he still wasnât convinced.
Maybe because he still felt like there was a way to fix this.
Before he could say anythingâbefore either of them could keep unravelingâa sharp, piercing alert rang through the cave, slicing through the air like a blade.
Stephanie jerked her head up, eyes narrowing. âWhat the hell was that?â
Timâs entire body went rigid.
He turned to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. His heart pounded against his ribs, his stomach twisting. His eyes scanned the system logsâ
And then he froze.
Stephanie immediately stepped closer. âTim?â
Tim didnât move.
âTim.â
Nothing.
Then, slowlyâso slowlyâhe turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable.
ââŚThatâs the alert Bruce installed at the graveyards.â
Stephanie felt her stomach drop.
âWhat?â
Tim swallowed, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper.
âItâs an alert that goes off whenever someone is digging up the graves.â
Stephanieâs breath caught in her throat.
And thenâ
Tim clenched his jaw.
âThe alert that just sounded⌠was for (Name)âs grave.â
The Batcave was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with solitude, nor the kind that settled between brief moments of stillness.
Noâthis silence was suffocating.
Not in the literal senseâthere was no smoke, no lack of oxygen, no pressing physical force keeping them in place. But the weight in the air, the way it clung to their skin and settled in their bones, made it impossible to ignore.
It was the kind of silence that pressed against their ribs like iron bars, the kind that wrapped itself around their throats and made it hard to breathe. It was the kind of silence that wasnât truly silent at allâbecause beneath it, there was tension, rage, a storm waiting to break.
The only sounds were the quiet hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional distant drip of water echoing through the cavernous walls. Even the bats that lurked in the high crevices seemed to hold their breath.
It had been silent since they got back.
Not the comfortable silence of routine, not the practiced quiet of soldiers working in tandem, but a silence teeteringâon the edge of something irreversible, something that could snap at any second.
Bruce had yet to turn around.
His back remained to them, shoulders squared, posture impossibly still, and yetâsomehow, in some unnatural way, he still managed to command the entire room. Still made every breath feel like it had to be earned, like speaking out of turn might shatter something fragile and irreparable.
But the silence couldnât last forever.
Bruceâs voice, when it finally came, was low and sharp as a blade.
âDamian.â
His name cut through the air like a blade.
Damian inhaled sharply, but he did not falter.
His shoulders squared, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw locked in a way that made his teeth ache, and he forced himself to meet Bruceâs gaze when his father finally turned around.
âWhy did you do it?â Bruceâs hands had curled into fists at his sides.
âI had to take a chance.â
The words left him before he could second-guess them, before he could even consider any other way to phrase it. As if putting it any other way would make a difference. As if making it sound more reasonable, more calculated, more understandable would change anything.
Bruceâs stare didnât waver.
His response was immediate.
âNo.â His voice was harsher now, dangerously close to breaking. âThis isnât the way.â
The words were spoken like a fact. As if there was no arguing it, as if the conversation should have ended right there, as if Damian had already lost.
But he hadnât.
Because this wasnât about right or wrong.
This wasnât about rules.
This was about you.
âWhy not?â
His voice came sharper this time, cracking through the space between them, pushing against the weight of Bruceâs certainty, forcing something else into the silence. Something raw. Something desperate.
âI had to take a chance.â
He had to.
He had to.
Bruce inhaled, slow and measured, before exhaling just as steadily.
When he spoke again, his voice was still calm.
Unshaken.
And somehow, that only made it worse.
â(Name) is dead, Damian.â
A sharp breath.
His stomach twisted violently.
His body tensed, his nails pressing so hard into his palms that the sting barely even registered. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, but outwardly, he refused to react.
He refused.
âSheâs notââ
âDamian.â
Bruceâs voice cut through his own, and the finality in it sent something cold shooting down his spine.
But he shoved it down.
He wouldnât accept this.
He couldnât.
Damianâs hands curled into fists. âThen I should have gotten her to the pit sooner.â
âThatâs not how this works.â
âThen how does it work, Father?â Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the cave like a whip. âTell meâtell me how it makes any sense that Jason could be revived but notââ His voice caught for half a second, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. âNot her.â
Bruce didnât answer immediately.
And that silenceâit was almost worse than anything he could have said.
âThat was different.â
Damianâs fists clenched.
âHow?â
Bruce inhaled again, and something in the way he did itâsomething so controlled, so deliberateâmade Damianâs stomach twist even further.
âJason wasnât brought back to life by the Lazarus Pit.â His voice was firm, but there was something almost reluctant in the way he spoke, like he didnât want to explain this. Like saying it out loud would make something real. âThe pit only restored his mind. It erased the damage. Thatâs different from what you tried to do.â
The words felt like they didnât make sense.
Like they didnât fit.
Like they shouldnât exist.
Like they should be impossible.
But Bruceâ
His father was saying them like they were true.
Something shifted.
Something small.
But Damian noticed.
Bruce stopped speaking, his sentence left unfinished, hanging in the air like a rope about to snap.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
His jaw tightenedâjust slightly, just barely.
His mind racedâwhirring, unraveling, dissectingâbecause it should have worked.
He had done everything right.
He dug you out of your grave, broke through the dirt with his own two hands. He had brought you to the only Lazarus Pit in Gotham, he dragged your lifeless form across the damp cavern floors. He had submerged you into the emerald waters, the same way his mother had shown him, the same way it had worked before.
But nothing happened.
The pit remained still.
The water glowed, but it did not churn, did not surge with life.
It removed the scars youâve gotten over the years. But that was it.
Youâ
you did not wake up.
You remained still. Cold. Gone.
Why?
Why didnât it work?
It should have worked.
Unlessâ
A voice rang in his ears.
His motherâs voice.
âThe Lazarus Pit restores the body to its perfect conditionâbefore death.â
Before death.
Is that why?
Is that why the Lazarus Pit didnât work?
Jason was barely aliveâbarely saneâwhen he was thrown into the pit.
But he was alive.
And youâ
You werenât.
Damian couldnât say it.
Couldnât bear to say it.
No.
No, he refused to accept that.
You couldnât be gone. Not like this. Not this easily. Not this pathetically.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.
Something inside him cracked.
âYou knew.â
The words felt like an accusation.
Bruce didnât deny it.
Damianâs hands shook.
âYou knew it wouldnât work, didnât you?â His voice was quiet, but it carried through the cave like a gunshot.
Bruce still didnât deny it.
âYou knew, and you still let meââ
Damian felt himself faltering. He felt the words get caught in his throat.
âYou still let me dig her up.â
His throat tightened, and he felt something press down on his chest, something suffocating, something that refused to let him breathe properly.
âYou let me take her to the Lazarus Pit. You let me think it would workââ
Bruce inhaled, slow and even. âYou needed to see for yourself.â
Damianâs vision blurred for half a second.
Then he snapped.
âThatâs bullshit.â
Bruce remained still.
âYou wanted me to fail.â
Bruce remained silent.
âYou wanted me to seeââ His breath hitched. âThat she was reallyââ
He couldnât say it.
Because if he said itâif he let himself even breathe those wordsâ
It would be real.
Damian couldnât stand it.
Couldnât accept it.
Because how could he?
When you had died such a meaningless death?
When you had gone out like that?
He hadnât gone to your funeral.
Hadnât watched them lower you into the ground.
Hadnât stood beside the rest of them, listening to empty condolences and meaningless words.
No.
Because he couldnât.
Because he refused to accept that you were really gone.
Because you had always been so stubborn.
So reckless.
Because you shouldnât have died like that.
Because you should have let them help you.
Because it wasnât supposed to be like this.
But who was he to say that?
When he was just like you.
Stubborn. Reckless in his own way.
Just as self-destructive.
And it was eating him alive.
âShe wouldnât have wanted this.â
Damianâs eyes snapped toward Tim.
Tim, who had been standing quietly until now.
Tim, who looked like he was barely holding himself together.
Tim, who had alerted Bruceâwho had found Damian at the Lazarus Pit, alongside Stephanie.
Damian let out a sharp scoff. âHuh.â He tilted his head, voice dripping with something venomous. âAnd what would you know?â
Timâs expression flickeredâjust for a second.
âMore than you think.â
Damian scoffed, shaking his head. âNo. You wouldnât.â
Tim exhaled sharply. âYou think you knew her.â His voice was low, measured, but it wavered slightly. âBut you didnât.â
Damianâs chest tightened. âAnd you did?â
Timâs hands curled into fists.
Damian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. âYou hated her.â
Tim stiffened. His jaw clenched.
âNo, I didnât.â
The words were immediate. Unshaken.
And somehow, they hit harder than anything else so far.
âYou never even acknowledged her.â
âYes I didââ
âWell I suppose it wasnât enough apparently.â
Timâs breath stilled, his shoulders locking, his throat bobbing in a way that Damian almost wouldnât have noticed if he hadnât been looking for it.
âWell you pushed her away every chance you got,â Tim shot back, voice sharp, words cutting. âSo donât act like you actually cared.â
Damianâs fingers twitched.
âI did care.â
Tim exhaled, bitter.
âYeah? She definitely knew that for sure.â
Damian froze.
His breath hitched.
You knew.
You had to know.
Didnât you?
Even when he had insulted you, even when he had been a complete bastardâ
Even when he was cruel, even when he acted like you were nothing but a nuisance, even when he never said anythingâ
You had to have known.
Didnât you?
Didnât you?
âI had to take this chance,â Damian said, quieter, breath uneven, hands shaking. âBecause she was my sister.â
Timâs expression flickered.
And thenâ
âShe was my sister too.â
The words left Tim before he could stop them.
Before he could even think.
Everything stopped. The words lingered in the air, sinking into the silence like a blade buried deep into flesh.
She was my sister, too.
Tim hadnât meant to say it.
Hadnât planned it.
Hadnât even thought about it before the words just left his mouth, before they hit the space between them, before they cut into something raw, something real, something he hadnât even let himself acknowledge until it was already too late.
His own breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his pulse hammering against his skull as if his own body was trying to reject what heâd just said.
Because why now?
Why was he only saying it now?
Why was he only acknowledging it when you were alreadyâ
His throat locked up.
Damianâs fingers twitched.
His mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, as if to say something, but no words came out.
The air between them was thick, suffocating, the weight of everything pressing down on Timâs ribs so hard that he felt like he could barely breathe. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, like his own body didnât know how to process what had just happened.
âYou donât get to say that.â
Damianâs voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
Tim exhaled sharply, his jaw locking. âWhat?â
Damianâs shoulders squared, his arms stiff at his sides, his fingers still shaking even as he clenched them into fists. His breathing had turned uneven, almost unsteady, but his voiceâhis voice was sharp.
âYou donât get to say that.â
Tim scoffed, shaking his head, but he felt something tightening in his chest.
âI donât get to say that?â His voice came out bitter, biting, but his own hands were trembling slightly now. â(Name) was my sister too, Damian. Thatâs just a fact.â
Damianâs breath stilled.
For a split second, his body went completely still.
âThen why did you treat her like she wasnât?â
Timâs chest clenched. His breath hitched.
Damian took a step closer, voice cutting deeper, something sharp in his expression, something broken in his stare.
âWhy did you act like she didnât matter? Like she wasnât even worth your time? Why did you act like sheââ
His breath stuttered for half a second, something cracking through his voice before he forced it back down.
âYou pushed her away.â
Tim clenched his teeth. âThatâs rich coming from you.â
Damianâs hands twitched.
âI never pushed her away.â
âYou shut her out,â Tim snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. âYou resented her.â
Damianâs stomach twisted.
âI did not.â
âYou didnât care about her when she was alive.â
âI did.â
âYou barely even acknowledged herââ
âI did not hate her.â
âBut now you suddenly care?â Tim let out a bitter laugh. âNow, suddenly, sheâs your sister?â
âShe is my sister,â Damian snapped. âAnd you donât get to say otherwise.â
Timâs breath hitched.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Because thatâ
That wasnât the same thing.
That wasnâtâ
âThatâs not what I said.â
Damianâs nails dug into his palms.
âYeah, but itâs what you meant.â
Tim inhaled sharply, his hands twitching at his sides, something thick in his throat that he didnât want to name.
He shook his head, exhaling, his breath uneven. âYou think Iââ
âYou think I hated her?â Damian cut in, voice sharp, voice dangerous. âYou think I would have wannted her to die? You really think thatâs what I wanted all this time??â
Tim clenched his jaw, shaking his head. âThatâs not what Iâm sayingââ
âReally?â
Damian took another step forward, his body tense, his posture unreadable, his fingers curled into fists like he was trying so hard to keep himself steady, to keep himself from doing anything other than this.
âThen what are you saying?â
Tim exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop back to his side, something tight inside of him, something that was pressing too hard against his ribs, something that felt like it was clawing at his chest from the inside out.
âShe wouldnât have wanted this.â
Damian stilled.
âYou keep saying that,â Damian said, voice tight, voice low, voice lined with something Tim couldnât fully decipher. âLike you actually know what she wanted.â
Timâs throat tightened.
âYou didnât know her, Drake.â
A beat of silence.
âYou donât get to say that,â Tim said, voice shaking with something raw. âYou donât get to act like you gave a damn about her when it actually mattered.â
Damianâs eyes burned.
âYou donât get to act like you knew her, either,â he shot back, his voice venomous. âYou donât get to tell me what she would have wantedââ
Tim let out a breathless laugh. âAnd you do?â His voice was rising now, sharp with frustration. âYou think you had the right to drag her out of her grave and throw her into the Lazarus Pit because you couldnât deal with it?â
Damianâs stomach churned. âShut up.â
Tim stepped forward. âYou think she wouldâve wanted this?â
Damianâs nails dug into his palms.
And at that moment, Stephanie, whoâd be silently listening to the entire argument, stepped forward. âOkay, thatâs enough, guysââ
âYou think she wouldâve wanted to wake up in that pitâif she even could?â Timâs voice cracked slightly, but he didnât stop. âTo wake up wrong?â
âNo,â Tim interrupted, his voice raw. He stepped closer, his fists trembling at his sides. âYou think youâre the only one who wanted her back?â His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. âYou think youâre the only one who couldnât accept it?â
Damian exhaled sharply, looking away.
âYou thiink youâre the only one whoâs thought of dumping her in a Lazarus Pit, hoping that somehowââ
Timâs breath caught.
He stopped.
Because he couldnât say it either.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
Would make it final.
That there really was no way of bringing you back to life.
And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Neither of them moved.
âThatâs enough.â
Bruceâs voice cut through the air, sharp, commanding, absolute.
Tim sucked in a breath.
Damianâs hands shook.
Silence.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. Almost unbearable.
Tim felt his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath still uneven, his body still tense from the argumentâno, from the fight. Because thatâs what this was.
Damian wasnât even looking at him anymore.
His hands were curled into fists so tight that his knuckles had turned white, his shoulders were stiff, his breath was shallow, and his entire posture was wound so tightly that Tim thought he might just snap.
But he wouldnât.
Not in front of Bruce.
Bruce, who had spoken with finality, whose voice had cut through the air like a blade, sharp enough to make even Damian shut up.
Tim swallowed, dragging a hand down his face before exhaling sharply, tryingâfailingâto let go of the tension clawing at his chest. His other hand clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm, grounding him, steadying him, because if he didnât, he wasnât sure what would happen.
Damian still wasnât looking at him.
He wasnât looking at Bruce either.
He was staring straight ahead, at the cave floor, at something that wasnât even there, his entire body locked up, unreadable, unreadable, unreadableâ
And then his gaze shifted.
Just barely.
Tim saw the exact moment his eyes landed on your body.
âor, at least, where your body should have been.
You were still there.
Your body was still there.
They had laid you down. Covered you up with a white sheet. Tim hadnât been the one to do itâhe didnât even know who had done it, if it was Bruce, or Stephanie, or if they had both done it together, but he knew it hadnât been him.
He hadnât looked.
Not really.
He hadnât let himself.
Damianâs fingers twitched.
His breathing hitched.
And then, before anyone could say anythingâbefore Bruce could look at him, before Tim could process anything, before Stephanie could even moveâ
Damian turned and stormed out of the cave.
His boots struck the floor hard, fast, and then he was gone.
Stephanie opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it.
Bruce was already turning back toward the Batcomputer, already refocusing, already shutting down, because that was what he did. That was how he functioned.
Tim exhaled sharply.
The tension in his chest was still there.
Still suffocating.
Still unbearable.
He thought back to what heâd said. Thought back to what Damian did.
And Tim hated how he wouldâve done the exact same thing Damian did if he were given the chance to.
Hated he was just like Damian in that sense.
Without a word, without a look, without a second thoughtâ
Tim turned and left, too.
The alley reeked of rain-soaked asphalt and cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to the air long after the ember had burned out. A flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows against the crumbling brick, the light barely reaching past the fog curling along the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailedâshort-lived, swallowed by the cityâs restless hum.
Then came the scratch of a lighter, a brief glow illuminating a worn trench coat, a sharp inhale followed by a slow exhale, smoke drifting through the damp air.
âWell, ainât this a bloody mess.â
woops⌠đŹ heyyy guysâŚ!! 𫣠did yâall miss me HAHA. this was definitely long overdue⌠i think i probably gave yall trust issues đ actual chapter 7 will be out at utc+8 12am on 14 Feb đĽ°
taglist is closed âźď¸(iâll think about opening it again soon đ¤Ť)
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The sharp cool air bit at your cheeks as you walked down the streets of Gotham, the din of the city surrounding you. People rushed past, bundled up and hurried, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were too loud, replaying the awkward lunch with Barbara.
And Dick.
You knew they planned it. It wasnât a coincidence. Dick showing up just as Barbara tried to soften you up? His concerned eyes, his cautious tone, the way he leaned forward every time he spokeâas if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.
You didnât hate them for trying. But you couldnât sit there and let them pick at the wound theyâd left in you.
The moment Dick started talking about âyour lifeâ and how âyou both havenât spent some time togetherâ, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadnât meant to leave so quickly. But the words had stuck in your throat, choking you. You made some excuse about having plans and got out of there as fast as you could without outright running.
It wasnât a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But âlaterâ was still a few hours away. You couldâve stayed and talked to them. You couldâve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.
But you couldnât do it.
Why couldnât you?
The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didnât understand it entirely. Sure, you had expected to feel awkward seeing them again after all this time, maybe a little angry. That much made sense. But what you felt in there was something else entirely. Something heavier. Sharper.
It was like a storm had cracked open inside of you, filling your veins with rage and grief that didnât belong to you.
It didnât feel like you. No, that wasnât right.
It did belong to youâit just wasnât yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought youâd left behind.
Sixteen year old you.
That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestreamâpresumed deadâand the weight of Gothamâs shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyoneâs shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were usefulâthat you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one whoâd walked away with more bruises inside than out⌠thatâs what youâd felt.
Your older self had moved onâor at least you thought you had. You werenât that angry, reckless kid anymore. Youâd told yourself you understood why Dick and Barbara did what they did, even if it hurt. You had buried whatever sort of negative emotions you felt back then. Youâd told yourself you forgave them. Because they meant well.
They only did what they thought was right at the moment.
But sitting across from them just moments ago, seeing their faces, hearing their voicesâit all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought youâd buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.
And it wasnât fair. Not to them, and not to you either. But it was there, clawing at your chest, screaming for attention.
None of this matters, you told yourself.
It shouldnât matter.
Not now. Not anymore.
You werenât sixteen. You werenât the same girl who needed their validation to feel whole.
So why was that old pain refusing to go away? Why was it still clawing at your chest like it was desperate to be heard?
Was it because you were back in this time? Back to when the wounds were still fresh, when everything was falling apart?
The ache throbbed like a second heartbeat, making you grit your teeth.
You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus. None of this would matter in a few hours when you were with Caitlyn and Adrien. For now, you just needed to clear your head.
As you walked, your mind wandered aimlessly through the noise of Gothamâs streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice muchâthe chaotic honking of cabs, the sharp clatter of hurried pedestrians, or the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Everything was muffled, distant, like the city itself was trying to fade into the background.
Thatâs why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.
âWhoa!â
The force slammed into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You staggered a step, your boots scraping against the pavement as you barely managed to steady yourself.
Blinking, you looked down to see a small figure sprawled on the sidewalk.
âHey, you okay?â you asked, your voice softening as you knelt down to check on the kid.
The kid on the ground, no older than nine you think, was rubbing his back, wincing. His round face scrunched up, his wide brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, blinked up at you.
âYeah,â he muttered, looking up at you. âSorry. I wasnât looking.â
You sighed, offering him a hand. âNo, itâs okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure youâre not hurt?â
He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. Thatâs when you noticed itâa scrape on his shin, the fabric of his pants slightly torn. A thin trail of blood trickled down his pale skin, standing out starkly in the cold light of the afternoon.
âHold on,â you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. âSit here for a second, okay?â
The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.
âIâll be right back,â you promised, already heading towards the convenience store on the corner.
Inside, you quickly grabbed a small bottle of antispetic, some wipes and a pack of bandages, rushing back to where the kid sat. The boy was still swinging his legs, humming softly to himself as he traced the patterns on the bench.
âOkay,â you said, kneeling in front of him again. âThis might sting a little.â
The boy just shrugged. âItâs fine. Iâm used to it.â
You arched an eyebrow but didnât comment. As carefully as you could, you wiped the scrape clean, dabbing at the blood with gentle precision. He flinched only once, biting his lips to keep from making a sound, but his tiny hands gripped the edge of the bench tightly.
âThere,â you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. âGood as new.â
The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. âThanks! You didnât have to do that.â
âSure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. âIt was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.â
He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. âIt wasnât your fault! I wasnât watching where I was going. I was running.â
âRunning, huh?â you asked, tilting your head. âWhy the rush?â
He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. âI like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!â
The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. âA superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You donât want to go running into the wrong kind of person.â
âI wonât!â he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. âI will run really fast, so no one can catch me!â
âGood plan,â you said, giving him an approving nod.
He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. âMy nameâs Elliot, by the way.â
âNice to meet you, Elliot. Iâm (Name).â
âNice to meet you too!â
He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. âYouâre really nice. Are you from around here?â
âYeah. I live nearby.â
You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. âWhat about you?â
âI live at the orphanage,â he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. âThe one down the street?â
âYeah.â
There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.
âHow long have you been there?â you asked, leaning back slightly.
He shrugged. âI dunno. A while, I guess. I donât really remember anything else.â
The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and uncomfortable. The casual way he said it made something twist in your chest. You cleared your throat. âWell, you should be more careful running around out here. Gothamâs not exactly the friendliest city, you know.â
He nodded earnestly at your words.
âJust donât go running into any supervillains, okay?â
He giggled. âOkay!â
Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. âAll right, kid. Youâre good to go. Take care of yourself.â
âOkay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!â he said, hopping off the bench.
You watched as Elliot disappeared into the crowd, his small figure weaving through the bustling pedestrains with ease. The city swallowed him up in seconds, his bright energy and carefree smile lingering only in your memory.
And then all of a suddenâŚ. something hit you.
Flashes. Sharp and sudden, like a flood of images pouring into your brain.
You saw Elliot. But not on the street. He was in a dimly lit room, his wide eyes filled with fear. Shadows moved around himâfigures closing in. You heard muffled cries, the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor.
And then it was gone.
You gasped sharply, your breath catching in your throat, as you clutched the back of the bench for support. The world tilted for a moment before steadying again, but the ache in your chest hadnât left.
âWhat the hell was that?â you muttered, your voice trembling.
You glanced back toward the spot where Elliot had disappeared, your pulse racing. The flashes still lingered in your mind like afterimages, vivid and unshakable. You could still feel the weight of his fear, the sharp edges of the shadows closing in on him.
It felt real. Too real.
But it couldnât be.
Could it?
Your chest tightened as you wrestled with the questions clawing their way to the surface. What was that? A vision? A hallucination? Youâd never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldnât comprehend.
Your gaze darted over the crowded street, searching for the small boy, but he was long gone. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand and demand answersâeven if you werenât sure what those answers could possibly be. Another part of you felt frozen, stuck in the swirling chaos of your own thought.
Even if you did catch up to Elliot, would he be able to give you the explanation you needed? From the looks of it, the kid seemed fine. He looked content with where he was, content with his life. Nothing seemed amiss.
Nothing�
No. There was something amiss.
His clothes.
They werenât in terrible shape, but they were clearly oldâfaded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they werenât new. Passed down. Not what youâd expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprisesâ charity foundations.
Your fatherâs charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliotâs oversized coat and scuffed shoes didnât fit that picture.
But that wasnât proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicionsâjust flashes of fear and shadows that may not have even been real. For all you knew, it was nothing. Your mind could have been playing tricks on you, filling in blanks that didnât exist.
Still, the thought gnawed at you, refusing to let go. There was more to this. There had to be. And you knew it. You had to check this out. You had to investigate thisâ
But then came the reminder: you werenât Batgirl anymore.
You clenched your jaw at the thought. Youâd quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. Youâd promised yourself that you wouldnât go backânot for anyone, not for any reason.
But what if there was something deeper here? What if those flashes were real, not some random trick of your mind? You couldnât ignore it. Not completely.
A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasnât who you were anymore. And yet, you couldnât just let it go.
For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line youâd set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputerâs database. If there was something wrong, thereâd be recordsâstaff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.
Youâd start there. That much, at least, was safe.
You had other plans with Caitlyn and Adrien. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until later.
âŚ..
Damnit. You couldnât wait. This couldnât wait.
With that, you turned to head towards the orphanage down the street. You had to see with your own eyes that Elliot was okay. That what you experienced was a figment of your fucked up imagination.
The orphanage loomed ahead as you walked down the street, its iron gates standing tall, though not imposing. A modest building of faded red brick with large, neatly trimmed hedges lining its perimeter, it seemed well-maintained. The kind of place that didnât scream luxury but gave the impression of care.
You hesitated just outside the gate, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars as you peered inside. The soft sound of laughter drifted through the crisp air, and you spotted a handful of kids running around in the garden. A boy and girl were tossing a ball back and forth while another group of kids crouched near a flowerbed, clearly engaged in some secretive game.
And then you saw him.
Elliot.
He was in the middle of the yard, darting between two other kids as they played an energetic game of tag. His oversized coat flapped as he ran, his laughter echoing through the space. His carefree smile, his bright energyâit was a relief to see.
You let out a breath you hadnât realized youâd been holding.
He was fine. He looked fine. And so did the rest of the kids.
Maybe you were imagining things after all. Lack of sleep? Stress? Yeah, probably. The flashes youâd seen earlier couldnât have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.
Still, you couldnât shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didnât give off any bad vibes. The garden was tidy, the kids seemed happy, and the building looked well-maintained. But something about it all still felt off.
You leaned against the gate, lost in thought. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or was there actually something here you were missing?
âCan I help you?â
The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch.
Your eyes snapped up, landing on an older woman standing just beyond the gate. She was thin, with silver hair neatly pinned back, and she wore a pale green cardigan over a plain blouse. Her sharp, gray eyes studied you with polite curiosity.
âOh, uhâŚâ you stammered, stepping back from the gate. âSorry. I didnât mean toâuh, I wasnâtââ
Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. âNo need to apologize, dear. Itâs not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.â
You cringed internally at her words. Damn, the way she put it made you sound like a creep. But before you could say anything more, she stepped forward and gestured for you to follow. âWhy donât you come in for a cup of tea? Itâs much warmer inside.â
You hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the kids before nodding.
Inside, the orphanage was cozy but simple. The hallway walls were painted a soft beige, and framed pictures of smiling children lined the space. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.
The woman led you into a small sitting room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, and on it was a tray with a teapot and two mismatched cups.
âPlease, sit,â she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. âIâm Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?â
You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.
âSo,â she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. âWhat brings you here today?â
You hesitated, your hands warming against the cupâs surface as you searched for the right words. âI, uh⌠I was just⌠checking on one of the kids. I bumped into him earlier on the street, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.â
Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. âI see. Spying on children, were you?â
The way she said itâlighthearted and without maliceâmade your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. âThat sounds so bad. I didnât meanâugh.â You groaned, cringing at your own words. âI didnât mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.â
Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. âItâs quite all right. You donât seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?â
âHis nameâs Elliot,â you said, setting your cup down. âI just wanted to check in, thatâs all.â
âOh, Elliot,â she said, her tone light. âHeâs a lively one, isnât he? Always running around, full of energy.â
You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. âYeah. He seemed pretty happy.â
âOf course,â she said with a soft chuckle. âWe do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. Itâs not an easy task, but itâs rewarding.â
Breathing is steady.
No rapid blinking.
Stance isnât rigid.
No notable pupil dilation either.
Either sheâs telling the truth, or sheâs an excellent liar.
âHas he been here long?â you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.
âElliot? Ah, yes,â she said, setting her cup down. âHis parents passed away in a car accident when he was only a few months old if I remember correctly. There was no next of kin, and he ended up in my care. Heâs grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.â
You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. âThatâs good to hear.â
But it wasnât. The pit in your stomach only grew. You wanted to believe her, to convince yourself that everything was fine, that you were overthinking this. But the image of Elliotâs oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flashâthe fear in his eyes, the shadows.
You glanced around the room, taking in the neat but modest surroundings. There were no obvious red flags, no signs of neglect or mistreatment. And yet⌠something felt glaringly wrong.
âI donât mean to pry,â you said carefully, âbut I noticed his coat seemed a bit⌠old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?â
Mrs. Coleâs smile didnât waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. âWe do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations donât always cover everything weâd like.â
âRight,â you said, keeping your tone neutral. âWell, itâs great that youâre doing so much for them. Iâm sure itâs not an easy job.â
Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. âItâs a labor of love, as they say.â
You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanorâthe way sheâd hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responsesâset off alarm bells.
Her words sounded rehearsed, like something youâd hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didnât have proofânothing concreteâbut the flashes from earlier refused to leave your mind.
But maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were projecting, letting your own guilt and unresolved issues cloud your judgment. But you couldnât shake the feeling that there was more to this place than met the eye.
You finished your tea quickly, standing up and offering a polite smile. âThanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.â
âOf course,â she said, rising to her feet. âIt was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if youâd like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.â
You nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye as you stepped out into the cold air. The sound of laughter still drifted from the garden, but it felt distant, almost hollow.
Your mind raced as you walked away, replaying the conversation over and over. The flashes you experienced, the shadows closing inâthey didnât feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldnât ignore.
And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasnât saying. You were sure of it.
You glanced back at the orphanage, its brick walls bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
You werenât Batgirl anymore. You werenât a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.
Something was wrong here. You didnât know what, but you were going to find out.
Tim stared at the coffee cup in front of him, the steam long since gone cold. The cafĂŠ was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loudâtoo loud. Gothamâs shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruceâs return, Tim couldnât shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was back. Dick was Nightwing again. Damian was still Robin. Everyone seemed to be slipping back into their old roles, their old dynamics.
Everyone except him.
He stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the ripples swirl and fade. Red Robin was his now, his own identity carved out of necessity. He wasnât exactly proud of what heâd built with it, but the question lingered: what did Red Robin mean in a Gotham where everything was supposed to be falling back into place? He wanted to feel like things were normal again, but there was an unease in his chest that he couldnât quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been latelyâcolder, more distant, like the time apart had left cracks in the foundation of their already-fragile relationship. Maybe it was the weight of managing Wayne Enterprises on top of everything else. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he hadnât figured out yet.
âTim.â
The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Cassie standing across from him, arms crossed and a brow raised. She tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. âBrooding even in a cafĂŠ. Classic Tim Drake.â
âCassie.â he said, blinking away the fog in his head.
Tim hadnât even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. âDid you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?â
Tim glanced up from his coffee. âYou mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?â
Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadnât wanted to go out, hadnât wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the cafĂŠ was warm, the clinking of cutlery and cups acting as a faint soundtrack to his spiraling thoughts.
Cassie leaned forward, eyes softening as she looked at him. âSo, whatâs wrong?â
âItâs nothing. Just the usual.â Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasnât buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.
âDonât even try it. Youâve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gothamâs been throwing at you. But this is something else. Whenâs the last time you got out of your own head?â
He hesitated, looking down at his cup. âIâm fine, Cassie.â
âTim.â Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. âYou donât have to do that with me. Whatâs going on?â
Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once againâits fractured streets, its shadows that felt even darker now. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long breath, trying to find the right words. âItâs Gotham. Itâs everything. Bruce is back, Dickâs Nightwing, Damianâs still Robin, and Iâm⌠Red Robin.â He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. âItâs justâwhere do I fit in all of this? Everyoneâs falling back into their roles like nothingâs changed. But Iâm not sure I fit anywhere anymore.â
Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didnât push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. âAre you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if itâs only Gotham, thatâs a lot of caffeine for someone whoâs just having a âmidlife crisisâ at, what, eighteen?â
Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief heâd felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldnât let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldnât stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruceâs return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.
You.
Timâs grip on his drink tightened.
Maybe thatâs whatâs been off.
You had been Batgirl, the title was yours before Bruce being lost in the timestream turned the whole family upside down. When he returned, Tim thought it would bring you reliefâthat it would give you the chance to be Batgirl officially again, to rebuild what had been fractured. But instead, it seemed to push you further away.
Tim wasnât stupid. Heâd noticed how Bruce had interacted with you, how he seemed to choose Stephanie over you, without even saying a word. Tim had noticed the way Bruce seemed to regard Stephanie as Batgirl more openly, more comfortably, than he ever had you. It wasnât spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce didâor didnât do. And Tim knew better than most how much that could sting. How it could make you question whether you really had a place at all.
And that was what gnawed at him the most. He knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, you hadnât fought back.
No.
You had fought back.
But it hadnât been enough. Not really.
And now, youâd chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldnât fathom why.
That wasnât all that had changed.
Something about your recent behavior, the way youâd started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldnât explain. The day heâd seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. Youâd apologized to him over something. And Damianâhe had actually apologized too. That alone had been jarring enough, but the way he leaned into the small pat you gave his head afterward? The way he smiledâactually smiledâwhen you walked away?
Tim couldnât wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each otherâs throats constantlyâmore him than youâwere suddenly⌠close?
Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Timâs unease grow.
He couldnât help but wonder if your connection with Damian was what solidified you decision to quit being Batgirl.
Tim hated not knowing for sure. Hated feeling you were slipping further away while he stood on the sidelines, powerless to understand why.
You had stepped away, and the world kept turning, and yet, Tim was left here wondering why he was the only one who noticed how wrong it all felt.
Why was it so easy for everyone else to move on?
Why did it feel like you were disappearing right in front of him?
And whyâ
Why did it bother him so much?
Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, barely registering the scrape of his palm against the stubble on his chin.
He was spiraling. Overthinking. Doing exactly what Cassie didnât want him to do when she dragged him out here.
âStill with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?â
Tim didnât even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friendâs familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. âWhat do you want, Kon?â
âFood. And maybe some actual conversation?â Konâs grin was sharp, teasing, but Tim could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it. Concern, maybe. Annoyance. Behind him, Bart bounced in, all energy and bright eyes. âHey! You really went out and left us all wondering if weâd get the invite back into your brooding circle.â
âYouâre late,â Tim deadpanned. âIâm already way ahead of you in the âfeeling sorry for myselfâ game.â
âYeah, thatâs a surprise,â Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. âSo, whatâs up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?â
âDo I look like Iâm âcoming to termsâ with anything?â Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.
The words sat heavy in his throat.
Because no. He wasnât coming to terms with anything. He was still stuck in that place between knowing something was wrong and not knowing how to fix it.
He wanted answers. He wanted to understand.
Because this wasnât just about Gotham, or Damian, or the changes in the family.
It was about you.
The words about you were sitting just on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back. Was he ready to say it out loud? Was he ready to admit to them that the problem wasnât Gotham, but you?
âI donât know,â Kon teased. âYou donât look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassieâs worked her magic on you?â
Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bartâs gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. âSo, whoâs the real problem? Because Iâm guessing itâs not Gotham, but youâve been keeping something from us.â
Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.
He hadnât meant to talk about this.
But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.
âItâs nothing,â he finally said, his voice quieter. âItâs just⌠(Name).â
There, he said it.
The words hung in the air.
âYou mean your sister?â Bart questioned.
Tim paused. The simplicity of the question caught him off guard.
Your sister.
The word sat strange in his chest, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece forced into place.
Was that what you were?
Of course, that was what everyone thought. What everyone had always assumed. It was easier that way, wasnât it? Easier to slap a label on something so tangled and complicated and pretend it all made sense.
But did it?
Because the truth was, the two of you had never really acted like siblings. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Dick had been like an older brother to him all these years, not in the way Bruce had been a mentor and partner to him. There had always been distance, always something unspoken and unresolved. You were just⌠there. Always there. Not quite a sibling, but not not one, either.
You werenât like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You werenât like Cassandra, who slipped into the role of family so seamlessly that it felt inevitable.
You were just⌠there.
Sometimes close. Sometimes so far away he couldnât even read you.
And yetâ
Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didnât fit into any neat, easy definition of family but still meant something. The nights after patrol when neither of you spoke but just sat in the bat cave in companionable silence. The rare times you had backed him up without hesitation, without question, even when no one else had. Moments where, in your own quiet, detached way, you had shown that you cared.
Hadnât that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?
Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.
âNo, sheâsââ
He stopped.
He couldnât say it.
Because what was he going to say? That you werenât his sister? That you had never really felt like one?
Or that you were, that you always had been, even if neither of you had ever been good at showing it?
He couldnât say it, because at the end of the day, you were his sister. Maybe not in the way that everyone assumed. Maybe not in the way that was easy or simple or made sense.
But you had been there. And Tim didnât just let people go. He couldnât just let people in his life go.
No matter how far away you seemed now.
âWhatever,â Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. âThatâs not the point.â
âSure, sure,â Kon said, his tone full of mischief. âWhatever you say, Tim.â
Before Tim could respond, Bartâs eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. âOh, wait, isnât that her right there?â
Timâs breath caught in his throat.
He turned.
And there you were.
Walking past the cafĂŠ, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.
What were the chances?
âOh yeah,â Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. âThat is her.â
Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.
Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the cafĂŠ window. âOh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.â
Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasnât coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasnât ready to deal with.
âShould we invite her over?â Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.
âNoââ Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.
But Bart was already gone.
A gust of wind, a sudden rush of airâ
And then you were there.
Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.
âThe hellââ you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that youâd just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.
Tim didnât even have time to glare at Bart for pulling this before your gaze finally settled on him.
Tim met your gaze on instinct.
And just as quickly, he wished he hadnât.
Because the moment your eyes landed on him, your expression shifted. Slightly. Just the smallest shift. It was subtle. Barely even there. Just a small, fleeting change in your features.
Just enough that someone else might have missed it.
But Tim saw it. Of course he saw it. He always saw it. He felt it.
Like a blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. Like something sharp was twisting in his gut.
He barely kept himself from wincing.
Well, this is already going greatâŚ
Your visit to the orphanage had left you feeling unsettled. You kept replaying the conversation with Mrs. Cole in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every hesitation. There was something about her that didnât sit right with you. Something about the way she had looked at you, the way she spoke, like she knew more than she was letting on.
But before you could dwell on it any longer, you suddenly heard someone call your name.
You barely had time to turn, to see who it was, beforeâ
Everything blurred.
The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knewâ
You were inside.
Inside a random cafĂŠ, sitting at a table surrounded by familiar faces.
The scent of coffee and something sweet hit you first, warm and inviting, but your brain was still playing catch-up.
Your eyes landed on Bart, who was grinning from ear to ear.
âTa-da!â
You blinked.
What.
Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.
Cassie, Conner, andâ
Tim.
Oh.
Oh.
Your stomach twisted.
It took you longer than it should have to realize what was wrong, why seeing Tim like this felt off.
Because this wasnât the Tim you remembered.
This was a Tim who was younger, just as you were younger now.
It was the first time you were actually seeing him like this since you had found yourself back to when you were sixteen.
And god, did it feel weird. It never stopped being weird.
âHey!â Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. âYou looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figuredâwhy not save you the trouble?â
You blinked. Your brain was still trying to process what the hell just happened.
Kid Flash. Right. Speed. No sense of boundaries. No concept of asking first. Shouldâve expected that.
You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. âRight. Thanks for that.â
âOh nice! You didnât scream,â Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. âThatâs an improvement.â
You turned to him, blinking. âExcuse me?â
âYâknow,â Bart waved a hand. âLast time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.â
âThatâs⌠comforting,â you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.
âGlad to be of service,â Bart chirped.
You exhaled sharply, finally taking in the people around you.
Cassie, smiling, looking a little amused.
Kon, grinning, elbows on the table.
Tim, staring at his coffee like it suddenly got so interesting.
You werenât sure if that made things better or worse.
The cafĂŠ was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didnât belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasnât meant for you.
Because you werenât close to them. Not really.
Sure, youâd fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life youâd left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You werenât friends.
Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. âYou cut your hair.â
You blinked at the casualness of it. âUh. Yeah.â
âLooks good on you,â Kon added, resting his arm on the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world.
You stared at them for a beat too long, trying to figure out if they were messing with you. If this was some kind of setup.
But their expressions were⌠genuine.
And you didnât know what to do with that.
Why were they even being this nice?
Why were they looking at you like they actually wanted you here?
ââŚThanks,â you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.
Youâd never really talked to them before. Not beyond polite small talk or necessary battle strategy. But now they were trying to make conversation, pulling you into their little group like you belonged there.
You watched as Kon casually elbowed Tim, who hadnât said a word. Not once.
âWhat? Not going to say hi to your sister?â
Timâs posture stiffened, like he hadnât expected to be dragged into this.
You didnât look at him.
He didnât look at you.
The tension was immediate.
Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. âThe one time Iâm asking you to not make things awkward..â
âIâm not the one..!â Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassieâs glare.
Bart, either oblivious or just not caring, was still watching you with that bright-eyed curiosity, like he was studying something interesting under a microscope. âSo what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?â
You tensed, caught off guard by the question.
âI wasnâtââ You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. âI was just running errands.â
Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.
Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.
That wasnât something you were about to share. Not yet.
Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. âYou sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.â
âYeah,â Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. âYou werenât exactly giving âcasual stroll.ââ
You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.
He still hadnât said anything.
You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didnât look at him.
Not really.
You werenât exactly ignoring him, but you werenât acknowledging him either.
It was easier this way.
Easier to pretend like there wasnât a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasnât pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.
But his friends?
They definitely noticed.
Of course they did.
Bartâs gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassieâs smile faltered slightly, like she could sense the awkwardness and was trying to find a way around it. Even Kon, usually laid-back, was watching the both of you a little too closely.
Not subtle in the slightest.
And you hated it.
Hated that they were trying to figure you out.
You werenât stupid.
You knew how this worked.
They were trying to get something from you, werenât they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.
But why?
You barely even knew them.
Sure, youâd crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasnât enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?
You didnât want to be a part of this.
Didnât want to be here.
âYâknow,â Cassie begins, breaking the silence. âYou had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?â
You blinked at her, caught off guard. âIââ
âI bet she does,â Kon interrupted before you could finish. âBet sheâs just like Timâprobably broods in her free time, too.â
Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. âShe doesnât brood.â
Kon raised a brow. âYou sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.â
âI donât brood,â you said flatly.
âSee?â Tim muttered.
Kon just shrugged. âAlright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?â
âNot really.â
âI dunno,â Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. âI kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.â
You gave him a blank look. âThatâs not very reassuring.â
Bart grinned. âWasnât supposed to be.â
Cassie sighed, shaking her head. âIgnore them. They get like this when they meet new people.â
Your brows furrowed slightly. âNew people?â
Cassie shrugged. âI mean, kinda? Weâve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.â
And that was true.
You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.
Which made thisâwhatever this wasâeven stranger.
You were still trying to figure out why they were doing this.
Why they were talking to you.
Why they were being nice.
You werenât stupid.
They were fishing.
For what, you werenât sure.
But you didnât want to find out.
So you took the out when you saw it.
âI should go,â you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.
Kon blinked. âWhat? But you just got here.â
âYeah, well I have other plans.â
Cassie frowned slightly. âAre you sure? You donât have to rush offââ
âItâs fine,â you reassured, already standing. âIt was nice seeing you guys.â
Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didnât look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.
Cassie sighed, but didnât push. âIt was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?â You gave a polite nod at that, and then turned to leave.
But for a second, just a second, as you turned to leave, you felt itâ
The way Timâs gaze lingered on you.
You saw something flicker in his expression.
Something that looked almost likeâ
No.
You didnât let yourself think about it. Didnât let youtself feel anything about it.
It was something you didnât have the energy to unpack.
So you didnât.
You just walked away.
Bart let out a low whistle as the cafĂŠ door shut behind you. âWell, that wasnât awkward.â
âBart,â Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.
âWhat? Itâs true.â He gestured at the door. âDid you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.â
Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasnât reacting. Not outwardly, at least. She knew what was bothering him. They all did. It was impossible to miss, the way his shoulders were slumped, the way his hands fidgeted with the cup in front of him, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the table like he was trying to break it apart with sheer willpower, the weight of the encounter settling heavily in his chest.
It wasnât like Tim didnât know things were weird between you two. But thatâthat was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as youâd stepped into the cafĂŠ, only to fade into polite indifference.
Indifference. Thatâs all it was.
Heâd expected⌠what? That youâd at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldnât act like he was just another person at the table?
Because thatâs what it had felt like. Like he was just another acquaintance, someone who happened to be there, and nothing more.
You were polite, careful, giving Cassie, Kon, and Bart the same level of conversation you always did. But with him? It was like you had a wall up so high he couldnât even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You werenât ignoring him outright, but you also werenât letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.
Which meant you were doing it on purpose.
Which meant you didnât want to talk to him.
And the worst part? Tim couldnât even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. Heâd seen you pull away before, but this felt differentâhe could see it in your eyes, the way you actively avoided him, the way you kept your answers to him curt, brief. Every word from you seemed to fall flat, like you were already somewhere else, mentally preparing to leave. He hadnât expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasnât sure how to scale.
Tim swallowed, shaking the thought out of his head before it could get too deep.
Kon, likely sensing the shift in mood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned back in his seat. âAnyway, howâs everyoneâs food? Because my burger is phenomenal.â
Cassie gave him a flat look. âSeriously?â
âWhat? Iâm just saying, good food is good food.â
Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. âI knew I shouldâve ordered the burgerâŚâ
Tim let the conversation fade into the background, keeping his expression neutral. He should just move on. It was one interaction. One awkward conversation. Nothing worth thinking about.
Except he was thinking about it.
He couldnât help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.
That still didnât make sense to him.
Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?
Youâd apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.
Tim had seen the way you pat Damianâs head, how Damian had smiled at you.
Damian, who used to view you as nothing but another obstacle, another person he had to prove himself better than. Damian, who you used to dismiss just as easily.
Tim gritted his teeth slightly.
When did that change? How did that change?
What had he missed?
And why did it even matter to him?
You were your own person. He had no right to dictate who you were close to, who you let in. It wasnât like he had a claim to your time or attention.
But it did matter. Because for all the years youâd spent working together, for all the time youâd spent in the field, all the fights youâd foughtâtogetherâheâd never once seen you look at him the way youâd looked at Damian. Like you trusted him. Like you cared.
He shut his eyes briefly, then exhaled. No.
He was overthinking it.
He had to be.
He forced himself to let out a short breath, fixing his expression into something neutral before glancing back at Kon, who was now dramatically going on about his burger.
Tim let himself nod along, pretending to listen, pretending everything was fine.
But his mind was still on you. And no matter how much he tried to push it away, the feeling sat heavy in his chest.
âEver going to turn to the next page?â
Adrienâs voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze youâd fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph forâwho even knows how long? Right. You were in the library. With Adrien and Caitlyn. You should be focusing on this now. But no matter how much you tried, you couldnât. Not after the absolute mess of a day youâd had.
âRight. Yeah.â You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadnât actually processed a single word from the last one.
Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didnât see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You werenât exactly the most talkative person on a normal day, sure, but this was different. This reminded them of before. When you were on the brink of exploding. When you pushed them away because of everything that had happened.
And Caitlyn? She was having none of it.
She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low for the libraryâs sake. âOkay, whatâs up with you?â
You shook your head. âNothing. Just exhausted.â
Adrien snorted quietly. âYou say that every time you donât want to talk about something.â
âBecause I am exhausted,â you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.
Adrien didnât buy it. âUh-huh. And Iâm Batman.â
That earned a small huff from you. âNo, youâre an idiot.â
Caitlyn smirked. âHe can be both.â
Adrien gasped, mock-offended. âEt tu, Cait?â
âYou were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,â Caitlyn deadpanned.
âOkay, but in my defenseââ
âYou have no defense,â you and Caitlyn said at the same time.
Adrien groaned. âOkay, you two suck. Iâm being bullied.â
It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didnât last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. âSeriously, though. Youâve been weird all day.â
âIâm fine,â you muttered.
âLiar.â
âIâmââ
âLiar,â Adrien echoed.
You let out a sharp breath, the sudden pressure getting to you, and the next words left your mouth harsher than you intended. âCan you two just drop it?â
There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.
You sighed, immediately regretting it. âIâm sorry. I justâthereâs a lot of bullshit going on.â
With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at firstâuntil Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasnât just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you werenât avoiding him, like things werenât still awkward between you two? The way he looked at you, like he still saw that younger version of you that needed him, and not the one that knew how to work without him now?
And the worst part? You could tell Dick actually believed he could fix things between you. That he could sit across from you, act like things werenât broken, like he could just talk and that would somehow be enough to undo everything that happened.
Or maybe you should start with bumping into Elliot? How after your little encounter with the little boy, your head had suddenly filled with these flashesâimages? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that werenât yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didnât know what they were, only that they left you feeling unsettled, disconnected from your own reality.
And that was what led you to visit the orphanage. Where you met the warden, Mrs Cole. How something about Mrs. Cole didnât sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristineâlike a picture frame with something ugly hidden behind the glass. Like she was playing a role rather than living a life. Something about her had unsettled you, made your skin crawl in ways you couldnât even articulate. You werenât sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasnât right. And that thought had lingered long after you left.
And then, of course, there was Tim.
Tim and his friends.
That whole encounter had been worse than you couldâve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that cafĂŠ, you hadnât even had time to process it before you were sitting across from Tim and his friends, completely caught off guard.
Superboy. Wonder Girl. Kid Flash. You werenât close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcomingâtoo welcoming.
And Tim?
Tim barely spoke.
And neither did you.
You answered questions too quickly, too politely, all while making a conscious effort not to look at him. And Timâhe did the same. The two of you danced around each other, careful and distant, as if eye contact alone would shatter whatever fragile thing was left between you.
And the more you thought about it, the more it frustrated you, becauseâwhy had it been so awkward?
It shouldnât have been.
There was nothing to be awkward about.
And that was exactly the problem.
There was nothing to be awkward about.
No bond. No closeness. Nothing substantial.
If anything, the two of you had the kind of dynamic distant coworkers would haveâbarely interacting, only speaking when necessary, a mutual awareness of each other but not much else.
So why had it felt so suffocating? Why had it felt like you were both tiptoeing around something?
And you knew it wasnât the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.
And you couldnât quite pinpoint why.
Maybe it was because of everything that had led up to that moment. Maybe it was because of what happened before all this.
Because despite everythingâdespite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bondâthere was still something there. Something unspoken, something unresolved.
And that was what made it awkward.
That was what made it feel like more than just an uncomfortable run-in.
It was why you had left as soon as you found an opening.
It had been a mess. The whole day. One tangled, suffocating mess. And even now, hours later, you could still feel the weight of it.
There was no way in hell you could tell Adrien and Caitlyn all of that.
You let out the biggest sigh, slumping back against your seat. The sound was loud enough to earn multiple hushed scoldings from around the library. You muttered out a quick, hushed apology before running a hand down your face, fingers threading through your hair.
Adrien nudged your foot under the table. âHey. Whatever it is, you donât have to carry it alone.â
Caitlyn nodded. âYou donât have to tell us everything. But justâdonât shut us out, okay?â
You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at armâs length. Not because you didnât trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your familyâs secretsâinto the chaos that surrounded youâwould only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.
Some truths just werenât meant to be shared.
You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. âI know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.â
Adrien narrowed his eyes. âThat felt like an âIâm not actually going to tell you anything but please donât be mad at meâ appreciation.â
You let out a small, dry chuckle. âItâs exactly that kind of appreciation.â
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. âOf course it is.â
Silence settled between you.
Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldnât pinpoint whether theyâre real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldnât quite put into words.
You couldnât let it go.
You wouldnât be able to forgive yourself if you didnât at least try to figure out what was going on.
You needed an excuse. A reason to go back. A way to investigate without drawing too much suspicion.
And then, suddenly, something clicked in your mind.
You looked up at your two friends, a new thought forming. ââŚWhat do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?â
FInally done with this chapter ohmygodâŚ. thank you all for being patient with me and hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter 𼰠lmk your thoughts on this chapter lol. also, this was definitely more of a world-building/plot developing chapter (yes! the plot is finally moving lesgo!!) expect more of young justice core 4 and uf trio in chapter 7 as well as two surprise people soon đ¤
reader đ¤ tim â overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice đŹ)
also i promise iâll answer my inbox soon đ there is just so much stuff to reply to but iâll eventually empty it out sooner or later
taglist is closed âźď¸
taglist (1/2): @tricksters-maze @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @silverklaus @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @lisalamona @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @alor-thes (idk why i canât tag some of yâall, must be your settings i think đ)
Things between you and Damian werenât perfect, but they were better. Slightly better.
Since that day, the tension that used to hang heavy between you had softened, just a little. He no longer avoided you like the plague, nor did he try to dismiss you every chance he got. Sure, there were still moments where you clashedâDamian was Damian, after allâbut now, it didnât feel like an outright war. It was more⌠playful. Almost.
He still had his sharp remarks, but they didnât cut as deep anymore. And you? Youâd give them right back, though with less heat than before. It was oddly satisfying to watch him bristle, his retorts coming slower and more thoughtful, like he was beginning to actually enjoy the verbal sparring. Though he definitely wouldnât admit that.
One day, you decided to test the waters further.
You found Damian in the sitting room, a book in his hands and Titus curled up at his feet. He didnât look up as you approached, though you knew heâd already noticed you.
âHey, Damian,â you said, holding the plate out in front of you.
He finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. âWhat is it now?â
You rolled your eyes. âRelax. I made these with Alfred. Thought you might want to try them.â
He eyed the plate suspiciously, like it might explode if he touched it. âWhy?â
âWhy what?â
âWhy are you offering me one?â he asked, his voice carefully neutral. âWhatâs your angle?â
You huffed, crossing your arms. âNo angle. If you donât want them, you donât have to take them. Simple.â
âI didnât say I didnât want them,â Damian said quickly, his tone defensive.
You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. âOh? So you do want them?â
He scoffed, snatching the plate from your hands like you might change your mind. âIâll try them. But donât expect me to praise you if theyâre subpar.â
âWouldnât dream of it.â
Damian took a deliberate bite, his expression carefully guarded as he chewed. You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.
âWell?â you asked.
He paused, his lips twitching ever so slightly before he schooled his face back into indifference. âAdequate.â
You snorted. âAdequate, huh? Thatâs basically high praise coming from you.â
âTt. Donât let it go to your head,â he muttered, but he didnât stop eating.
You grinned, shaking your head as you turned to leave. âEnjoy them, Damian. Or donât. Whatever.â
As you walked away, you heard him mutter under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch: âI will.â
You didnât look back, but you couldnât help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
No, things between you and Damian werenât perfect. But this? This was progress.
Stephanie twirled her mug between her hands, the steam curling into the air as she sat perched on the couch at the Clocktower. Across the room, Cassandra sat cross-legged on the floor, cleaning and reassembling her grappling gun with quiet precision. The rhythmic sound of Cassandraâs movements usually put the blonde at ease, but today, she couldnât shake the restless thoughts spinning in her head.
âI donât get it,â Stephanie muttered finally, breaking the silence.
Cass didnât look up, but the subtle tilt of her head told Steph she was listening.
âItâs been almost three weeks,â Steph continued, gesturing with her mug like it emphasized her point. âThree weeks since (Name) quit, and I havenât seen her here. Not once. No check-ins, no training, no anything. She just⌠stopped. Like she wasnât serious about any of it to begin with.â
Cass paused her movements, her sharp gaze flicking to Steph. âSerious..?â
âYâknow, serious about being Batgirl..!â Steph exclaimed, setting her mug on a table with a clink. âI mean, she was so into it. Always had to be the best, always trying to prove she could do everything better than me. And now? Nothing. Itâs like she dropped off the face of the earth.â
Cass raised an eyebrow, her hands moving again to tighten the grappling gunâs grip. âYou miss her.â
âWhat? No! Iââ Stephâs protest faltered under Cassâs calm stare. âOkay, maybe a little. But thatâs not the point.â She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. âItâs just so unlike her. You know what I mean?â
Cass considered this for a moment, then nodded. âShe fights. Always fights. And she doesnât stop.â
âExactly!â Steph said, throwing her hands up. âSheâs stubborn as hell. Sheâd never just quit without a reason. Itâs like sheâs a completely different person all of a sudden.â
Cassâs gaze stayed steady on Steph, her expression unreadable. âMaybe something happened.â
Steph frowned. âLike what?â
Cass furrowed her eyebrows, setting her grappling gun aside and leaning back on her hands. âI donât know. But something.â
âThatâs what Iâve been trying to figure out,â Steph admitted, slumping against the back of the couch. âI mean, yeah, we werenât exactly besties or whatever, but we spent enough time together. I thought I had her figured out. Now I feel like I donât know her at all.â
Cass tilted her head. âDid you? Know her?â
Steph opened her mouth to respond but stopped. She hadnât really thought about it that way. Most of her interactions with you had been competitive or snarky, sure, but there had been momentsârare onesâwhere it felt like there was something deeper under the surface. She just hadnât taken the time to dig for it.
âI donât know,â Steph admitted, her voice quieter. âMaybe I didnât. But I thought I did.â
Cass nodded slowly, as if that answer didnât surprise her.
âWhat about you..?â Steph asked, turning the question back on Cass. âWhat do you think of all this?â
Cass didnât answer immediately. She sat in thoughtful silence, her dark eyes focused on nothing in particular. âNot sure,â she said finally. âIt feels⌠off. Like sheâs hiding.â
Steph frowned. âHiding what?â
âI⌠donât know.â
The room fell silent as Steph mulled over Cassâs words. For all your bravado and stubborness, there had always been something raw about you, like you were desperate to hold onto somethingâanything. Maybe Cass was right. Maybe something had happenedâsomething you didnât want anyone to know.
Stephanie sighed, reaching for her mug again. âYouâre probably right. Sheâs hiding something. But what exactly is she hiding, thatâs the question.â She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing slightly at the bitterness. âI hate not knowing. Itâs driving me nuts.â
Cass offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. âYou care.â
âOf course I care!â Steph shot back, her cheeks flushing slightly. âI mean, yeah, sheâs annoying and stubborn and always has to prove sheâs better than me, butâŚâ She trailed off, her voice softening. âSheâs still one of us. Right?â
Cass nodded, the smile lingering.
Stephanie leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. âMaybe Iâll try talking to her. Or something. I donât know. This is just⌠weird. It doesnât feel right. To just leave things as it is.â
Cass watched Stephanie closely, her quiet curiosity cutting through the lingering silence. âWhat was it like?â she asked, her voice calm but insistent. âBetween you and her?â
Steph froze, mid-sip of her coffee. Her first instinct was to deflect, to brush the question off with a joke or a sarcastic remark. But Cassâs gazeâsteady, patient, unyieldingâmade it clear she wasnât going to let it slide.
âWhat do you mean, âwhat was it like?ââ Steph muttered, setting her mug down with more force than necessary.
âYou and (Name),â Cass said, gesturing vaguely with her hand. âBefore all this. When she was still Batgirl. When you were still Spoiler. When you became Batgirl as well.â
Steph shifted uncomfortably, her lips pressing into a thin line.
What was it like?
âIt was⌠complicated,â she said finally.
It was anything but normal.
Cass tilted her head, waiting for her to elaborate. Steph sighed, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.
Stephanie could still remember her first few nights as Spoiler, still rough around the edges and carrying the weight of Cluemaster, her fatherâs, shadow on her shoulders. Sheâd been furious when she found out after he claimed to be ârehabilitatedâ, he actually returned to crime instead, leaving no clues behind this time. She knew then and there that something had to be doneâthat she had to do somethingâto stop her father. So, she made her Spoiler costume, and set out to stop her father. That night, sheâd intercepted one of his coded messages and had made the decision to spoil yet another of his schemesâalone.
It hadnât gone according to plan.
The warehouse was dark and cold, lit only by a few dim bulbs hanging from the rafters. Stephanie had crept in quietly, her heart pounding as she hid in the shadows. The stolen tech Cluemaster planned to sell sat piled high in crates, guarded by a dozen armed men. Sheâd hoped to sneak in, plant some evidence for the police, and leave unnoticed. Instead, sheâd tripped a motion sensor and found herself surrounded.
She fought back with everything she had, but it wasnât enough. Her moves were sloppy, unrefined, and born of sheer desperation. A blow to her ribs sent her sprawling across the floor, and she barely managed to roll out of the way of another thugâs steel-toed boot. Just when it seemed like she was out of options, a flash of movement from the rafters caught her attention.
You arrived like a force of nature, swooping down in your Batgirl suit, taking out two of the goons before they even knew what hit them. For someone who appeared composed and confident, Stephanie noticed quickly that your movements werenât as fluid as you likely hoped they were. You were goodâbetter than her, no questionâbut your hits didnât land with perfect precision, and you occasionally stumbled, as though still learning the weight of your cape.
Still, the two of you managed to fight off the group, leaving the thugs groaning on the ground. Stephanie was leaning against one of the crates, clutching her side and breathing heavily, when you turned to her.
âWho are you?â you demanded, stepping forward.
âIâmâŚâ She hesitated, brushing off her torn sleeve and trying to stand straighter. âIâm Spoiler.â
âNever heard of you.â You crossed your arms, looking her up and down. âWhat are you even doing here? Who are you working with?â
Stephanie groaned, more from frustration than pain. âIâm not working with anyone.â
âThen why are you here?â You gestured to the tied-up henchmen. âThis isnât exactly a neighborhood bake sale.â
âIâm here to stop my father,â she snapped, throwing her arms up.
That made you pause. âYour⌠father?â
She sighed, already regretting the slip. âYeah. My father.â
You frowned, the pieces slowly clicking together. âWait⌠youâre Cluemasterâs daughter?â
âCongrats, you solved the mystery, want a prize for that?â she muttered sarcastically, shrugging your hand off her arm when you instinctively tried to grab her.
You stepped back, your stance cautious now, your expression wary. âWhy are you trying to stop him?â
âBecause someone has to.â Stephanie said, her voice rising. âBecause I donât want people to get hurt because of him. Is that good enough for you, Batgirl?â
You stared at her for a long moment before sighing. âYou shouldnât even be out here. This isnât a game.â
âIâm not treating it like one!â she shot back. âI know what Iâm doing.â
âNo, you donât,â you replied bluntly, but your voice softened after a moment. âBut⌠I guess I can see why youâre doing it.â
Stephanie braced herself for you to knock her out or drag her to Batman, but instead, you just grabbed the nearest thug and tied him up.
âYouâre not going to say anything?â she asked, suspicious.
You didnât look at her. âNot tonight. But donât make me regret it.â
And with that, you had disappeared into the night, leaving Stephanie confused and to her own thoughts, unsure of what to think about you, Batgirl.
Why did you let her go?
It didnât make sense.
Stephanie leaned back against the nearest crate, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs as her mind spiraled. Was it pity? Did you feel sorry for her something?
The thought stung more than she wanted to admit. She didnât need anyoneâs pityâleast of all from someone whoâd clearly been at this vigilante thing longer than her. Or maybeâyou just thought she wasnât worth the effort of turning in.
Over the next few weeksâfor some reasonâStephanie kept on running into you. Sometimes it was because you were actively following her, and sometimes it was sheer coincidence. Each time, the dynamic between the two of you shifted slightly.
âI donât need your help,â Steph had snapped when you intervened in another one of her plans to foil her fatherâs, her voice tinged with irritation. Sheâd bitten off more than she could chew, but the last thing she wanted was you swooping in to save her.
âYouâre welcome,â youâd replied coolly, barely glancing at her as you tied up the last of the thugs.
Steph had bristled. âI had it handled.â
âSure you did,â youâd said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. âThatâs why you were about two seconds away from getting your head bashed in.â
This cycle had continued for weeksâan endless back-and-forth of barbed comments and unspoken challenges.
But then there were quieter moments. Like this one nightâyou both got stuck during a freezing rainstorm, huddled together under a flimsy overhang.
âYouâre shivering,â youâd noted, tossing your extra cloak over her shoulders without a second thought.
Steph had blinked at you, surprised. ââŚThanks.â
âDonât mention it,â youâd said, leaning back against the wall and pulling your own cloak tighter around you.
That same night sheâd cornered you on the rooftop after the two of you left evidence for the police and Batman to find to deal with Cluemaster.
âWhy?â sheâd asked, crossing her arms. âWhyâd you go along with my plan instead of running to Batman?â
Youâd glanced at her, your expression unreadable. âBecause youâre not like him,â youâd said simply.
âCluemaster, I mean. And because⌠I do think you mean it. The whole âtrying to stop my fatherâ thing.â
For a moment, Stephanie had been speechless. She hadnât expected that kind of answerâor the quiet sincerity behind it.
She hadnât expected that. Not from a Bat. They werenât exactly known for handing out complimentsâor trust. Especially not to someone like her.
But then again, from the moment she met you, you hadnât exactly acted the way she thought someone trained under Batman would. Not that she would know what that was like.
Stephanieâs arms dropped to her sides as she studied you, standing there under the faint glow of the Gotham skyline. You didnât look like you were second-guessing your words or regretting them. You were calm like youâd just stated a fact. Like you really meant it.
Stephanie felt the knot in her chest tighten. What if you were wrong? What if she was like him? She hadnât exactly proven otherwise had she?
Sure, she was trying to stop him now, but that didnât erase the fact that she was his daughter. His blood ran through her veins, no matter how much she hated it.
But then, there was another thought, quieter and harder to ignore. What if you werenât wrong? What ifâjust maybeâyouâd seen something in her she couldnât see herself?
Stephanie didnât know what terified her more thenâthe idea that someone believed in her, or the possibility that you might be right,
She glanced at you again, half-expecting you to take it back or brush it off like it didnât matter. But you didnât. You just stood there, calm and steady, like your words had been obvious all along.
And for a moment, she let herself believe it. Just a little.
âThanks,â she muttered, her voice barely audible, as she looked away. She didnât know if you heard her or if youâd even care, but it felt like something she had to say.
When she turned back around though, you were gone.
Stephanie blinked, her breath catching for a moment as she scanned the empty rooftop. âReally?â She muttered, dragging a hand down her face.
âWas that a âdramatic exitâ thing, or do all you bats have to disappear every time someone tries to say thanks?â
âAfterwardsâŚâ Steph began, her voice soft. âI didnât really get to see much of her.â
Cass looked up briefly, her head tilting in silent acknowledgment.
âI mean, even after I met you,â Steph continued, âI didnât see much of her. I thought we were chill. You know?â
Cassâs hands paused over the grappling gun. âThought?â
Steph hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. Her gaze fell to her mug, and she let out a slow breath. âI guess⌠everything kind of changed when Bruce âdied.ââ She set the mug on the table and leaned back against the couch. âWhen you quit being Batgirl, and gave me your costume to take over you.â
Cass blinked, her expression neutral but her body language subtly shifting. âOh.â
Steph turned to face her fully, brows knitting together. âI thought things would still be fine, but no. Not when Dick and Babs allowed me to take up the Batgirl mantle.â
Stephanie had found you on the rooftop of an old apartment building, your silhouette outlined against the Gotham skyline. The wind cut through the air, sharp and cold, but you didnât flinch, your posture rigid as though the weather didnât touch you.
âI figured youâd be here,â sheâd said softly, walking closer, the crunch of gravel under her boots breaking the silence.
âWhat do you want, Stephanie?â Your voice was hoarse and low, but your tone was sharp enough to stop her mid-step.
Steph froze, the weight of the Batgirl costume suddenly feeling heavier than ever. There was something in the way you said her nameâso cold, so distantâit made her chest tighten.
âI just⌠wanted to talk.â
You let out a dry, humourless scoff, still not turning to face her.
Stephanie clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself to continue. âLook, I know youâre upset. I donât know why Dick decided to bench you from being Batgirl, butââ
âOh, you donât know?â You spun around, finally facing her, your eyes burning with frustration. âItâs because of you, Stephanie. He benched me so you could play hero. He chose you. You. Over me. Heâs saying I wasnât good enough to be Batgirl. His Batgirl.â
Stephanieâs heart sank at the venom in your voice. She took a step closer, shaking her head. âThatâs not true⌠Cass wanted me to take over her as Batgirl becauseââ
âBecause what?â you snapped, voice rising. âBecause she thought I couldnât handle it? Because she thought you deserved it more than I do?â
âNo!â Steph said quickly, her voice breaking slightly. âBecause she thought I needed it. And maybe sheâs right. But that doesnât meanââ
âIt doesnât mean what?â you interrupted bitterly. âThat it wasnât a slap in the face? That it didnât rip away the only thing I had left?â
Your voice broke, just slightly, and Stephanieâs heart clenched as she watched your walls crack under thr weight of your emotions.
âMy father is dead, Stephanie. The one thing that he gave me that meant something, the one thing that I thought could truly be mine, was ripped away. Do you know how much it hurts to watch you parade in that suit like it didnât mean anything to me? Like I donât mean anything?â
âItâs not like that,â Steph shot back, her voice more desperate. âI didnât mean for it to happen this way. I never wanted to hurt youââ
âJust stop,â you interrupted, turning away from her again. Your shoulders were stiff, your voice cutting like ice.
âI donât care what you wanted. I donât care what excuses you or Barbara or Dick have. They decided you were better than me. That I wasnât good enough. That I was expendable.â
âThatâs not true,â Steph said desperately.
âOh sure,â you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. âYou somehow convinced Dick and Barbara to let you play Batgirl while Iâm sidelined and tossed aside. Donât even try to tell me you didnât know what this would do to me.â
Stephanie felt frustration bubbling under the surface. âDo you think I have it easy? Barbara doubted me from the start! She didnât think Iâd survive as Batgirl. She only gave me a chance because I refused to back downââ
âSo then why did they replace me?â you snapped, your eyes glistening with tears you refused to let fall. âWhy did they bench me while you got to take my place? Even Cassandra seems to think youâre better than me.â
Steph froze. âThatâsââ
âAm I really that replaceable?â you interrupted, your voice trembling.
Stephanie opened her mouth, but no words came out.
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. âSave it, Stephanie. I donât care what their reasons are. You want the mantle? Fine. Itâs yours. But donât come here pretending you didnât know what this would do to me.â
Stephanie took a shaky step forward. âIâm not trying toââ
âIâll prove them wrong,â you interrupted, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. âIâll prove Iâm better than you. Better than any of them thought I could be. Even if itâs the last thing I do.â
Stephanie stared at you, stunned, as your words hung heavy in the air.
âSo enjoy being Batgirl, Stephanie,â you said coldly. âAnd stay the hell away from me.â
Steph stood there for a long moment, frozen, as your words hung in the air. She wanted to say more, to fix this somehow, but the look in your eyes told her there was nothing she could do.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the night as you turned back to the skyline, the cold wind biting at your skin.
Stephanieâs hands tightened around her mug as she replayed the memory in her mind.
âFrom then on,â Steph said, her voice soft, âshe did everything she could to one-up me. Patrol routes, takedowns, intelâanything. It was like she was trying to prove herself, not just to Dick and Barbara, but to me, too.â
Cass tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
Steph hesitated before asking, âWhy⌠didnât you seem bothered by her quitting? Didnât it⌠I donât know, feel weird to you?â
Cass stayed silent, her hands stilling over the grappling gun.
âCass?â Stephanie pressed.
Cassandra sighed softly. âIf itâs what she wanted, then everyone should respect it.â
âBut isnât it weird? That she suddenly quit?â
Cassâs gaze flickered. âYeah,â she admitted, her voice calm. âBut itâs better if she doesnât continue this path.â
Stephâs brow furrowed. âBetter? What do you mean?â
Cass hesitated, her voice even. âShe wasnât built for this life.â
Steph blinked, confused. âWait, what? What are you talking about?â
Cass looked at her, her voice quieter but resolute. âIâve always seen it. A⌠blockage. In her body language. When she fights, when she moves, itâs always there. It never goes away.â
Steph tilted her head, confused. âA blockage? What does that even mean..?â
âItâs like⌠a wall she canât break through.â Cass explained, her tone calm but firm. âNo matter what she does, it stops her from reaching her full potential. And that wall⌠itâs dangerous. For her.â
âBut sheâs strongââ Steph opened her mouth to protest, but Cass cut her off, her tone firmer.
âSheâs strong,â Cass agreed, âbut not for this. That blockage is something she canât overcome. And if she keeps pushing herself, itâll hurt her. Worse than being benched. Worse than losing the mantle. She should live a normal life. Away from this.â
Steph stared at Cass, her confusion shifting into an uneasy understanding. The weight of Cassâs words settling heavily in her chest. Cassâs ability to read body language was unparalleledâif anyone could see something like that, it was her.
âButâŚâ Steph started, trailing off, her voice uncertain.
Cass shook her head, her voice soft but final. âThis lifeâit would break her. Itâs better this way. For her.â
Stephanie leaned back into the couch, the weight of Cassâs words pressing down on her. For the first time, she felt a flicker of doubtânot about you, but about what this life demanded of you.
It didnât make sense. None of it did.
Her thoughts swirled as she tried to piece it all together. Cassandra had always been the most perceptive person Stephanie had ever known, able to read people in ways that felt almost supernatural. If she said there was a âblockage,â some invisible wall holding you back, Steph believed her. She had no reason not to.
But why hadnât Cass told you about it? Why hadnât she tried to help you work through it instead of letting you walk away? Cass wasnât the type to give up on people, so why had she just⌠let you go?
Stephanieâs grip tightened on the mug. She thought back to the nights sheâd watched you push yourself too far, the way youâd thrown yourself into patrols and fights with a reckless determination that bordered on desperation. It made sense now, in a way. You werenât just trying to be good enoughâyou were trying to be better than everyoneâs doubts.
âI donâtâŚâ Stephanie hesitated, her words faltering. âI donât know how to feel about this.â
Cassandra didnât respond, her silence stretching between them like the distant hum of the city outside.
The weight of the conversation pressed on Stephâs chest, but then a stray thought flickered in her mind, pulling her out of her tangled emotions. She striaghted slightly, her brow furrowing.
âWait. Whereâs Barbara anyway?â she asked, glancing around the Clocktower.
Cass tilted her head, thinking. âNot sure,â she said simply. âI think⌠she said she had plans. With someone.â
Steph raised an eyebrow. âPlans? With who?â
Cass shrugged, her expression giving nothing away.
Steph groaned, flopping back against the couch. âGreat. So now Barbara is being cryptic too. What is it with you Bat people and your secrets?â
The lunch spot was cozy but buzzing with just enough noise to drown out any awkward silencesâthough not nearly enough to mask the tension sitting between you and Barbara. She sat across from you, her gaze flickering between the menu in her hands and you.
You should have refused the lunch. Should have claimed you were busy. But the text Barbara sent you left you with no real excuse:
âLunch? 1 PM? Donât pretend youâre busy, I know your schedule. ââ
And so here you were, caught in what felt like an ambush.
As the server came over, you placed your order for a black coffee and a bagel.
Barbara blinked, momentarily caught off guard. âBlack coffee?â she repeated after the server left, her brows slightly raised.
You glanced up from your phone. âYeah?â
âI just⌠didnât think youâd be the type.â
It took you a moment to register her confusion, but then it hit you. Back when you were sixteen, you hated coffeeâespecially black coffee. Youâd always opted for sugary drinks or anything sweet enough to mask the bitterness. Sixteen year old you wouldâve gagged at the bitterness of black coffee. But time had changed you, as had many sleepless nights spent staring at mission briefs or reports, that youâve gotten used to the taste of coffee.
âJust need all the energy I can get,â you replied, plastering on a small smile.
Barbara hummed, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further.
The two of you fell into a strange silence, interrupted only by the soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter around you. Barbara shifted in her wheelchair, wondering why this felt so⌠awkward.
Were you always this⌠standoffish?
After what felt like forever, Barbara finally spoke up. âI heard about what happened to your friend.â
Your fingers stilled against the edge of your cup. Oh.
Barbara glanced at you, gauging your reaction before continuing. âI just⌠wanted to say Iâm sorry. That he got caught up in everything. I should have been more thorough.â
Your lips twitched downward, your voice coming out sharper than intended. âYeah. You should have.â
The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Barbaraâs eyes widened ever so slightly, the honesty of your tone catching her off guard.
Silence again. This time heavier.
The tension thickened between you both, the silence growing louder by the second. Barbara swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your words settle uncomfortably in her chest.
She opened her mouth again, determined to steer the conversation somewhere less hostile. âHowâs school?â
You shrugged, your tone clipped. âItâs alright.â
âAre classes okay? Teachers good?â
âTheyâre fine.â
Barbara frowned, but she pressed on. âAnd your friends? Have you made any new ones?â
âNo, not really.â
This wasnât working. Every answer you gave was short, distant, like you were putting up walls. It felt unnatural, almost deliberate. Barbara wasnât sure if she should press harder or back off entirely.
âYouâre not mad at me, are you?â she finally asked, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer. Was this about your friend getting hurt? Was this about her not being quick enough to prevent the incident? Or was it something else all together?
You paused, but your face remained impassive. âNo,â you replied flatly, taking a bite of your bagel.
Barbaraâs stomach twisted.
That wasnât a no.
Not really.
Before she could respond, a voice spoke from behind her.
âHey, I thought I recognized you two!â
The familiar voice broke through the tension like a wrecking ball, and Barbara couldnât have been more relieved.
Dick.
He slid into the seat next to Barbara, flashing his trademark grin, though his eyes darted to you with a hint of hesitation. âWhatâs this? A secret meeting without me?â
Oh, so this was a setup.
Dick must have told Barbara about you avoiding him, and they must have planned this.
You straightened, folding your arms and leaning back into your chair like a wall had gone up.
Dick, oblivious, leaned forward with his usual enthusiasm. âWhat are you guys talking about? School? Life? Come on, catch me up.â
âNot much to catch up on,â you muttered.
Dick frowned slightly but pressed on, his tone light and cheerful. âYou know, Iâve been meaning to hang out with you more, (Name). It feels like we havenât really spent time together lately.â
You didnât respond.
âMaybe we could grab dinner sometime?â Dick offered, smiling earnestly. âOr I could swing by the manor and we couldââ
âI actually have plans, so I canât stay,â you said curtly, reaching for your bag.
Dick blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. âWhat? No, wait,â he said quickly, leaning forward. âYou just got here.â
âI already told you,â you said, standing up. âI have plans. I canât hang out.â
âButââ
âThanks for lunch, Barbara,â you interrupted, sparing Barbara a quick glance before heading for the exit.
âWaitââ
You were already gone.
Dick watched you go, his shoulders sagging as the door swung shut behind you. He slumped back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. For a moment, he was quiet, his usual energy dimmed.
Barbara sighed, setting her cup down. She wanted to comfort him, but she didnât have the words. After all, youâd been acting the same way toward her. Aloof, distant, standoffish.
âDonât take it personally.â
That was all she could come up with.
Dick frowned. âSheâs never acted like this before. Itâs like she doesnât even want to be around me.â
Barbara didnât respond. She didnât know what to say. She just wished she had an answer.
âShe hates me,â he said quietly, his voice almost drowned by the chatter from the cafe.
Barbara glanced up at the man. âShe doesnât hate you, Dick.â
âFeels like it,â he muttered, running a hand down his face. âItâs like every time I try to talk to her, I just make things worse.â He paused, swallowing thickly. ââŚ.You donât think sheâs acting like this because of what happened before, do you?â
Barbara leaned back in her chair, her expression softening. âWhich part of âbeforeâ are we talking about?â
Dickâs gaze dropped to the floor as his mind pulled him back, unbidden, to those first turbulent days after Bruceâs death.
The cave had never felt more suffocating, its dim light and cold walls amplifying the tension crackling in the air. You stood across from Dick, your posture tense, fists clenched at your sides.
âYouâre benching me?â Your voice was sharp, anger barely masking the hurt underneath.
âItâs not permanent,â Dick said, his tone measured but firm. âYouâre not in the right headspace right nowââ
âIâm fine,â you snapped, cutting him off. âIâm doing my job, same as I always have.â
âNo, youâre not,â Dick countered, his voice tightening. âYouâre reckless. Youâre putting yourself in danger for no reason.â He took a step closer, his jaw tight. âIâve seen you out there, and itâs like youâre not even trying to come back in one piece. Youâre acting like you have nothing to lose.â
Your heart lurched at his words, but you refused to show it. âDonât stand there and psychoanalyze me. Iâm doing my job. If you think Iâm not good enough, just say it.â
Dick let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. âThatâs not what Iâm saying, and you know it. Youâve been through hellâlosing Bruceâyour fatherâand instead of giving yourself time to deal with it, youâre throwing yourself into the field like you have a death wish.â
Your fists clenched tighter. âSo what? Iâm just supposed to sit around, doing nothing? Let Gotham fall apart while you and Damian play Batman and Robin? Iâm trying to help, Dick!â
âI know you are,â Dick said, his voice softening, but there was a steel edge to it. âBut this isnât helping. Not like this. Youâre going to get yourself killed, and I canâtââ He stopped himself, shaking his head.
âYou canât what?â you demanded, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. âYou canât trust me? Canât rely on me? What, am I just some burden to you now?â
âThatâs not what Iâm saying!â Dick snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. His voice echoed through the cave, bouncing off the walls. âIâm saying I care about you, and Iâm not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself like this.â
The raw emotion in his voice caught you off guard, but it only fueled the fire burning in your chest. âYou donât care about me,â you spat. âIf you did, youâd let me do what Iâm good at instead of sidelining me. Youâre becoming just like fatherâdeciding whatâs best for everyone else without asking.â
Dick flinched at the comparison, but he recovered quickly, his expression hardening. âThis isnât about control. Itâs about keeping you alive. Youâre grieving, and itâs clouding your judgment. Until you can think clearly, I canât let you keep putting yourself in danger.â
âYou canât let me?â you repeated, your voice cracking as your anger reached its peak. âYouâre not my father, Dick. You donât get to tell me what I can or canât do!â
âNo, Iâm not your father,â Dick shot back, his voice low but sharp. âBut I am your brother. And I am Batman now. So itâs my call.â
The words landed like a blow, cutting through the air between you. Your breathing was ragged, your chest heaving as you stared at him, your emotions warring inside youâanger, betrayal, grief, all swirling together until you couldnât separate one from the other.
âFine,â you said finally, your voice cold and flat. âDo what you want. Bench me. Replace me. I donât care.â
Dickâs expression flickered, a crack in his resolve, but you didnât give him a chance to respond. You turned on your heel and stormed out of the cave, your footsteps echoing behind you.
The memory twisted in Dickâs chest like a knife. A few days later, heâd seen someone in Cassandraâs Batgirl costume, her movements unfamiliar, the seams of the mantle not quite fitting yet.
âTsk, tsk. Sloppy.â Damian had commented.
âHow is this the woman who led the League of Assassins? The âwarriorâ who ran the outsiders at fatherâs command?â he had asked sharply.
âYouâre right..â Dick muttered, narrowing his eyes as he realized who it was.
âSheâs not as good as the other batgirls..â
When he confronted Barbara about mentoring Stephanie, the conversation had been anything but calm. She believed in Stephanie, believed Gotham needed a Batgirl. Heâd been reluctant, furious that Barbara had allowed Stephanie to go around Gotham wearing that Bat symbol on her chest when sheâs not prepared for what the city has become in the absence of Batman. But heâd eventually agreed, seeing how much Stephanie needed this, seeing how much Barbara needed this too.
But when you found out? That had been the breaking point.
The sound of hurried, angry footsteps echoed through the Batcave, snapping Dickâs attention from the monitor. He turned just as you came storming in, radiating anger.
âAre you serious?â you demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the caveâs machinery.
Dick sighed, already bracing himself for the confrontation. He should have expected this, but the fury radiating off you still caught him off guard.
âStephanieâs Batgirl now?â you said, your words laced with disbelief. âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
âSheâs doing good work,â Dick said, keeping his tone neutral, though he could already feel the tension building.
âSheâs replacing me!â you snapped. âNeither you nor Barbara even thought to talk to me about this. Not a single word. You didnât think for one second about how Iâd feel.â
âSheâs not replacing you, (Name),â Dick said, his voice taut as he tried to keep his composure.
âYes, she is,â you shot back, your tone rising. âYouâre saying Iâm not good enough. That Iâm not fit to be Batgirl anymore.â
âThatâs not what this is about,â Dick countered, his patience beginning to fray.
âThen what is it about?â you challenged, stepping closer. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it looks like you decided I wasnât worth it. You didnât even give me a chance to prove Iâm notââ
âYou donât have to prove anything,â Dick interrupted sharply.
âClearly, I do!â you spat. âBecause you didnât just bench me. You handed over my mantle to someone else, like I didnât matter. Like Iâm just⌠disposable!â
âThatâs not what happened,â Dick said, his voice rising. âThis isnât about replacing youâitâs about keeping you alive!â
You froze for a split second, stunned, before your expression hardened. âKeeping me alive? What the hell are you talking about?â
Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. âLike I already told you, youâve been reckless. Ever since Bruce died, youâve beenââ
âDonât bring father into this,â you interrupted, your voice dangerously low.
âI have to,â Dick snapped back. âBecause ever since he died, youâve been running yourself into the ground, throwing yourself into danger without a second thought. Youâre not thinking clearly, and itâs going to get you killed. I had to take you off the streets before it was too late.â
âIâm fine,â you said through gritted teeth.
âYouâre not fine,â Dick retorted, his voice sharp. âYouâre angry, youâre grieving, and youâre not in the right headspace to be doing this. You think I wanted to bench you? I didnât have a choice.â
âThereâs always a choice,â you bit out. âAnd you chose her.â
Dickâs jaw tightened. âBecause Gotham needs a Batgirl who can think straight right now. Someone who isnât running on grief and anger. Thatâs not you right now.â
âOh, so Stephanieâs better than me now?â you said bitterly. âI see how it is. First, you replace Tim with Damianâwithout even talking to him about itâand now youâre doing the same thing to me.â
âThis isnât the same,â Dick said, his voice hardening.
âIsnât it?â you challenged, stepping closer. âYou didnât even ask me. You just made the decision for me. Like I donât get a say. Like I donât matter.â
âTim can handle himself,â Dick shot back, his voice sharp. âDamian canât. He needed someone to guide him, someone to keep him from spiraling out of control.â
âAnd I donât?â you fired back. âI lost my father, Dick. Everything changed the moment heâs gone. The ânormalcyâ I had was no longer there. But instead of helping me, instead of guiding me, you just⌠tossed me aside. Like I wasnât worth the effort.â
âThatâs not what I did,â Dick said, his voice quieter but no less firm.
âThen what did you do?â you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.
âIâm trying to protect you!â Dick shouted, his frustration boiling over. âYou donât see it, but youâre not okay. You think you can just power through this, but you canât. Not like this. If I let you keep going, youâdââ He stopped himself, his voice catching.
âIâd what?â you pressed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt.
Dickâs shoulders slumped, and he looked at you with a rawness in his expression you werenât expecting. âYouâd get yourself killed,â he said softly. âAnd I couldnât live with that. Especially when Iâm in charge.â
âDonât make this about me being reckless or grieving or whatver you think is wrong with me,â you said through gritted teeth.
âIt is about that!â Dick snapped, his voice rising even more than before. âYouâre spiraling and you know it. Youâre not in the right headspace to be out there right now, let alone as Batgirl.â
âIâm fine. Iâve been fine. Iâm doing my jobââ
âYouâre throwing yourself into danger without thinking,â Dick interrupted, his voice sharp. âYouâre not acting like someone whoâs fine. Youâre acting like you donât care if you live or die, and Iâm not going to let you do that under the Batgirl mantle.â
You stared at him, your chest heaving, your emotions a chaotic storm. But instead of softening, instead of understanding, the words only made the ache in your chest worse. âYou donât get to decide that for me,â you said coldly.
âSomeone has to.â
You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. âNo. You donât get to make that call, not for me. You didnât even try to understand. You just made your decision and moved on.â
Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed toward the exit, leaving Dick standing in the empty cave, his hands clenched at his sides.
Dick stood there, staring at the spot where youâd disappeared. His chest felt tight, a mix of guilt and frustration twisting inside him. He didnât mean to hurt you. That was the last thing he wanted. But letting you keep going out there, in the state you were in, wasnât something he could allow.
âItâs for your own good,â he murmured to himself, but the words rang hollow in the silence of the cave.
Dick stared down at the hot cider Barbara ordered for him, the steam curling lazily above the cup. His voice was low, almost pained, as he broke the silence. âIt had been rocky after that,â he admitted, the memory of your argument still sharp in his mind. âEven after I told her not to go out as Batgirl, she disobeyed me. Again and again.â
Barbara didnât respond, her gaze steady on him, waiting for him to continue.
âIâd bench her, and sheâd show up on patrols anyway,â Dick said, his tone bitter with frustration, but there was no hiding the regret beneath it. âAt first, I thought she was just trying to prove a pointâto prove me wrongâbut the more I watched, the more I realizedâŚâ He trailed off, shaking his head. âShe was just hurting. She threw herself into every fight like it didnât matter if she came out of it.â
Barbara shifted in her wheelchair, her fingers tightening around her own mug.
Dick ran a hand through his hair. âI didnât want to admit then, but I didnât know how to handle it. I thought taking her off the streets would help, but it just pushed her further away. The fights got worse. She wouldnât talk to meâor if she did, it would get messy. She didnât trust me anymore.â
He paused, exhaling heavily. âAnd I donât think sheâs ever forgiven me for that.â
Barbaraâs lips pressed into a thin line, but she stayed quiet, sensing there was more.
âWhen Bruce came back, I thought things would go back to normal,â Dick said, forcing a hollow chuckle. âI thought we could reset, you know? Bruce took over as Batman again, I went back to being Nightwing, and she officially went back to being Batgirl. It was like the pieces were all back in place. Like things were the way they were supposed to be.â
Barbara tilted her head slightly, catching the way his voice softened.
âBut they werenât,â he admitted, his voice breaking just slightly. âNot really.â He hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. â(Name) quit three weeks ago. Officially. And⌠sheâs been avoiding me ever since. I see it in the way she leaves before I show up, the way she makes sure sheâs never in the same room as me. Itâs likeâlike whatever this is, itâs irreparable. Like I played into her quitting.â
Barbara reached out slightly, her hand brushing against his briefly, grounding him.
âI donât think I was wrong in my decision,â Dick said, though there was an ache in his voice that made it hard to believe him. âI justâI handled it badly. I hurt her, Babs. And now, I donât know if Iâll ever get the chance to make it right.â
He fell silent, staring into his drink like it held some sort of answer.
Barbara shifted her gaze to him, guilt clawing at her chest as her own memories surfaced.
âIâŚ. should have handled things better too,â she admitted softly, almost to herself.
Dick glanced at her, surprised by the admission.
âI should have been there for her,â Barbara continued, her tone quiet but heavy with regret. â(Name) wasnât in the right state of mind, and I knew that. I knew it. But IâŚâ She hesitated, gripping her mug tightly. âI chose to focus on Stephanie instead. To guide her. To help her become Batgirl.â
âYou were trying to do what was best for everyone,â Dick said gently, but Barbara shook her head.
âNo, I wasnât,â she said firmly. âI was avoiding the harder choice. Helping herâhelping someone who was grieving, who was hurt, who needed someone to pull them out of that spiralâthat wouldâve taken more from me. More patience. More time. And I didnât give it to her.â
Dickâs expression softened, but he didnât interrupt.
âI thought Stephanie needed me more,â Barbara said, her voice cracking slightly. âShe was trying so hard to prove herself, to find her placeâfind what she needs. And she deserved my guidance tooâbut I shouldnât have left (Name) behind. Not like that.â
The two of them fell silent for a long moment, both lost in their thoughts.
âShe deserved better from me,â Barbara murmured, her throat tightening. âAnd now I have to live with the fact that I didnât give it to her. I have to live with the fact that I let this gap between us grow so big. And I donât even know when it happened.â
Dick looked at her, his expression softening. âItâs not too late to fix that.â
Barbara gave him a small, sad smile. âHow do you fix something when you donât even know where to start?â
Dick opened his mouth to respond, but the weight of her words settled over him. He knew exactly how she felt. But just like her, he didnât have an answer.
âSheâs so⌠closed off now,â Dick said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. âI donât even know how to approach her anymore. Every time I try, itâs like thereâs this wall between us, and I justââ He stopped, exhaling sharply. âHow did I mess up so bad?â
Barbara studied him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice.
âI didnât want to hurt her,â Dick admitted. âI justâI wanted her to be okay. I wanted her to stop putting herself in danger, to stop tearing herself apart over everything she lost back then. But now⌠I donât know if I helped her at all. I think I just pushed her further away.â
Barbara placed a hand over his, squeezing it gently. âYou did what you thought was right,â she said softly.
âDoesnât make it hurt any less,â Dick muttered, his voice thick with regret.
They sat there in silence for a while, both of them weighed down by the choices theyâd made and the consequences they were still grappling with. Neither of them knew how to bridge the gap youâd left behindâbut they both knew they couldnât just leave it like this. Not anymore.
finally done with this chapter lol. itâs been long overdue, so sorry about that đđ i had to rewrite a lot of these scenes so many times because i wasnât satisfied with itâŚbut hopefully you lot are okay with this chapter haha.. đŹđ i slightly adjusted stephanieâs relationship with reader in this compared to the background info i posted because i thought this would fit better with the dynamic i intended for her to have. but for now, have this while iâm going to take a semi-hiatus/break to celebrate my bday which is coming up in 4 days and some other stuff 𫶠next chapter will most likely come out on 28 dec so yeah, until then, iâll still try to reply to whatever is in my inbox đŤ¨
taglist is closedâźď¸
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The door slammed open so hard it reverberated through the sterile hospital room. Bruce didnât flinch. He barely blinked. He just sat there, slumped in the hard plastic chair, his hand resting on yoursâcold and lifeless beneath his touch.
âWhat the fuck am I looking at?â
Bruce didnât answer, didnât lift his head.
âBruce.â
Nothing.
The last fraying thread snapped. The figure crossed the room in a hearbeat, and the next thing Bruce registered was a fist colliding with his jaw.
Crack.
Bruce hit the ground with a heavy thud, his head snapping to the side as the impact split his lip and bruised the skin around his cheekbone. He didnât move to defend himself, didnât even try to stand. He just lay there on the cold tile, blood pooling in his mouth, the metallic tang sharp on his tongue.
He deserved this.
âGet up,â Jason spat, towering over him. His chest rose and fell like a man drowning in rage. âGet the fuck up!â
Bruce pushed himself into a seated position, back against the chair heâd fallen from. Slowly, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. âJasonâŚâ
âWhat the hell happened? Tell me, Bruce. Tell me whyââ Jasonâs voice shook as he gestured wildly toward your body. You, lying there on the hospital bed, covered with a sheet up to your chest. Still. Too still.
âTell me why the hell am I looking at her like this?!â
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, his own voice hoarse, like gravel scraping against stone. âShe went after a drug ring. Alone.â
Jason froze. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes blazing. âWhat?â
Bruce hands dropped into his lap, empty and useless. âShe tracked them down herself. She found out where they were moving shipments. I donât know when she leftâby the time I realized, it was already too late. Sheââ
âAnd you let her??!â Jasonâs shout rang through the small room, loud enough that the walls almost shook. He pointed at Bruce, his hand trembling. âYou let her go after them?! Alone?!â
âShe didnât tell me.â
âShe didnât tell you?â Jasonâs voice cracked, raw and vicious. He let out a bitter, humourless laugh. âAre you fucking kidding me, Bruce? Youâre BATMAN. Youâre supposed to KNOW when this kind of shit is about to go down!â
Bruce finally lifted his gaze to Jason, his face haggard, the bruising around his jaw already deepening. âShe didnât tell me, Jason,â he repeated quietly, like the words were an admission of failure. âShe went on her own.â
Jasonâs fists clenched at his sides, knucles white. âYou shouldâve known sheâd do this! You shouldâve stopped her! Youâre supposed to keep her safeâthat was your job!â
Jasonâs voice cracked again on the last word, and Bruce couldnât meet his eyes.
âShe made her choice.â
âBullshit!â Jason snarled, stepping forward like he might hit him again.
He should, he thinks.
âShe shouldnât have had to make that choice. She wouldnât have done it if she thought she didnât have to. Sheââ Jasonâs voice faltered for the first time, his fury cracking around the edges, breaking apart into something more brittle. He turned his head sharply toward your still form, his chest heaving.
Jasonâs voice dropped, quiet and shaking. âSheâs dead.â
The words hung in the air, terrible and final.
You were dead.
His sister was dead.
Jason let out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his hair. He turned toward the wall, his vision blurring, the tight knot in his chest turning into something he couldnât contain. Before he knew it, his fist collided with the drywall, the sound loud and violent as it split under the force.
âGoddamnit!â Jasonâs voice broke, raw and thick, the cracks in the wall mirroring the fractures in his heart. His chest heaved, his legs suddenly feeling too weak to hold him. He stumbled back a step, then two, before his knees hit the ground.
Bruce didnât move.
Jason leaned back against the cracked wall, his forehead dropping against his knees as he struggled to breathe through the sickening weight pressing down on him. His voice was barely audible now, a broken rasp.
âSheâs dead,â he whispered again, like saying it out loud would make it easier to believe. âDamnit, Bruce, sheâs gone. Sheâs gone.â
He was furious at Bruce. For allowing this to happen. First him, then Alfred, and now⌠you.
He was furious at himself. If heâd just been thereâŚ. If he hadnât stayed away like a selfish coward, like he thought pushing you away would protect you, like he thought pushing you away would make you drop the mantle, maybeâmaybeâthis wouldnât have happened. Maybe you wouldnât be lying there, cold and lifeless.
âGoddamnit,â Jason choked out, his fingers gripping his hair as he tried to keep himself from shattering completely. âI shouldâve stopped her. I shouldâve been there.â
Bruce, still on the floor across from him, watched Jason quietly. His voice, when it came, was low and rough. âI promised myself I wouldnât fail her.â
Jasonâs head snapped up, his eyes red-rimmed, furious. âYou did. You failed her.â
He bowed his head down, and gritted his teeth. ââŚ.And I did too.â
With that, Jason fell silent. He stayed there, crumpled on the floor, staring at your lifeless form as the weight of it allâyour death, Bruceâs failure, his own failure, his regretsâsettled over him like a suffocating shroud.
And for the first time in a long time, Jason didnât know how to pick himself back up.
The night was deceptively calm, a quiet blanket over Gotham that felt almost serene. But Dickâs heart was anything but that. It hammered in his chest like a war drum, each beat fueling the storm that raged inside him. In the shadowed alleys and dimly lit streets, he moved like a storm, tearing through the remnants of the drug ring that belied the peaceful night.
Every punch, every kick was driven by something deeperâsomething raw and consuming. His movements were precise, brutal, and unrelenting, each strike a wordless scream of anguish. This wasnât just justice. It wasnât even revenge.
This was the drug ring you had been chasing. The one responsible for your death.
And Dick wasnât stopping until they felt the full weight of what they had taken from him.
One of the thugs came at him with a crowbar, swinging wildly. Dick ducked low, his movements precise, and drove his elbow into the man's ribs. The thug stumbled, wheezing, but before he could recover, Dick caught him with a roundhouse kick to the temple. He went down hard, blood streaking his face.
Another rushed him from behind, but Dick anticipated it, pivoting sharply and catching the man's wrist mid-swing. He wrenched it back with brutal efficiency, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. The man screamed, but Dick silenced him with a punch to the throat, sending him crumpling to the ground.
A third lunged at him with a knife, slashing at his chest. Dick sidestepped, grabbed the thug by the wrist, and twisted hard enough to disarm him. The blade clattered to the ground as Dick's fist connected with his jaw, snapping the thug's head back. He didn't let up, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall.
âWhere are the rest of you?â Dick snarled, his voice venomous. The man whimpered, struggling against his grip, but before he could answer, another figure charged at Dick.
This one didn't even make it close. Dick spun, releasing the man he'd been holding and delivering a brutal flying knee to the newcomer's chest. The thug crumpled on impact, choking and gasping for air. The alley was littered with bodies-groaning, bloodied, broken.
But it wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
Dick's eyes locked on the last thug, the one who'd been cowering in the shadows, trying to make a quiet escape. His boots crunched on the asphalt as he closed the distance, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The man froze, wide-eyed, as Dick grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him against the wall.
âWhere's the rest of your crew?â Dick growled, his voice low and dangerous.
âI-I don'tââ
The man's excuse was cut off as Dick slammed him against the wall again, harder this time.
âDon't lie to me,â Dick hissed, his grip tightening. His knuckles were already sore and bloodied, but he barely noticed.
âWhere are they?â
The thug whimpered, trembling under Dick's glare. âWarehouse... on 14th... Please, man, I'm justââ
âShut up.â Dick's voice was ice, his eyes dark with fury. He raised his fist, ready to deliver another blow, but a voice crackled in his ear, sharp and commanding.
âNightwing!â
Dick froze, his fist hovering in the air.
âDick, that's enough!â Barbara's voice was firm, but there was a crack in itâa tremor that cut through the haze of rage clouding his mind. âThey're down. He's down. You've got what you need.â
For a moment, Dick didn't move, his chest heaving, his fist still trembling in the air. Then, slowly, he let the man drop. The thug collapsed to the ground, coughing and clutching his chest, too terrified to move. Dick turned away, his hands shaking as he secured the thugs with cuffs. He didn't bother calling it in to the GCPD. He just fired his grappling hook and ascended to the nearest rooftop, the wind whipping at his face as the adrenaline began to fade.
And then the guilt hit.
The rooftop was silent save for the distant hum of Gotham below. Dick leaned heavily against the ledge, staring down at the city that had taken so much from him. He pressed two fingers to his comm.
âOracle,â he rasped, his voice raw. âYou there?â
âI'm here.â
There was a beat of silence before Dick spoke again, his voice trembling. âI should've been there, Babs. I should've been there for her.â
Barbara's breath hitched over the comm. âDickââ
âI was supposed to protect her.â The words came out sharp, biting, the anguish behind them bleeding through. âI'm her big brother, Barbara. I'm supposed to protect my family. Protect her.â His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms hard enough to break skin. âBut I wasn't there. I wasn't there, and now, she's...â His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat.
Barbara's voice was soft but steady. âYou couldn't have known, Dick. You were-â
âDon't,â he snapped, his anger flaring again. âDon't tell me I couldn't have known. I should have known. I should've been paying attention. I was in Bludhaven, dealing with lowlifes while she was...â He trailed off, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the words.
âShe was dying, Babs,â he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. âAnd I wasn't there. (Name) is dead.â
Barbara was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was laced with pain. âYou're not the only one who feels this, Dick. Don't act like you're the only one who lost her.â
Dick let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. âYou don't get itââ
âDon't I?â Barbara's voice cracked, sharp and raw.
Dick froze, his breath catching.
âShe died as Batgirl,â Barbara said, her tone trembling with emotion. âShe died wearing my mantle. Do you think I don't blame myself for that? Do you think I don't feel like it's my fault she's gone?â
Dick turned, guilt twisting in his gut as he heard the crack in her voice.
âShe was under my guidance,â Barbara continued, her voice rising. âShe was wearing my symbol. That's on me, Dick. Just like how you thought Jasonâs death was on you.â
Dick flinched at the name, his chest tightening painfully. That was a low blow. A low moment in his life in which he didnât want to go through again. But here he wasâ
âSo don't you dare think for a second that I don't understand,â Barbara said, her voice breaking now. âBecause I do. I know exactly how this feels for you. Every second of each day, I feel it. And itâs killing me inside.â
The silence that followed was deafening.
Finally, Dick spoke, his voice barely audible. âI can't lose another one of us, Babs. I can't. Jason came back, but she...â His voice cracked again. â(Name)âs not coming back.â
Barbara's voice softened, though her pain was still evident. âI know.â
Dick closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a physical force. âThis is my fault, Babsâ he admitted, his voice trembling.
âNot just yours⌠mine as well,â Barbara replied, her voice thick with emotion.
For a moment, neither of them said anything, the silence between them heavy with shared grief.
there was too much fluff (mlb asks + uf trio asks) posted tdy, i needed to balance it out đĽ°đŤś i love it when dick goes feral in the comics lol (its hot)
âWhat?â You froze, her words barely registering at first. Your heart dropped into your stomach. âCaitlyn, what do you mean? What happened?â
âIâheââ Caitlynâs voice trembled, her words coming out in a flurry. âI donât know exactly! His parents called mine early this morningâhe was rushed to the hospital, something happened last nightâI donâtââ She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. âHeâs not okay, (Name). They said heâs in critical condition.â
The blood drained from your face. Your phone felt heavy in your grip as you sat on your bed, stunned, Caitlynâs voice a distant hum in the background.
Adrien. In the hospital.
Critical condition.
Caitlyn kept talking, her panic spilling over, but you couldnât process anything else she was saying. The words circled in your head, loud and deafening.
Why? Whyâs Adrien in the hospital? You donât remember this happening back in your first life.
Why?
Why did this happen?
â(Name)? Are you still there?â Caitlynâs voice broke through, desperate for an answer.
âIâyeah,â you managed, though your voice sounded distant, hollow. âIâm here.â
âYou have to come. Please.â
ââŚIâI knowâIâm coming right now, send me the location of the hospital,â you managed to choke out, though your body felt frozen in place.
As Caitlynâs frantic breathing filled the silence, your mind raced. Adrien. One of your closest friendsâsomeone you thought was safe.
And now he wasnât.
The call ended, but you didnât even realize it at first. You sat there in the dim light of your room, staring at your phone, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Adrienâs in the hospital.
Heâs in critical condition.
This didnât happen before.
This shouldnât have happened.
You scrambled out of bed, phone clutched tightly in your hand as your mind raced. Adrienâs in the hospital. Critical condition. You couldnât stop the words from repeating in your head, pounding with every heartbeat.
You didnât bother changing. Your sleepwearâa pair of loose sweatpants and an oversized shirtâwas good enough. Grabbing your phone and wallet, you shoved them into your pockets, your hands trembling as you threw open your bedroom door. You didnât even bother turning on the lights as you stumbled down the halls of Wayne Manor, adrenaline and fear propelling you forward.
You turned a corner sharply, only to collide with somethingâor someoneâsolid.
âMiss (Name)?â Alfredâs voice, steady and composed as always, was the first thing you registered. You blinked up at him, disoriented. He was already up, wearing his pristine suit as if the day had already begun. He mustâve been starting his morning duties.
âWhere are you off to so early, child?â Alfred asked, concern flickering in his gaze as he took in your appearanceâthe disheveled hair, your bare feet, and the look of absolute panic on your face.
âIâIâŚâ You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat. Your chest tightened, and you gasped for air as your hands shook.
Heâs in the hospital.
Critical.
The more you tried to explain, the more the words tangled and refused to come out.
âMiss (Name)?â Alfredâs voice softened, his brows knitting together as he stepped closer. âWhatâs happened? Please, take a breath.â
You shook your head rapidly, clutching at your hoodie. You couldnât breathe. Why couldnât you breathe? Adrienâs face flashed in your mindâhis smile, his laugh, the stupid jokes he told when he knew you were down. And nowânowâ
âAdrienââ you finally choked out, your voice trembling, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. âHeâsâheâs in the hospital. Iâcriticalââ
Alfred froze, his usually calm expression shifting as worry etched deep lines across his face. âAdrien?â he repeated softly, his voice steady but tinged with concern.
You gripped his arms suddenly, your fingers clutching the fabric of his suit, desperation pouring out of you. âAlfred, IâI need to goânow! Please. I need to go see him!â Your voice cracked, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.
Alfred gently placed his hands on your shoulders, trying to steady you. âMiss (Name), you must calm yourself. Youâll only make yourself ill if you continue like this.â
âNo!â you almost shouted, shaking your head violently. âI donât have time for that! Heâheâsââ You stumbled over your words again, your chest heaving as you fought to calm down. âI have to go, Alfred. Please.â
The pleading in your voice finally seemed to register. Alfredâs gaze softened, though his concern didnât waver. He nodded, his voice low and reassuring. âVery well. Iâll take you there.â
Your hands loosened their grip on his arms, and you exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and urgency pushing you forward.
âLetâs get you to the car,â Alfred said firmly, guiding you toward the door. âIâll have you there in no time.â
You nodded silently, following him as he grabbed the keys and led you out to the car. The cool morning air hit you as you stepped outside, but you barely felt it. All you could think about was Adrienâlying in some hospital bed, fighting for his life.
This didnât happen before. Not in your first life.
Your hands curled into fists in your lap as Alfred started the engine, his steady driving the only sound filling the silence. You stared blankly out the window, the familiar streets of Gotham blurring past.
Alfred glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his voice gentle. âWeâll be there soon, Miss (Name).â
You didnât answer. You couldnât. The weight of everything sat heavy on your chest. Hold on, Adrien.
Please.
The car hadnât even fully stopped before you flung the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement, adrenaline carrying you forward. The hospital loomed in front of you, the stark white of its walls and harsh fluorescent lights far too sterile for the storm of emotions crashing inside of you. You barely registered Alfred following close behind as you rushed through the glass doors, your breath shallow, heart pounding in your chest.
You practically skidded to a stop in the hallway, eyes darting around in a frenzy until you spotted herâCaitlyn. She was sitting in one of the waiting chairs, her head bowed, shoulders shaking. Next to her stood her older brother, his hand resting protectively on her back. Further down the hall, Adrienâs parents were speaking quietly to a doctor, their faces pale and drawn with worry.
âCaitlyn!â Your voice broke as you called out to her, and her head snapped up at the sound. The second she saw you, she was up on her feet, rushing toward you. You met her halfway, and she threw her arms around you, her sobs muffled against your shoulder as you clung to her.
âIâm so glad youâre here,â she choked out, her voice shaking. âIâI donât know what to do. I justâŚâ
You tightened your arms around her, trying to steady her even though your own hands were trembling. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Alfred quietly approaching, his presence a steady anchor even in moments like this.
âWhat happened?â you managed to ask, your voice uneven as you pulled back to look Caitlyn in the eyes. Her face was pale, tear tracks streaking her cheeks, and her lip quivered as she tried to explain.
âAdrienâŚâ She took a shaky breath, gripping your arm as if afraid you might disappear. âHis parents called mine early this morning. There wasâthere was a bombing.â
Your heart stopped. What?
âThe Riddler.â Caitlyn swallowed thickly, her voice strained. âOne of his bombs went off, and it caused a few buildings to collapseâincluding Adrienâs apartment block.â
What?
âHe was home alone. His parents werenât there last night, so Adrienâhe got caught in the debris when the building fell. The doctors said he was lucky to even be pulled out aliveâŚâ Her voice cracked. âA lot of people got hurt. Luckily no one died, but Adrienâheâs one of the ones who were seriously injured. They said he hit his head in the collapse. He hasnât woken up since.â
You stared at her, the world suddenly muffled and distorted as if you were underwater. Caitlynâs words echoed in your head, but it didnât make sense. A bombing? Buildings collapsed? No. That shouldnât have happened. In your first life, you remembered this incidentâyou were there. You knew the Riddlerâs patterns, the locations of his bombs. And not a single one had detonated. Your family dealt with all the bombs before they detonated. Batman dealt with all the bombs before they detonated.
So why had a bomb gone off this time?
Your pulse roared in your ears, your mind racing to piece together fragments that refused to fit.
What changed?
Surely it canât be becauseâ
You tried to breathe, to ground yourself, but the floor beneath you felt unsteady.
No. It canât. You made things worse before when you went ahead and tried to help. But no one got hurt thenâ
A noise pulled you from your spiralâfootsteps. The heavy sound of a door swinging open. You turned, your eyes snapping to a doctor emerging from down the hall. It was the same door Adrienâs parents had been pacing near.
Everyone froze. The doctor removed his surgical mask, his expression carefully measured, though there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. Adrienâs parents rushed forward, and Caitlyn gripped your hand tightly as you both waited, holding your breath.
âHowâs my son?â Adrienâs mother demanded, her voice strained, her hands clutched together in front of her chest.
The doctor offered a small, cautious nod. âWeâve managed to stabilize him. Heâs out of critical condition.â
Relief flooded the small group like a breaking dam. Adrienâs mother let out a small, broken sob, her husband catching her shoulders to steady her. Caitlynâs grip on your hand relaxed slightly, though she didnât let go.
âBut,â the doctor continued, and the word sent a fresh wave of tension through the air. âHeâs still unconscious. There was some head trauma from the collapse, and weâll need to monitor him closely for the next 24 hours. Right now, itâs too early to say when heâll wake up, but the worst seems to have passed.â
The worst seemed to have passed.
Those words rang hollow in your ears as you stared blankly at the doctor. Adrien was aliveâfor now. He was out of dangerâfor now. But it didnât feel right. Nothing about this felt right.
The bombing. The destruction. Adrienâs injuries. This wasnât how it was supposed to go.
You barely heard Caitlyn whispering, âThank God,â beside you, or the murmured reassurances exchanged between Adrienâs parents and the doctor. Your mind was miles away, replaying the facts over and over again as if looking for cracks.
Because something had changed. And you didnât know why.
Or worseâwhat it meant.
Alfred Pennyworth had seen many things in his timeâfar too many for a lifetime, truth be toldâbut watching you now, standing tall as you comforted Caitlyn and Adrienâs parents, stirred something deep and conflicted within him. You were calm, composed, and steady, offering gentle reassurances to Adrienâs mother while quietly squeezing Caitlynâs hand when her voice trembled. To anyone else, you would appear unshaken, a pillar of support in the chaos.
But Alfred knew better.
His sharp, observant gaze hadnât missed the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when no one was looking, how you clenched your jaw just a bit too tightly when Adrienâs condition was discussed. He couldnât forget the sight of you earlier that morning, wide-eyed and shaking as you struggled to form words. That desperation, that fearâit had been raw, unguarded, and entirely unlike you. It unsettled him deeply to see you bottling it all up now, setting aside your own fear and grief for the sake of others.
And Alfredâloyal, caring Alfredâwanted to step forward. He wanted to remind you that you didnât always have to be the strong one, that you too had the right to feel scared, to cry, to crumble if you needed to. You were still just a child in his eyes, no matter what life had thrown at you. But before he could take that step, the distinct vibration of his phone pulled him back.
He fished it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID.
Bruce.
Alfred exhaled softly through his nose, stepping to the side of the waiting area as he answered the call. âMaster Bruce.â
âWhat happened?â Bruceâs voice was sharp and direct, though there was something else buried beneath itâsomething tight, almost concerned. âWhere did you take her, Alfred?â
Alfred blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. âYou saw us leave?â
âI did. From my study.â Bruceâs tone left little room for evasion. âWhere did you take her?â
There was a moment of hesitation before Alfred sighed, his voice lowering as he said, âI brought her to the hospital, sir.â
The line went quiet. Alfred could hear Bruceâs breath hitch on the other end.
âIs she hurt?â Bruceâs voice was quieter now, strained.
âNo, sir.â Alfred quickly reassured him. âSheâs alright. Physically, at least.â He paused, glancing back at you where you still stood, gently rubbing Caitlynâs back as she cried softly. âOne of her friends, Iâm afraid, got injured. A boy named Adrien.â
ââŚWhat happened?â Bruce asked after a beat, his voice carrying the faint edge of something heavy and unspoken.
Alfred relayed the situation succinctly, his tone measured and professional despite the somber nature of his words. âThe boy was caught in the aftermath of last nightâs bombing. His apartment block was one of the few that collapsed. Heâs out of critical condition now, but he remains unconscious. The doctors are monitoring him closely.â
Silence stretched on the line, and for a moment Alfred wondered if Bruce had disconnected.
Then Bruce spoke, his voice low and firm. âWhatâs the hospitalâs name and room details?â
Alfred furrowed his brow slightly, confused. âWhy do you ask, sir?â
âIâll ensure his treatment isnât lacking,â Bruce replied simply, but Alfred could hear the underlying intent. âIâll upgrade his careâbetter equipment, the best specialists, whatever they need. Iâll make sure he gets through this.â
Alfred blinked, momentarily stunned. Even after all these years, Bruce still had a way of surprising him.
âVery well, sir.â
Regaining his composure, Alfred quietly supplied the hospitalâs name and Adrienâs room number, his voice softer now.
There was a brief pause before Bruce added, almost as an afterthought but with unmistakable weight, âMake sure she gets home safely, Alfred.â
Alfred allowed himself a small, reassuring hum. âOf course, sir. Iâll see to it personally.â
Bruce said nothing more before the call clicked off, leaving Alfred staring down at the phone in his hand for a moment longer. Upgrade his care, Bruce had said. Alfred knew Bruceâs methodsâhe would leave no expense spared. Adrien would have the best Gothamâs medical resources could offer, a quiet gesture of concern through Bruceâs ever-practical means.
But the question is, why? Why was he doing this? Was it out of guilt because he was unable to prevent the events that happened? Or was it because of you..?
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Alfred turned his attention back to you. You were still standing with Caitlyn, your hand resting on her shoulder as you murmured soft words of comfort.
And though Alfred didnât say anything, he resolved, then and there, to keep a closer eye on you. Because while Bruce would ensure Adrien was cared for, Alfred would ensure you didnât carry this weight alone.
Bruce sat in his study, the phone still gripped tightly in his hand long after the call with Alfred had ended. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside, but his mind was anything but still. Instead, it replayed the events of the night beforeâthe chaos, the explosion, the terrified screams of civilians.
His jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all pressing down on him. Heâd failed. Again. He wasnât fast enough. He wasnât quick enough.
The Riddlerâs attacks had been calculated, vicious. And though he had managed to subdue him in the end, Bruce couldnât shake the fact that it hadnât been clean. Civilians had been caught in the aftermathâinnocent people whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No lives had been lost, thank god, but injuries⌠the injuries were still on him. Their blood might not have stained his hands, but their pain still sat heavy on his shoulders.
Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion catching up to him. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to be better than thisâalways ten steps ahead, always anticipating every possible outcome. Thatâs what he prided himself on. Yet last night, heâd miscalculated. He missed out a bomb. And because of that, people got hurt. Adrien, an innocent boy who had nothing to do with Gothamâs darkness, had paid the price.
But what rattled him even more was you.
He exhaled slowly, his thoughts shifting to the scene heâd caught through the window earlierâAlfred ushering you into the car, your movements frantic, your posture tense and rigid with fear. Bruce hadnât been able to make out what was said, but he didnât need to. Heâd seen enough. Your hands were shaking, your breathing uneven, panic rolling off you in waves. It was like watching a dam breakâsomething he hadnât wanted to see from you.
That terrified him.
Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as his fingers steepled under his chin. Was this why you quit? Was this what drove you to leave behind the life youâd built alongside him and the others? To leave the Batgirl mantle behind? Or was there something else he was missing?
Youâd always been resilient. Stubborn, even. You fought to be Batgirl and he gave it to you. Heâd seen you face horrors most adults wouldnât survive and come out the other side unscathed. Or at least, thatâs what heâd believed. Now, though⌠now he wasnât so sure.
Was this too much for you? Bruce had thought you wanted to stand alongside him, to carry the weight of the Bat symbol as much as he did. But maybe⌠maybe he hadnât considered what that weight did to you. To your life.
And now this boy. Adrien. Someone close to you, someone you cared about, had been hurt. Because of Gotham. Because of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a wave of guilt rolled through him. Was this what finally made you want to quit? The fear of seeing the people you cared about dragged into the dark, hurt simply for being a part of your life?
The thought hit him harder than he cared to admit.
Bruce let his hands fall to the desk, the soft thud breaking the silence of the room. He glanced at a framed photograph sitting just out of armâs reachâa rare picture of the family taken during a quieter time, years ago, when things felt simpler, almost normal.
Almost.
You were there, smiling brightly as you tugged Jason and Dick into the frame. Bruce hadnât smiled, but even he couldnât deny the fondness in his expression. You were about 8, or 9 in the picture? He canât recall.
But now, the photograph mocked him.
What was he doing?
What had he done?
What hadnât he done?
Bruce slumped back in his chair, his eyes heavy with the weight of his own failures. He could handle the cost of this life when it came to himself. Heâd made that choice long ago, and he bore its consequences without hesitation. But when it came to you, or any of his childrenâhis familyâit was different. And somehow, in his stubbornness, in his mission-driven focus, heâd lost sight of that. Heâd lost sight of you.
Bruceâs gaze fell to his hands. Strong hands. Calloused hands. Hands capable of so much. But incapable, it seemed, of protecting the people he loved most.
Last nightâs events was a cruel reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Gothamâs darkness would always bleed into their lives. It was inescapable. It tainted everything.
And now Bruce couldnât help but think of you, sitting in that hospital, holding strong for others. Just like he would. He hated that. Hated that heâd let you shoulder that kind of weight. Hated that he was one of the reasons you had to go through that pain.
He knew what Alfred would sayâthat you were stronger than you gave yourself credit for. And that was true. But even the strongest people had limits, and Bruce feared youâd reached yours long before he noticed.
Bruce inhaled deeply, straightening slightly in his chair. Your friend would get the best care Gotham had to offer; heâd make sure of it. It was the least he could do.
But this?
You..?
It was a good thing that you decided to quit this life of fighting crime.
But what does this mean for you and him?
The room lit only by the faint glow of the fire crackling in the hearth. The shadows stretched across the walls, mirroring the thoughts that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The silence was heavy, suffocating.
Heâd told himself that this was what you neededâto leave the life of Batgirl behind. To be free of the darkness, of the violence, of him. It was what any father would want for their child, wasnât it? A normal life, a safe life. Something better than the path he walked every night.
It was what he wanted for you. But you didnât want that. At least, not until now.
But now⌠he sees you pulling further and further away.
You were slipping through his fingers, and he didnât know how to stop it.
What was he supposed to do?
What could he do?
Bruce knew he needed to fix this. Needed to find a way to reach you. To pull you back in before you closed yourself off entirely.
But did he have the right?
Bruce knows he hadnât always been the best father he could be for you. But he tried. Keeping you at a distance had been his way of protecting you. Or so he told himself.
Now, he wasnât so sure.
For now, though, all Bruce could do was waitâand hope that when you finally came home, heâd know what to say.
Would he know what to say?
He wasnât sure.
Itâs been three days. Three days since the bombing, since Adrien had been pulled from the rubble.
Yet, he still hasnât woken up.
Your hand gripped the strap of your bag tightly, your nails pressing into the skin of your palm as you fought to keep your breathing even.
Why is this happening?
It wasnât the first time youâd asked yourself that question, but today, the weight of it felt suffocating. The answer clawed at the edges of your mind, a whisper youâd been trying to ignore: Itâs because of you.
You swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but the thoughts wouldnât stop.
If you hadnât quit, if you hadnât chosen to abandon your role as Batgirl, maybe things wouldâve been different. Maybe you couldâve helped prevent the attack, maybe you couldâve been there to stop the bomb from exploding before Adrien got hurt. But you had quit, and because of thatâ
You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. No. That couldnât be true. You didnât plant the bomb. You didnât cause the building to collapse. Logically, you knew this. But still, the guilt sat heavy in your chest, an unbearable ache you couldnât escape.
This wasnât supposed to happen.
In your first life, your family had dealt with all the bombs even though you intervened and accidentally caused more mess for them to clean up.
But now, youâve changed somethingâyou quit being Batgirl, and that somehow shifted the timeline. It altered eventsâand now changed the outcome of the future you once thought you knew. Because of that, people you cared about were paying the price.
Things took a turn when you learned Adrien had been moved to a better room in the hospital. A room with state-of-the-art care, better equipment, and a team of top-tier specialists monitoring him around the clock. When Caitlyn told you, her voice shaky but relieved, you didnât quite understand what she meantâuntil Adrienâs parents pulled you aside.
âWe canât thank you enough,â his mother had said, her voice breaking as she gripped your hands. âWe heard it was your father who arranged all of this. Without him, I donât know what we would have done.â
Your heart had dropped into your stomach. âMy father?â youâd echoed dumbly, the words barely audible.
âYes, heâs been so generous,â Adrienâs father added. âWeâre truly grateful.â
Youâd managed a weak smile, nodding at their words, but you werenât hearing them anymore. Your mind spiraled, their voices distant and muffled as though you were underwater. Bruce did this?
It had to have been Alfred who told him.
There was no other explanation.
And yet, you couldnât figure out why. Did he feel guilty? Did he think he was responsible for what happened to Adrien, or was this his way of making up for something he couldnât fix?
Whatever his reasons, it left you even more conflicted. And as the days stretched on and Adrien remained unconscious, that conflict turned into a heavy silence you couldnât shake.
You kept to yourself more. When Caitlyn asked if you were okay, youâd nod and insist you were fine. When Alfred gently prodded, offering you tea or trying to draw you into light conversation, you brushed it off with polite refusals. âIâm alright, Alfred,â youâd say, forcing a small smile that didnât reach your eyes. âReally, I am.â
You visited the hospital with Caitlyn every day, sitting quietly at Adrienâs bedside. Youâd watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hopingâprayingâfor any sign that he would wake up soon. Caitlyn would talk to him softly, telling him stories or complaining about school, her voice filling the quiet room. You mostly listened, offering small smiles and half-hearted reassurances, though your thoughts were always elsewhere.
Damian was trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here.
Avoiding you was supposed to be easy. Simple, really. After the argument days ago, Damian Wayne had decided he didnât want to deal with youâat all. You were emotional, irrational, and completely insufferable. That was his reasoning.
And yet, for some reason, whenever he tried to avoid you, he ended up seeing you everywhere.
Somehow, every time he turned a corner, you were there. Sitting in the library with a book you didnât seem to be reading. Wandering the halls aimlessly, shoulders slouched. Staring out the window like you were waiting for somethingâor someoneâwho wasnât coming. Every time he spotted you, his stomach twisted with a frustration he couldnât name, and heâd quickly duck out of sight before you noticed him.
But avoiding you didnât mean he didnât see.
You were moping around. For days. He didnât know why that irritated him so much. It shouldnât, he told himself, but it did. Truth be told, after Jon came over and, like an insufferable optimist, suggested that he should make up with you, Damian had actually considered it. Heâd thought about approaching youâbegrudgingly, of courseâand try to settle things after your argument.
That was until he saw you pat Jonâs head.
It was as if something short-circuited in his brain at that moment. The fond way you ruffled Jonâs hair, the soft smile you gave himâwhy had you never smiled at him like that? Why show it to some half-Kryptonian idiot when clearly he, Damian Wayne, was far superior in every measurable way?
He scoffed at the memory, gritting his teeth as he stalked through the manor. âWhatever. If sheâs not going to beg me for forgiveness, then why should I?â His voice echoed off the empty walls, and he immediately regretted muttering it out loud. He wasnât being petty. Definitely not.
But still, the image of you looking miserable stuck in his head like a splinter he couldnât dig out.
He needed to talk to someone about this. Logically, he reasoned, that was the next step.
His father? No, he was tied up with League business and had been away for days. Richard? Heâs in BlĂźdhavenâthere was no way he was going all the way there to have this conversation. Timothy? Cooped up in the Cave being useless as usual.
Which is how Damian found himself breaking into Toddâs apartment.
Jason was lounging on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, when Damian casually strolled in through the window like he owned the place. Jason didnât even flinch, though his eyebrows did twitch slightly at the intrusion.
âYou know,â Jason said, deadpan, âthe front door exists for a reason.â
Damian ignored him entirely, stepping into the apartment like he belonged there and inspecting a nearby bookshelf. âYou read?â
Jason sighed and sat up, placing his coffee mug down. âWhat do you want, Damian? Lemme guessâgot into it with Bruce, so now youâre here sulking?â
âNo,â Damian replied tersely, shooting him a glare.
Jason blinked, frowning slightly. âHuh.â His tone was flat, but there was a note of curiosity underneath. âThen why the hell are you here?â
Damianâs posture stiffened, his voice slightly defensive. âI need to ask you something.â
Jason raised a brow. âAbout what?â
ââŚ. (Name).â
Jason froze, his expression unreadable as he processed the answer. Then, he groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. âYouâre here because of her? Seriously? Out of all the people in Gotham, Iâm the one you came to??â
Damian didnât so much as blink. âYou were the most logical choice. Father is unavailable, Grayson is in Bludhaven, Cain and Pennyworth are busy, and Drake isâŚâ He waved his hand vaguely.
âBeing Drake. So itâs a perfectly good reason to be here.â
Jason deadpanned. âNo. Itâs really not.â He shifted on his couch to face the younger boy.
Silence hung between them for a beat before Jasonâs curiosity got the better of him. âSo what do you want to know about her?â
Damian shifted, his eyes narrowing. âYou were close to her once, no?â
Jason blinked, a muscle in his jaw tightening. âWhy are you asking me? Youâre the one who practically lives in the same house with her. Why donât you ask Alfred or Bruce?â
âIâm asking you because you were actually close to her.â
Jason scoffed, leaning back against the couch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. âNo I wasnât. If anything, you should be asking Dickhead about her.â
âYouâre lying,â Damian countered, crossing his arms. âIâve seen the photos. The two of you were close.â
Jason narrowed his eyes. ââŚ.What photos?â
Damian smirked slightly, like heâd caught Jason in a trap. âThe ones in the Manor. And the ones she keeps in her room. You were always together when you were younger. It doesnât take a detective to see it.
Jason scoffed. âThat was then. Not now. And for the record, you need to mind your own damn business.â
Damian, of course, wasnât about to let it drop. He moved closer, relentless as ever. âWhy arenât you close anymore?â
Jason groaned again, louder this time, as if the sheer volume might scare Damian off. It didnât. He shot him an irritated look. âWhy do you even care?â
Damian froze for half a second, caught off guard by the question. His face betrayed nothing, but Jason saw the falter in the boyâs gaze, the tension in his shoulders. âI donât. Iâm simply curious.â
Jason barked a short, humourless laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. âYeah. Sure. Totally believable.â
Damian glared at him, clearly irritated now. âTt. Youâre avoiding the question.â
âYouâre avoiding the question,â Jason shot back, pointing a finger at him. âWhy do you care what happened between me and her?â
Damian scoffed, cheeks faintly pink, though he masked it well. âDonât deflect, Todd.â
Jason exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He stared at Damian for a long moment, debating whether to shut him out entirely or give him somethingâanythingâto make him leave. âFine! You want to know why weâre not close anymore? Itâs becaude sheâs in over her damn head.â
Damian frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. âExplain.â
Jasonâs eyes darkened, his voice hard. âWhen she decided to pick up the Batgirl mantle, she didnât think it through. You think this life is all capes and heroics? Itâs not. Itâs hell. I know what it does to people. What it did to me. And yet she just threw herself into it like it wouldnât chew her up and spit her out.â He gestured vaguely toward the window. âI couldnât watch that happen. I couldnâtâŚâ His voice trailed off, the words dying in his throat.
Damian tilted his head slightly, his tone cutting. âYou donât get to decide what she does or doesnât do with her life. Sheâs capable of making her own decisions.â
Jasonâs gaze snapped to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. âYou donât get it, kid. Iâm not gonna stand there and watch her throw herself into this crap like it wonât destroy her. Iâve seen it happen. I lived it.â
Damian didnât back down, his voice steady but sharp. âSheâs not you, Todd.â
Jason barked a humorless laugh. âYou sound just like Bruce.â
âPerhaps heâs right,â Damian retorted. âYou donât get to decide what she wants to do. You donât get to control her life just because youâre scared of what might happen.â
Jason stared at him for a long moment, anger flickering across his face before it faded into something more tired. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. âYou really donât understand.â
Damian scoffed. âMaybe I donât. But at least Iâm trying to understand. What are you doing? Nothing, thatâs what.â
Jason froze, his jaw clenching as Damianâs words hung heavy in the air. Ok, that really ticked him off. Neither of them spoke for a long beat, the tension thick between them. Finally, Jason let out a long sigh, slumping back against the couch.
âYouâre relentless, you know that?â
âOf course,â Damian replied smugly, the ghost of a smirk on his face.
Jason waved him off with an irritated glare. âGo bother someone else, brat. Iâm done talking.â
Damian didnât argue, though he didnât seem entirely satisfied either. Damian turned to leave, his cape swishing as he headed for the window. Just before he climbed out, he glanced back at Jason, his expression serious. âYou were close once. Maybe you should try fixing that.â
And with that, he was gone, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.
âStupid kid.â
Jason let out a long, slow exhale, the kind that seemed to drag the weight of the room with it. His gaze fell to the old photo sitting on his bookshelfâthe one Damian had no doubt found evidence of. He hadnât meant to keep it out in the open. Hell, he hadnât meant to keep it at all.
But there it was.
Jason stood up, as though pulled by an invisible string, and walked over to the photo. He picked it up, holding it carefully in his hand, the edges worn from years of handling. The image was faded, but it was clear enoughâhim and you, younger, smiling like idiots. You couldnât have been more than ten, wearing that ridiculous oversized jumper that used to belong to Dick no doubt, sleeves practically swallowing your hands. And him? Heâd had one arm slung over your shoulder, his grin cocky and confident, though it softened just a little in the way his gaze turned toward you.
Jason felt something twist in his chest, that familiar ache that clawed its way up whenever he thought about you. He used to cherish this photo. He still did. He used to look at it and remember a time when things were simpleâwhen the world wasnât so goddamn broken. Back when you looked at him like he was invincible. Like he was your hero.
âThis is stupidâŚâ he muttered again, though his voice had lost its bitterness, softening into something heavy and tired. He ran his thumb along the edge of the frame, the ghost of a memory clawing at the back of his mind.
Youâd always been clinging to him back then. Always trailing after him no matter what. Back then, he didnât mind. He never minded. Heâd liked being the one you looked up to, the big brother you trusted most. He let you tag along, let you sit in on his antics becauseâdeep downâit felt nice to have someone who looked at him like that. With so much admiration and joy.
But then Ethiopia happened.
He died.
And when he came back, everything had shifted.
Youâd still tried. You still looked at him like you believed there was something good in him. There wasnât. And for a while, heâd let himself believe that tooâthat maybe he could still be the big brother you needed. That maybe you wouldnât look at him like everyone else didâlike a disappointment. Like a maniac running loose.
But then he found out youâd picked up the Batgirl mantle.
Jasonâs grip on the frame tightened as the memories blurred together, anger mixing with guilt until he couldnât tell the difference. He hadnât been able to stomach itâseeing you put on that suit, throwing yourself into this life like it wouldnât chew you up and spit you out the same way it had done to him. To all of them. You were smarter than that, werenât you? But no, you were stubborn. And he couldnât stand that.
Couldnât stand how much you reminded him of himself.
So, heâd pushed you away.
He had to.
At least, thatâs what he told himself.
Jason sat back down on the couch, the photo still clutched in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment before letting out a bitter laugh under his breath. âWhat the hell am I doingâŚ?â
Why was he so worked up over this?
Admitting that this was what he had to do felt wrong. Like the words were jagged shards cutting into his throat. But it was the truth. You reminded him too much of himselfâof the kid he used to be before his death, before everything went to hell. And the thought of watching you get hurt, of losing you to the same path that tore him apart, made his stomach churn.
But nowâŚ..
Now you had quit. You left the mantle behind. What does that mean for him? What does that mean for everyone?
You werenât that same kid he knew anymore, the one who tripped over your own shoelaces and laughed like that fall didnât hurt. Youâd grown up. And he? He hadnât been there to see it. He was dead for the most part, and when he did come back, heâd pushed you away, shut the door between you because he thought he was protecting you.
And now, here he was, talking to a photograph like it could fix the mess heâd made. Bridge the divide he caused.
Jason stared at the image for another long moment before setting it face-down on the table. He didnât want to look at it anymore. Didnât want to see what heâd let slip away.
âStupid kid,â he said one last time, though now it was hard to tell who he was talking aboutâyou, or himself.
The hospitalâs fluorescent lights felt too bright as you sprinted down the hall, Caitlynâs text echoing in your head. You barely processed the directions to the room, you barely paid attention to the nurses or other visitors around you, your legs just carried you as fast as they could.
You skidded to a stop outside the door, your heart pounding against your ribcage. For a second, you couldnât bring yourself to open it. What if Caitlyn had gotten it wrong? What ifâ
You shoved the door open before your thoughts could spiral further.
And there he was.
Adrien was sitting up in bed, his light hair a tousled mess, the familiar spark of life in his eyes as he talked with Caitlyn. His parents were beside him, his mother gripping his hand tightly, his father resting a hand on his shoulder. It was real. He was here. He was awake.
ââŚWhatâre you standing there for?â Adrienâs voice cut through your shock, his teasing tone so familiar it sent a rush of relief flooding through you.
You didnât answer. Instead, you bolted forward, crossing the room in two strides and throwing your arms around him. Adrien laughed, though the sound came out scratchy and hoarse. âWhoa, whoa! I just got out of a coma, try not to break me.â
âYouâre an idiot,â you mumbled into his shoulder, your voice thick with emotion. âA complete idiot.â
âYeah, yeah,â he said, his tone softer now as he hugged you back. âMissed you too.â
You pulled back reluctantly, giving him a quick once-over. He looked⌠well, not great, but better than the last time youâd seen him, lying pale and motionless in this very bed. The relief in your chest was overwhelming.
âSee? I told you,â Caitlyn chimed in, grinning. âHeâs too stubborn to die.â
Adrien rolled his eyes but smirked. âGuess I couldnât leave you two alone, huh? Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?â
âOh, please,â Caitlyn said, leaning back in her chair. âWeâd be fine without you.â
Adrien raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. âWould you, though?â
âDonât be fooled. She cried just as much as I did.â You pointed out, crossing your arms.
â(Name)!! You werenât supposed to call me out like that..!!â
Adrien and you just laughed, the boy shaking his head. âThought so.â
You sat down in the chair opposite Caitlyn, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. âHowâre you feeling?â you asked, your voice quieter now.
Adrien shrugged, wincing slightly at the motion. âLike I got hit by a truck. But, yâknow, alive. So thatâs a plus.â
âUnderstatement of the year,â Caitlyn muttered, earning a weak laugh from Adrien.
His parents stood then, his mom brushing her hand over his hair. âWeâre going to speak with the doctors for a moment. Weâll be right back, okay?â
Adrien nodded, giving them a reassuring smile. âYeah, sure. Take your time.â
As the door closed behind them, a comfortable silence settled over the three of you. Caitlyn broke it first.
âSo, Adrien,â she started casually, âhow does it feel to cheat death?â
Damn.
Adrien snorted, shooting her a dry look. âFantastic. You should try it sometime.â
âHard pass,â Caitlyn replied, smirking. âSo, youâre stuck here for how long?â
Adrien groaned, tilting his head back. âProbably a couple more days. Theyâre all freaked out about my concussion or whatever. Something about observation.â
Caitlyn snorted. âGuess youâre stuck eating Jell-O and pudding for a while.â
âDonât remind me,â Adrien grumbled, though he couldnât quite hide the grin tugging at his lips.
You shook your head, smiling faintly as you listened to them banter. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal again. But then the image of Adrienâs unconscious form from that night crept back into your mind, and your stomach tightened.
âWhat happened, Adrien? Howââ You faltered. âHow did you make it out?â
Adrienâs face softened, his usual joking demeanor giving way to something quieter. âIt was⌠close,â he admitted, his voice low. âHonestly, I thoughtâI didnât think I was gonna make it.â
Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably, her smirk fading. âYeah, well⌠you scared the hell out of us.â
Adrien gave her a faint smile before turning his attention to you. âBut then Robin showed up.â
You blinked, the name catching you off guard. âRobin?â
âYeah,â Adrien said, his tone tinged with awe. âHe got me out of there. I donât even know how he did it, but one second Iâm stuck under some rubble, and the next heâs pulling me out like itâs nothing. If it werenât for himâŚâ
Your heart skipped a beat. Robin. Damian.
Caitlyn let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. âDamn, the little guy came through, huh?â she said, leaning back in her chair. âGuess heâs more than just Batmanâs sidekick.â
Adrien chuckled, nodding. âWay more. Heâs the reason Iâm still here.â
Caitlyn leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. âWell, color me surprised. Thought heâd be too busy sulking on a rooftop somewhere.â
But you werenât laughing, you barely heard her. Your mind was racing, the pieces clicking into place.
Robin. Damian.
Damian had saved Adrien. Damian.
The same Damian youâd been at odds with just days ago. The same Damian youâd snapped at.
The realization hit you like a freight train, leaving you stunned. You owed him. Damian Wayne, the one person who always seemed to get under your skin, was the reason Adrien was alive.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. How were you supposed to face him after this? What were you supposed to say?
But one thing was certain: you had to at least thank him.
You pushed open the heavy door of Wayne Manor, the familiar creak echoing through the grand entryway as you stepped inside. The weight of the hospital visit lingered on your shoulders, but it was lighter nowâyour chest no longer tight with worry. Adrien was awake. Adrien was okay.
You exhaled a deep breath, shutting the door behind you before making your way toward the stairs. But as you turned the corner, you collided with a solid figure.
âWatch where youâreâoh.â Damian Wayne, in all his brooding glory, stood in front of you, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over. His usual scowl was firmly in place, though there was a flicker of surprise beneath it.
You blinked at him, equally startled. âDamian?â
He crossed his arms, as if trying to reassert his usual air of annoyance. âWhat are you doing here?â he asked, as though it werenât painfully obvious that you both lived under the same roof.
You raised an eyebrow. âPretty sure I live here. Whatâs your excuse?â
âTt.â He scoffed, looking like he was already regretting bumping into you. âI donât have time for this.â He turned on his heel, clearly intending to stalk off, but before he could, you reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
âWait.â
Damian froze, his head tilting slightly as if he couldnât believe youâd stopped him. âWhat is it now?â he asked, his tone sharp but not as biting as usual.
You hesitated for a second, your grip on his sleeve loosening. Then, you spoke. âThank you.â
He blinked, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. ââŚWhat?â
âThank you,â you repeated, your voice steadier this time. âFor saving Adrien.â
Damian turned fully to face you now, his expression briefly betraying his surprise before he covered it with his usual scowl.
âWho?â
Oh right, he probably doesnât know who Adrien is.
âMy friend. He told me what you did.â
Damianâs eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. His posture tensed, though he didnât pull away from you. âI donât know what youâre talking about,â he said, though the faintest hint of color touched his cheeks.
âDonât play dumb, Damian,â you said, crossing your arms. âAdrien told me what happened. You saved him. During the whole, Riddler bombing situation.â
The younger boyâs gaze softened slightly, recognition briefly passing through his eyes, before he scoffed, glancing to the side. âTt. It was nothing. I wouldâve done the same for anyone.â
âMaybe,â you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. âBut it wasnât just anyone. It was my friend. And because of you, heâs alive.â Your tone softened, the sincerity in your voice clear. âSo⌠thank you.â
Damianâs gaze flickered back to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didnât say anything, and you wondered if he was even going to acknowledge your words. But then he spoke, his voice quieter than usual.
âI didnât do it for you,â he said, though there was no malice in his tone.
You huffed a quiet laugh. âI know. You did it because youâre a hero, even if youâd never admit it.â
Damian bristled at that, his cheeks darkening just slightly. âDonât be ridiculous.â
Damian stood there, his eyes fixed on yours in a way that was almost unnerving. The silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward, until it felt like you had to say somethingâanythingâto break it.
You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. âLook⌠Iâve been meaning to say this.â
Damian tilted his head, his expression unreadable but still sharp. âWhat?â
âIâŚâ You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. âAbout the other day, when I snapped at you in my roomâI shouldnât have. I was frustrated, yeah, but it doesnât mean I shouldâveââ
âStop.â
His voice was quiet but firm, cutting you off mid-sentence. You blinked, looking up at him. Damianâs gaze was softer now, though his brows were still furrowed.
âYou donât need to apologize,â Damian cut in, his voice stiff. He looked uncomfortable, as though the words he was about to say were physically painful to him. âI was⌠out of line. I shouldnât have said the things I did.â
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. Damian Wayne, apologizing? You never thought youâd see the day. But the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and you felt your chest ache slightly at the vulnerability he was trying so hard to mask.
âI was⌠wrong,â Damian mumbled, his voice barely above a grumble. His cheeks flushed faintly, and he avoided your gaze entirely, staring determinedly at the floor instead. âThatâs all I wanted to say.â
You blinked at him, stunned into silence.
You couldnât help itâyou just stared at him. âOh wow,â you said, your voice teasing. âSo you can apologize.â
Damianâs head snapped up. âDonât make it a big deal!â he snapped, clearly flustered. âIâm just being⌠reasonable.â
âRight, reasonable,â you repeated, biting back a grin. âNoted.â
Damian stiffened, his cheeks darkening just slightly. âYouâre insufferable.â
âMe?â you shot back, crossing your arms. âYouâre the one acting like this is the most painful thing youâve ever done.â
âI simply donât see why this needs to be drawn out into some⌠melodramatic moment,â he muttered, avoiding your gaze.
You snorted. âRight. Because you never make anything dramatic.â
Damian glared at you, though the faint blush on his face betrayed his usual cool demeanor. âI donât know why I even bother with you,â he muttered under his breath.
âBecause deep down, you actually like me,â you said, smirking as you stepped closer.
âIncorrect,â Damian shot back immediately, though he took a small step back, clearly flustered.
You let out another laugh, shaking your head. Without thinking, you reached up and ruffled his hair. âDonât sweat it, Damian.â
His eyes widened, and he batted your hand away almost immediately. âHey! Stop treating me like a child!â
âAw, but you are a child,â you teased, grinning at his indignant expression.
âI am not,â Damian huffed, his voice dripping with irritation. But he didnât storm off like he usually might have. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his hand brushing over his hair where youâd ruffled it.
âYou keep telling yourself that,â you said with a wink before turning to head up the stairs.
Damian stayed where he was, watching you go with an unreadable expression. Finally, he muttered under his breath, âRidiculous.â
But despite his best efforts, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just a little.
The Batcave hummed with the sound of Timâs furious typing, the clatter of keys echoing through the cavernous space. Monitors surrounded him, each displaying fragments of information from the Riddlerâs last attack: building schematics, bomb blueprints, maps of Gotham. His face was set in a hard line, his jaw tight, his eyes bloodshot from hours of obsessive work.
He couldnât shake itâthe image of the buildings destroyed, the civilians being pulled from the wreckage. All because heâd missed one.
One bomb.
It shouldnât have happened. If heâd been sharper, more thorough, more focused, those people wouldnât have been hurt.
His fists clenched against the keyboard. Bruce hadnât berated him, not exactly. But being âgroundedâ from fieldwork and told to âreflectâ felt worse than a lecture.
Why had he been distracted?
Because of you.
Tim scowled, his typing slowing as his thoughts spiraled. Stephanie had said you just needed time, but time hadnât fixed anything. You hadnât returned to being Batgirl yet. The passion youâd once shown, the drive you hadâit was like it had vanished. He couldnât understand it. Why werenât you fighting to come back?
Why werenât you acting like you again?
âTim.â
The soft voice broke through his storm of thoughts. He turned, startled, to see Cassandra standing behind him, her arms crossed, her dark eyes unreadable.
âCass,â he said, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. âWhat are you doing here?â
She walked closer, her footsteps quiet as ever, and stopped beside him. âWhat are you doing?â
Tim frowned. âWorking.â
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. âMore like punishing yourself.â
âIâm notââ He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. âI just⌠I missed something. People got hurt. I canât let that happen again.â
âNo one died,â Cass said simply, but her tone wasnât dismissive. It was calm, grounded, like she was trying to anchor him.
âBut they could have,â Tim snapped, his frustration spilling over. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. âI failed. I canât afford to fail like that again. Ever.â
The cave was silent, but from the corner of his eye, Tim could see Cassâ lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.
âYouâre just like Bruce.â
Tim froze, her words hitting him like a punch. His eyes widened as he turned to look at her. âIâno, Iâm not.â
âSure,â Cass said, her smile growing.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. âPlease donât say that.â
She chuckled softly, patting his shoulder. âCome on. Get some fresh air.â
âI donât needââ
She didnât wait for him to finish, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the staircase.
âCass,â he protested weakly, but he didnât resist. She was undeniably stronger than he was, and, honestly, he was too tired to fight her.
As they emerged from the cave and into the manorâs main hallway, Tim rubbed the back of his neck. âThis is stupid. I shouldââ
âShh.â Cass held up a hand, her attention drawn to the corner ahead.
Tim followed her gaze, his brows furrowing. He was about to ask what she was looking at when he heard voicesâyour voice, accompanied by a quieter, gruffer one.
Curious, Cass crept closer, pulling Tim along with her. They peeked around the corner, and what they saw made Tim freeze.
You were standing there with Damian.
Talking.
Like, actually talking.
Tim blinked, his brain short-circuiting. Damian, who had been avoiding you like you carried the plague, was now⌠engaging in a conversation? And you werenât just tolerating him. You were smiling. Fondly.
As if that wasnât shocking enough, you reached out and ruffled Damianâs hair.
Timâs jaw dropped.
Cass tilted her head slightly, watching the interaction unfold. You and Damian were⌠comfortable? The thought made her brows pinch together in faint confusion. The last she remembered, the two of you werenât exactly at ease with each other. And yet, here you were, smiling like you werenât at each otherâs throats days ago.
Cass didnât know if the scene tugged at her heart in a good way or a bad way, but it did tug.
Meanwhile, Tim was outright flabbergasted. His mouth opened and closed, no words forming, as his brain tried to piece together the impossibility in front of him.
You. Damian. Talking normally.
Not only that, but youâd smiled at himâfondly, as if he hadnât been the same brat whoâd made your life hell since the day he arrived. And Damian⌠Damian was letting it happen. Not scoffing or sniding, but actually standing there. Engaging.
And then you reached up and ruffled Damianâs hair.
Timâs jaw unhinged.
âWhat?â he whispered under his breath. âWhat⌠what?â
Timâs heart skipped a beat. He couldâve sworn he imagined it, but no. For the briefest moment, as you walked away and Damian watched you go, he saw it.
A smile.
Not the smug, cocky smirk Damian loved to wear when he thought heâd gotten the upper hand. Not the sarcastic quirk of his lips when he made one of his snide comments.
A genuine, soft smile.
âWhat the fuââ
âLanguage,â Cass interrupted softly, cutting him off before he could finish.
Tim turned to her, eyes practically bulging out of his skull. âCass.â He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind another wall, further from where Damian could hear. âWhat was that?â
Cass tilted her head at him, her expression calm. âWhat was what?â
âThat!â Tim gestured wildly in the direction of where you and Damian had been. âDamian smiled. Did you see that? He smiled.â
Cass shrugged. âYes.â
âYes?â Tim repeated, incredulous. âThatâs all youâre going to say? Yes?â
âWhy are you overreacting?â Cass asked, her voice as measured as always.
Tim froze. âOverreacting? Me? No. Iâm just⌠concerned.â
Cass raised an eyebrow. âConcerned about a smile?â
âIt wasnât just the smile!â Tim hissed, lowering his voice when he realized he was getting loud. âIt was the whole thing! Theyâre talking! Like normal people! You saw it! And sheâshe patted his head!â
Cass tilted her head, her lips twitching as if she was trying not to smile. âIs that a problem?â
Tim threw his hands up. âOf course itâs a problem! This is Damian weâre talking about. Damian. When has he ever been this⌠thisâŚâ
âObedient?â Cass supplied, amused.
âExactly!â Tim said, then paused. ââŚWait, no. Thatâs not the point. The point isâwhat even happened? Last I checked, they werenât on speaking terms. Now theyâre all⌠sibling-y?â
âIsnât that normal?â Cass asked, her tone still maddeningly calm. âFor siblings to act like that? Even if they fight?â
Tim opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He froze, staring at her, his brain scrambling to process her question.
Normal. Siblings.
Heâd never thought of it that way.
Sure, they were all technically siblings, but Tim couldnât remember the last time heâd actually tried to build that kind of bond with you. Sure, you were his sister by name. But did he even know what that was supposed to feel like? He knew what his bond with Dick is like, what his bond with Cassandra is like. Hell. he even knew what his bond with Jason and Damian is like. But what about you?
Cass studied his silence, her expression softening. âItâs okay,â she said quietly.
Tim shook himself out of his thoughts. âNo, butâwaitâthis still doesnât explain how theyâre suddenly on good terms. Last time I checked, Dick said they had some huge argument.â
Cass smiled faintly. âPeople change.â
Tim ran a hand down his face, exasperated. âWhat the hell happened while I was cooped up in the cave?â
âFood,â she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Tim sighed, letting her drag him along to the kitchen. He couldnât even focus on the fact that he was hungry. His thoughts were too tangled, replaying what heâd just witnessed.
Damian. Smiling.
You. Smiling fondly back at him.
Have you ever smiled at him that way?
He swore he wasnât confused jealous. Definitely not.
âŚRight?
dw iâm definitely not killing off people this early đŤŁđ¤ have this fluff instead đđŤśđŤś (definitely not planning for anything worse)
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The night was calm, as far as Gotham standards went. Dick leapt across rooftops with practiced ease, the crisp night air cooling the sweat on his brow. Patrol had been fairly routine so farâan attempted mugging here, a couple of carjackers there. But even as he flipped and fought, his mind was elsewhere.
You.
Why was it that for the past few days, he couldnât seem to catch you for even a moment? Every time he stopped by the manor, Alfred had the same response: Miss (Name) is out at the moment, Master Richard.
Out? Out where?
Heâd pressed Alfred for more details the first time, but the butlerâs polite smile and vague responses left him with more questions than answers.
He ducked under a clumsy swing from a thug, twisting his attackerâs wrist and disarming him in one fluid motion. Were you avoiding him? The idea gnawed at him, even though he tried to dismiss it. Surely you wouldnât do that. Not to him. Right?
But the signs were starting to feel undeniable. You answer his texts hours later, and even those were short and simple. Most of his calls went straight to voicemail and when you do pick up, it was to say that you couldnât talk right now. Whenever he asked anyone in the family about you, they either gave noncommittal answers or shrugged. Even Damian had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped when Dick had broached the topic with him. That, more than anything, felt like a red flag.
Had the two of you not reconciled yet?
What did you two even argue about to get to this point? Damian wouldnât tell him anything no matter how much he bugged him.
The thought made his chest tighten uncomfortably. Did he do something? Say something? He ran through every interaction heâd had with you in recent memory, trying to pinpoint where things mightâve gone wrong. But nothing came to mind. Youâd always seemed fine, maybe a little quieter than usual, but heâd chalked that up to you being tired. Gotham took its toll on everyone eventually.
Still, the nagging doubt lingered. The idea that you might be avoiding him on purposeâit didnât sit right. You were family. He thought heâd always made that clear (he did right?), that you could come to him about anything. So why did it feel like you were slipping away? Did he not make it clear enough? (did he even make it clear?)
Dick pushed off the railing, his footsteps echoing as he started pacing again. He didnât like this feeling. He needed to figure out what was going on. What had changed? And why did it feel like you were determined to keep him at armâs length?
âWhatâs got your panties in a twist?â
He knocked the thug out with a quick jab to the jaw and spun around to check on Jason, who was dealing with the last of the group. His voice, distorted slightly by the modulator in his helmet.
Jason, of course, was handling them with his usual⌠flair. A solid punch here, a sharp kick there, and the thugs were down for the count in no time. As Jason holstered his pistol, he glanced over at Dick, tilting his head slightly as though sizing him up.
Dick let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking his head. âHaha. Very funny.â
Jason lets out an audible scoff. Even though his face was obscured by his helmet, Dick could practically feel the eye roll.
âSo?â Jason drawled, crossing his arms as he leaned against a lamppost. âAre you gonna speak up or what?â
Dick just sighs as he puts away his escrima sticks.
âItâs about (name).â
âWhat? She messed up again or something?â
Dickâs head snapped toward him, his brow furrowing. âWhat? No. Why would you evenââ
Jason shrugged, kicking at the unconscious body of one of the thugs as if to test if he was really out cold. âI dunno. Sheâs always messing something up, isnât she? And you have to clean up after her. At least, thatâs the vibe I get.â
Dickâs shoulders tensed, a sharp frustration bubbling to the surface. âJason, seriously?â
Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. âWhat? Iâm just sayingââ
âNo, youâre not âjust saying,ââ Dick interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. âThis is exactly why Iâm worried. You guys act like sheâs just⌠this screw-up, like sheâs some annoyance you have to deal with, and itâs not fair.â
Jason tilted his head, clearly surprised by the outburst. âOkay, hold on. Whereâs this coming from?â
Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He leaned against a nearby wall, staring out over the dimly lit alleyway. â(Name) quit being Batgirl.â
Jason visibly froze for a split second at Dickâs words, the tension in his stance betraying his surprise. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He let out a scoff, straightening up and crossing his arms. âOkay. And?â
Dick blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. âWhat do you mean, âOkay, and?ââ he asked, incredulous. â(Name) quit, Jason. (Name). The girl who literally begged B and Babs to let her become Batgirl. She didnât just want it; she fought for it. And nowââ
âAnd now sheâs finally done being a liability in a cape,â Jason interrupted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. âHonestly, Grayson, shouldnât you be happy about it?â
Dickâs breath hitched, the bluntness of the statement striking a nerve. He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He hated to admit it, but a part of himâthe small, cruel voice he always tried to silenceâhad whispered something similar when he first heard the news.
Jason, noticing the brief flicker of hesitation on Dickâs face, took that as his cue to keep going. âI mean, come on. Sheâs not cut out for this life, and you know it. Youâre just too polite to say it out loud. So, good for her. Sheâs finally realized what the rest of us already knew.â
Dick was silent, his jaw tightening as Jasonâs words hung heavy in the air. He didnât want to agree, not even a little. But the doubt had already been planted, and Jasonâs callousness only made it worse.
âNo,â Dick said finally, his voice firm. He shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of the thought entirely. âDonât call her a liability, Jay. And thatâs not the point. She quit, yeah, but sheâs been distant ever since. When she had this huge fight with Damianââ
Jason snorted. âProbably demon spawnâs fault.â
âDonât say that,â Dick snapped, frowning at him. âItâs no oneâs fault, Jason. They probably werenât in the right headspace and let their emotions get the better of them.â
Jason rolled his eyes. âSure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.â
Dick ignored the jab, his focus still on you and the unanswered questions swirling in his mind. He wasnât going to let Jasonâs cynicismâor his own creeping doubtsâstop him. Whatever was going on, heâd figure it out. And more importantly, heâd make sure you knew that he cared, no matter what anyone else thought.
Dick sighed, running a hand down his face. âJay, come on.â
Jason turned to him, arms crossing defensively. âSeriously, what the hell do you want me to do, Dick?â
âI donât know! Go talk to her or something!â Dick snapped, exasperation lacing his tone.
Jason gave him a flat, unimpressed look. âOh, right. Like sheâd talk to me of all people. Great plan, genius.â
Dick threw up his hands in frustration, his patience quickly wearing thin. âCome on. Whatâs your deal?â
Jason paused, the question clearly catching him off guard. âExcuse me?â His voice dropped a notch, low and warning.
But Dick didnât care about the edge in Jasonâs tone or the way his posture screamed âback off.â He was too fed up, too worried, and too frustrated to stop now. âNo, seriously,â Dick pressed, stepping closer. âItâs like you donât even care about (Name).â
Jasonâs whole body tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. Dick could practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves.
âWhat?â Jason snapped, his voice rising. âSo you want her to keep wearing a mask and fight battles she clearly canât handle? You want her to keep throwing herself into situations where sheâs gonna get herself killed? Thatâs what caring looks like to you?â
Dick stepped forward, his own frustration boiling over. âThis isnât about whether or not sheâs wearing a mask! This is about you acting like you donât give a damn about her!â
Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. âOh, so now youâre the expert on what I feel? Thatâs rich coming from you.â
âI thought you two were close, Jason,â Dick shot back, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. âWhat happened? You used to care about her. You used to look out for her!â
Jason scoffed, the sound harsh and bitter. âWhat happened? Life happened, Dick. Iâm not the same 15-year-old boy she knew back then. And Iâll never be that guy she knew again. So donât stand there and act like you have any right to talk about my relationship with her when I donât see you even having half of what me and her had before.â
That struck a nerve, and Dickâs jaw tightened. âYou think I donât care about her?â he asked, his voice low and steady now, the anger simmering beneath the surface.
Jasonâs helmet tilted slightly, as if he was sizing Dick up. âOh, you care, alright. But not enough to actually see whatâs in front of you. She tries too hard, sheâs always second guessing herself, and honestly? Itâs exhausting to watch. Whereas youâre too busy running around trying to âfixâ everything to even notice.â
Dick flinched, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. âThatâs not fair.â
âLifeâs not fair,â Jason shot back, stepping closer, his voice dripping with bitterness. âBut hereâs the thingâyou want her to keep being Batgirl because it makes you feel better. Like youâre holding this family together or something. But did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, she quit because she wants to?â He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. âAnd instead of giving her the space to do that, youâre chasing her down like sheâs some mission you need to complete.â
Jasonâs words hit Dick like a slap in the face, leaving him momentarily stunned.
âIâm just trying to help her,â Dick said softly, his voice losing some of its fire.
Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair, finally removing his helmet. His face was set in a hard expression, but there was something raw in his eyes. âYeah, well, sometimes helping means knowing when to back the hell off.â
The two of them stood in tense silence, the night air heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Jason stepped back, shaking his head. âIf you want to do something for her, stop acting like you know whatâs best for her. Iâd rather see her alive than rotting as a damn corpse, labelled as one of the old manâs fallen soldiers.â
With that, Jason turned and walked away, leaving Dick standing there, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on his shoulders.
The thugs were all rounded up and still unconscious, whereas Jason was out of sight. But his words lingered in Dickâs mind, playing on a loop.
Iâd rather see her alive than rotting as a damn corpse.
Dick sighed, sitting on the edge of the rooftop. His escrima sticks rested loosely in his hands as he stared down at the empty streets below. Jasonâs parting words had hit their mark, and he hated to admit it. The thought of you⌠dyingâjust the word alone made his stomach churn.
Jason had already died once, and Dick hadnât been there to stop it. He hadnât been there to save him. If the same thing happened to you, if you ended up another casualty in their endless war against Gothamâs darknessâŚ
Thatâs on him.
He swallowed hard, gripping his escrima sticks tighter as guilt began to settle in his chest like a lead weight. Jason was right. It was probably a good thing you quit. He wouldnât be able to forgive himself if he let another one of his siblings die.
Siblings.
The word felt heavy now, laden with unspoken truths. Jasonâs earlier jab suddenly clawed its way to the forefront of Dickâs mind:
Donât stand there and act like you have any right to talk about my relationship with her when I donât see you even having half of what me and her had before.
Did Jason really believe that? Did you?
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Of course, he cared about you. Of course, heâd been there for you. Hadnât he?
But as much as he wanted to dismiss Jasonâs words, they stuck with him, gnawing at the edges of his conscience. Slowly, memories began to surface, unbidden and relentless.
He was Robin thenâyoung, brash, and full of anger. The grief over his parentsâ deaths was still fresh, a raw wound he didnât know how to heal. And you⌠you were Bruceâs kid. That was all he saw you as. He watched you grow up, become this bubbly kid, who, for some reason, looked up to him a lot.
But what did he do with that? He bailed.
He could remember it so clearly now, those moments when youâd ask him to play with you, to just talkâand heâd brush you off. âNot now, (Name),â heâd say, and ruffle your hair. The Teen Titans needed him. Gotham needed him. But you didnât know that. Bruce wanted to keep you out of this life, and frankly, he did too. Which was why there was always some excuse to explain why he was so busy, why he couldnât play with you for as long as you wanted him to.
He winced as another memory came rushing back: one of the many times youâd waited up for him in the living room, hoping to show him some new arts and craft you did, or one of your tests that you did really well in. Heâd walked in with Wally and Donna, laughing about something from their latest mission, barely sparing you a glance.
âWow, this is nice!â Heâd say absent-mindedly, before ruffling your hair like you were some kid tagging along.
âIâll catch you later, alright?â heâd say, and then heâd leave you alone.
And what had you done? Youâd nodded, forced a smile, even as disappointment flashed across your face. He hadnât noticed it thenânot really. Heâd been too caught up in his own world, too focused on proving himself to the team, to Bruce, to everyone.
Dick let out a shaky breath, the weight of those memories settling over him like a suffocating blanket. God, Jason was right.
He hadnât been there for you the way Jason had. Jason, for all his faults, had always been someone you could count on when he first came to the familyâsomeone who didnât bail, who didnât make you feel lonely.
But that was before his death. Now things were different between you two. Neither of you were willing to repair the broken bond you two once shared. Why? He wasnât sure.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face, the ache in his chest growing sharper. âDamnit,â he muttered under his breath.
What could he even do to make this right? To show you that you mattered to himâthat youâd always mattered?
But deep down, he already knew the answer. He couldnât fix this with mere words or gestures or even the best intentions. He had to show you, prove to you, that he was here for you now. That he wasnât going to leave you alone this time.
Even if that meant letting you go for now, giving you the space you clearly needed. Even if that meant accepting that you no longer wanted to be Batgirl, that heâd fallen short. But he was willing to do better. Even if it meant heâd had to wait.
The thought hurt, but it was better than losing you for good.
âThis is nice.â
The warm sunlight filtered through the trees at Gotham Park, casting dappled patterns across the picnic blanket. Caitlyn was leaned against you, her sketchpad balanced on her knees, pencil gliding smoothly as she doodled. Adrien sat cross-legged across from you both, stuffing another bite of a homemade pastry into his mouth with an exaggerated hum of delight.
Adrien nodded enthusiastically, agreeing with Caitlyn, as he pointed his fork at you. âYou can say that again! (Name), I didnât know you could make treats like this! Theyâre so good!â
Caitlyn grinned, glancing up from her sketch. âLiterally! This is amazing. Youâve been holding out on us, chef.â
Your cheeks flushed, and you looked down at your hands, a little bashful at their praise. âI⌠honestly didnât think I could make anything this good,â you admitted, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
âYouâre kidding, right?â Adrien said, picking up another cookie. âThese are, like, professional-level good. If you ever decide to stop⌠uh, doing whatever it is you do after school, you could totally open a bakery or something.â
You laughed, though the comment stung just a littleâonly because you didnât know you were good at making pasteries.
To fill up your now free schedule after quiting as Batgirl, you had gone to Alfred and asked him to teach you how to bake.
Alfred, helpful and patient as always, agreed without hesitation. âBaking, my dear,â he had said with a faint smile, âis both a science and an art. It requires precision, but it is also a most rewarding endeavor.â
And so, your evenings became a blend of warmth, flour-dusted counters, and Alfredâs gentle guidance. He would show you how to knead dough, measure ingredients with precision, and even share some of his most guarded recipesâones he claimed even your father was particularly fond of.
When you werenât in the kitchen with Alfred, you spent your afternoons at the library with Caitlyn and Adrien. Studying with them, or rather, helping them study, had become another way to fill your time.
High school material was easy enough for youâthanks to your first life. Youâd already tackled algebra, chemistry, and history years ago. So instead of cramming for tests yourself, you found yourself explaining concepts to Caitlyn and Adrien, who both leaned heavily on your ability to simplify even the most convoluted topics.
âOkay, so⌠if x is equal to 4, then y has to beâŚâ Adrien tapped his pencil against his notebook, staring intently at the equation in front of him
âEight,â Caitlyn supplied confidently, but her grin faltered when Adrien and you both gave her a look.
âTry again,â you said with a soft laugh, pointing to the part of the equation sheâd miscalculated.
Caitlyn groaned dramatically, flopping back into her chair. âMath is dumb.â
âMath is logical,â you corrected, though your teasing tone made Adrien snort. âYou just need to stop skipping steps.â
âWhy does it feel like youâre giving us the cheat sheet to life?â Adrien said, glancing up from his notes. âYou make this stuff seem so easy.â
âYeah, seriously,â Caitlyn chimed in. âAre you secretly some kind of math genius or something?â
You shrugged, trying to play it off. âIâve just⌠always been good at this kind of thing.â
They didnât need to know the full truthâthat youâd already gone through high school. They didnât know the truth about you or your family before, and you werenât planning to change that now. They didnât need to know about the mask youâd taken off or the life you were trying to leave behind. For now, it was enough to help them, to enjoy their company, and to let this simpler version of your life unfold.
It was strange, almost surreal, how quickly youâd settled into this new routine. But you found that you didnât mind it. For the first time in a long time, life felt⌠normal. And maybe that was what you needed most.
As Caitlyn returned to her doodling and Adrien polished off another pastry, you leaned back on your hands, letting the moment sink in. It felt⌠peaceful. A rare pocket of calm in the chaos that had been your life lately.
The park was lively but not overwhelming, the gentle hum of laughter and chatter from other families and friends creating a soothing backdrop. The late afternoon sun warmed your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt grounded.
âHey,â Adrien said suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. âWe should do this more often.â
Caitlyn nodded. âAgreed. This is probably the most relaxed Iâve seen you in weeks, (Name).â
You hesitated, glancing between your two friends. They werenât wrong. But a part of you couldnât help but feel a pang of guilt. You werenât being truthful to them, yet they were still being so nice. You didnât deserve them.
You opened your mouth to reply, ready to brush off Caitlynâs and Adrienâs comments, when a sudden, sharp flash of green invaded your vision. It was jarringâso vivid and overwhelming that you winced, instinctively bringing a hand to your temple. For a moment, it felt like the world tilted on its axis, the vibrant sounds of the park muffled by the ringing in your ears.
And just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
You blinked, your heart racing as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. The green was seared into your memory, the edges of it glowing like embers before fading entirely. The momentary pain in your head vanished, leaving behind nothing but confusion.
âWhat the hellâŚâ you muttered under your breath, still dazed.
â(Name)!â Caitlynâs voice was sharp with concern, snapping you out of your stupor. âAre you okay? What just happened?â
Adrien leaned closer, his eyes wide with worry. âYou winced. Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?â
You glanced between the two of them, their faces etched with genuine concern. You didnât want to worry them. You couldnât worry them. So you forced a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. âItâs nothing, really. Just a headache. Probably didnât drink enough water or something.â
But Caitlyn wasnât buying it. She immediately pushed herself off you, her sketchbook forgotten as she leaned in close, her expression dead serious. âNope. No way. If youâve got a headache, you need to go home and rest. Sunâs probably not helping either.â
âYeah, seriously,â Adrien chimed in, nodding emphatically. âDonât push yourself too much. We can always continue this another time, okay?â
You tried to protest, but their stubbornness left no room for argument. Caitlyn was already packing up the picnic, her movements quick and decisive, while Adrien carefully wrapped up the leftover pastries.
âYou guys are being dramaticââ you started to say, but Caitlyn cut you off with a pointed glare.
âNope. Not hearing it. Weâre not taking any chances,â she insisted, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. âCome on, weâll walk you home.â
A sigh escaped your lips as you realized there was no point in fighting them on this. âAlright, alright. Iâll go.â
As the three of you made your way out of the park, Caitlyn clinging protectively to your arm, your thoughts drifted back to the green flashes. What the hell was that? It wasnât just a headacheâthat much you knew.
You forced a smile as Caitlyn began chattering about her latest art project, Adrien throwing in jokes to lighten the mood. But in the back of your mind, the unsettling image of green light lingered, pulsing faintly like a warning you couldnât ignore.
You finally managed to convince Caitlyn and Adrien to leave you at the gates of Wayne Manor, reassuring them for what felt like the hundredth time that youâd be fine. They only relented when you promised to text them once youâre feeling better, and with a wave and one last concerned glance, they finally left. You sighed in relief and turned toward the manor, making your way inside.
When you stepped inside, thatâs when you saw himâa familiar, bubbly boy practically skipping towards the manor entrance. Jon Kent. Supermanâs son. Damianâs best (and only) friend.
Wow. He looked so much younger than you remembered.
The moment Jon spotted you, his face lit up. Before you could even blink, he was flying over to you, his grin wide and infectious. â(Name)!â he called cheerfully as he landed in front of you, his feet barely making a sound on the gravel path.
You blinked, startled but unable to help the small smile that tugged at your lips. âHey, Jon.â
âHow are you? Are you okay? You look okay! Waitâwere you out? Where did you go? Do you need help carrying anything?!â He practically bounced on his heels as he bombarded you with questions, his usual excited energy radiating off him like sunlight.
You chuckled fondly, shaking your head as you answered. âIâm fine, Jon, really. And no, I donât need help. I was just out with some friends.â
âOh, okay!â he chirped, looking momentarily reassured. âI was just here hanging out with Damian, butâuh, wellâŚâ He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his cheeks turning a little pink. âI kinda didnât tell my parents I was flying over here. So, you know, I should probably head back to Metropolis before they notice Iâm gone.â
You snorted softly at that, a nostalgic warmth in your chest. âYour secretâs safe with me. Iâll pretend I didnât see you.â You said, and winked.
Jonâs grin returned in full force, but it faltered slightly as he looked at you again. This time, his expression was hesitant, uncertain, like he was trying to figure out how to say something.
âWhatâs wrong?â you asked gently, tilting your head at him.
Jon shuffled his feet, his voice quieter now. âUh⌠can I ask you something?â
âSure.â
He hesitated again, looking down before blurting out, âIs everything okay between you and Damian?â
You froze. The question caught you completely off guard. Your mind stalled, your smile faltering as you stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned.
Jon mustâve noticed, because he immediately panicked, waving his hands frantically as he backtracked. âOh! You donât have to answer! Forget I asked! Itâs justââ He fumbled over his words, his cheeks turning red. âI was asking Damian about you, and he⌠he kinda just glared at me. And then he changed the subject! Really fast! Like, super fast. And, uh⌠Iâve never really seen him act like that before.â
You blinked, his words sinking in slowly. Damian⌠avoiding the subject of you? Now that you thought about it, you hadnât exactly seen Damian around the manor since that argument in your room. It was like he was going out of his way to avoid you entirely. Was he?
But you couldnât let Jon worry about that. He was just a kid, and this wasnât his problem. So, instead of letting your own thoughts spiral, you forced a laugh and reached out to ruffle his hair gently. âDonât worry about it, Jon. Damian and I just got into an argument, thatâs all. Nothing to lose sleep over.â
Jon blinked up at you, his expression still unsure, but he nodded slowly, leaning into the comforting touch of your hand. âOkay⌠if you say so.â
âReally. Weâll work it out,â you reassured him, giving his hair one last affectionate pat. Somehow.
He smiled again, though it was a little smaller this time. âAlright. I just wanted to make sure. You know⌠youâre important to Damian too, even if he doesnât say it.â
You paused at that, something in your chest squeezing painfully, but before you could respond, Jon glanced at the time and jolted upright. âOh no! I really gotta go now, or Iâm so dead!â
With that, he gave you a hurried wave, his boyish grin returning. âBye, (Name)! Iâll see you soon, okay?â
You smiled softly and waved back as he floated up into the sky, watching as he zipped off toward Metropolis in a blur of red and blue. Once he was gone, you let out a slow breath, your hand falling to your side as your thoughts drifted back to Damian.
Jonâs words lingered in your mind.
Youâre important to Damian too.
It doesnât really feel that way thoughâŚ.
Alfred Pennyworth, ever the watchful guardian of Wayne Manor, had always considered it his dutyânot just as a butler, but as something far more profoundâto care for the members of the Wayne family. For all their strength and tenacity, they were, at their core, human. Bruce and his childrenâeach carrying burdens far heavier than any child or young adult should. And so, he noticed things. He always noticed.
Lately, what he noticed most was the way you carried yourself these past few daysâlighter, freer. There was a spark in your eyes that had been absent for far too long, a small but significant ease in your posture. You looked happier. Relaxed, even. It was subtle, something anyone else might have overlooked, but not Alfred. No, he knew you. He knew what haunted you when you thought no one was looking. But now? Now you seemed⌠different.
Frankly, he hoped it stayed that way.
âMiss (Name), if I may,â Alfred began gently as he watched you measure flour into a bowl, a little puff of white powder escaping into the air. âYou seem⌠at peace, lately...â
You paused, glancing up at him with a small, slightly sheepish smile. âIs it that obvious?â
âIndeed.â He gave you a soft, knowing look as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. âWould it be terribly forward of me to inquire as to whatâor whoâhas brought about this change?â
You shifted, focusing a little too hard on sifting the flour as you shrugged. âItâs my friends. Caitlyn and Adrien. They helped me realize thereâs more to life than justâŚâ You trailed off, searching for the right words.
âThan just the responsibilities placed upon your shoulders?â Alfred offered delicately.
You nodded, giving him a grateful glance. âYeah. Something like that.â
Your friends. Alfred found himself deeply relieved to hear that you had people like Caitlyn and Adrien in your lifeâpeople who brought you happiness, people who helped lighten the weight you carried. âI see,â he said with a small smile. âIt gladdens my heart to know you have such loyal companions. Though, might I suggest inviting them here, to the manor?â
You blinked, looking at him as though heâd suggested something preposterous. âAlfredâŚâ
âMiss, it would seem only fair for me to meet the individuals who have been instrumental in helping you through your turmoil. They seem like lovely people.â His tone was kind, slight humourous even, as he mixed something in a nearby bowl.
You laughed softly, but there was a stubborn edge to it as you shook your head. âAs much as Iâd like for you to meet them, I donât think thatâs a good idea, Alfred. They donât know about this familyâs secrets, and I intend to keep it that way..â
Alfred raised an eyebrow, ever patient. âIâm certain Master Bruce and Master Richard can manage a polite exchange, at the very least.â
You gave him a pointed look, and Alfred sighed, though it was laced with fondness. âVery well, Miss (Name). If you insist.â
âThanks,â you said softly, giving him a small smile.
Though Alfred was slightly disappointed at your reluctance, he respected your wishes. He always did. And if your friends made you happyâeven if he wouldnât be able to meet themâthen he supposed that was enough for now.
âNow then,â Alfred said, turning back to the task at hand, âyouâll want to add the butter slowly while continuing to mix.â
You hummed as you followed his instruction, your brow furrowing in concentration. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm, the kitchen filling with the soft sounds of utensils clinking, the hum of the oven warming, and your quiet conversation.
âSo, Miss Caitlyn and Mister Adrienâare they excelling in their studies with your assistance?â
âAdrien, yes,â you said, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. âCaitlyn⌠well, sheâs trying, but math isnât really her thing.â
âAnd yet you continue to help them both. How noble of you,â Alfred replied as he handed you a whisk. âAnd what of school itself? Are you settling in well?â
You shrugged, starting to mix the ingredients. âEhâŚItâs alright. A little boring sometimes, but I guess itâs better thanâŚâ
Dying.
You stopped yourself short, quickly correcting, âbetter than not being in school at all.â
Alfred didnât miss the slip, but he didnât press. âIndeed. A dull day can be a blessing in disguise.â
You gave him a thoughtful look, lips quirking into a soft smile. âYou always know what to say, Alfred.â
âI try, Miss (Name). I try.â
And as Alfred watched you workâyour expression relaxed, your mind seemingly at easeâhe hoped, quietly, that this simpler version of your life, this peaceful respite, would last just a little longer.
The soft hum of the oven filled the kitchen as you pulled the last batch of treats onto the counter. The warm, golden pastries sat neatly on their tray, a small comfort in a life that had otherwise been anything but neat. Baking had become your escapeâan anchor to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.
But the calm was short-lived.
Alfredâs comm buzzed quietly, and though his expression remained composed, you saw the subtle shift in his demeanorâa slight straightening of his back, the way his gaze sharpened. Something was happening.
âIt seems Master Bruce and the others require my assistance,â he said, his tone steady as always.
You already knew what that meant. Gotham was in chaos again.
Alfred turned to you, his expression softening with the familiarity of his next question. âAre you sure you do not wish to assist? They could use an extra hand, Miss (Name).â
The offer hung in the air, and for a second, you hesitated. There was always a small part of you that wanted to say yes, to jump back into action and prove yourselfâto prove you could help.
But then you suddenly got flashbacks of a memory that you had kept stored away. Oh right. You remembered what this attack was.
Another one of Riddlerâs bombing attacks.
Riddler had been terrorizing Gotham with a string of coordinated explosions around this time, targeting key buildings across the city. Chaos had unfolded over the city as your father, along with other available vigilantes in Gotham, scrambled to contain the damage, evacuate civilians, and track down Riddler before he could set off another series of bombs.
You had been told to stay put back then. âItâs too dangerous,â Bruce had said. âWe need you to sit this one out.â
But you hadnât listened.
Youâd tracked down one of Riddlerâs supposed locations on your own, convinced you could help. The moment you arrived, you knew youâd made a mistake. The building had been rigged, and your sudden presence sent everything spiraling. The countdown on the bomb accelerated. The Riddlerâs men panicked and scattered, slipping out before Bruce and the others could surround them.
Dick, Tim, Stephanie and Cassandra had to swoop in to clean up the messâdisarming the bomb, calming the chaos, and stopping any further destruction. They managed to save the day, to prevent any civilian casualties, but Riddler himself got away.
Bruceâs fury still echoed in your head.
âDo you have any idea what you nearly cost us tonight?â
You hadnât been able to look him in the eye.
âThey got the job done,â youâd mumbled, your voice small, but that hadnât mattered to him.
âBecause they had to clean up after you,â heâd snapped, his words sharp enough to sting. âYou disobeyed a direct order, and you let Riddler slip away.â
It was one of those moments you wouldnât forget. Not because of Bruceâs anger, but because heâd been right. Youâd wanted to help, and all youâd done was make it harder for everyone else.
Back in the kitchen, you swallowed hard, snapping back to the present. Alfred was still watching you patiently, waiting for an answer.
âIâm sure,â you said finally, your voice tight but firm. You offered a small, forced smile. âThey donât need me. They can handle it themselves.â
For a moment, Alfred regarded you with that knowing look of his, like he could see through every wall youâd put up.
âVery well,â he said softly, though there was a faint note of disappointment in his voice. âIf you change your mindâŚâ
âI wonât,â you cut in quickly, your voice quieter this time.
Alfred gave a small nod, seemingly accepting your answer, though you didnât miss the flicker of concern in his gaze as he turned toward the door.
As he left to fulfill his duties, the kitchen fell silent once more. You leaned back against the counter, staring blankly at the pastries youâd worked so hard on.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides.
âThey donât need me,â you whispered to yourself, repeating the words like a mantra.
But it didnât feel comforting. It felt hollow.
Because, deep down, the truth still hurts you even now.
You stood in the quiet kitchen for a moment after Alfred left, the hum of the Wayne Manor settling into the evening stillness. The smell of baked goods lingered in the air, but even that wasnât enough to soothe the weight pressing down on you. With a tired sigh, you began packing everything away, carefully placing the treats into containers and wiping down the counters.
Once the kitchen was clean and silent, you dragged yourself upstairs to your room. It had been a long dayâlong week, reallyâand all you wanted to do was sleep. Kicking off your shoes and pulling the blankets over yourself, you let exhaustion take over. For once, you didnât dream.
A sharp ringing jolted you awake.
Your eyes cracked open reluctantly, the faint glow of your phone lighting up your bedside table. The clock read 4:23 AM. Groaning, you fumbled for the phone, squinting at the screen to see an incoming callâand a series of missed notifications.
22 messages from Caitlyn.
The sight alone snapped you out of your drowsiness. Your stomach twisted, the urgency of it sinking in as you swiped to pick up.
âCaitlyn?â Your voice was groggy and thick with sleep, but there was an edge of concern as you sat up in bed. âWhatâs going on?â
â(Name)!â Caitlynâs voice came through the line, panicked, frantic, and scared. It hit you like a punch to the gut. âOh my god, IâItâs AdrienâŚ.HeâHeâs in the hospitalâŚ!â
What?
I think you guys should read the masterlist once more in case you missed out any key warningsâŚ
taglist (1/2): @tricksters-maze @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @silverklaus @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @beeweensblog @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @alor-thes | ask to be added <3 (idk why i canât tag some of yâall, must be your settings i think đ)
âI want every perimeter of this warehouse locked downânow. No one gets in or out unless I authorize it. Is that clear?â
âDouble the guard on every exit. Sweep the surrounding area. I donât care if you have to go block by blockâmake sure none of those bastards slip through.â
âCommissioner! Thereâs someone here.â
.
.
.
âQuickly, get some paramedics down here. No one touches Batgirlâs maskâis that understood?â
.
.
.
âGet the paramedics to stabilize her, but thatâs itânothing more. No one treats her except Dr Leslie Thompkins.â
.
.
.
âWhat of the drug dealers?â
âWe managed to catch most of them, sir. They were distracted by Batgirlâs appearanceâprobably trying to figure out what to do with her when she showed up and foiled their dealings tonight. But⌠a few managed to escape in the chaos.â
âDamnit. Notify the precinct to put out an APB. I want every available unit on this. Weâre not letting this operation slip through the cracks.â
.
.
.
âI donât care whoâs out there or how far they think theyâve gotten. Weâre shutting this operation once and for all. If Batgirl risked her life for this, we owe her this much.â
âIâIâm sorry, Bruce. I tried everythingââ
âWhere is she? I need to see her. Now.â
.
.
.
Where did it go wrong?
How did it come to this?
Bruce sworeâsworeâheâd never let what happened to Jason happen again. Not to any of them. Heâd built walls, created rules, pushed himself to the breaking point to ensure it. All of it was to stop thisâthisâfrom happening.
So why⌠why was he staring at your lifeless body now? Why was the weight of his failure suffocating him all over again? Why had he failed you, just like he failed Jason?
His fists clenched at his sides as he took a shaky step forward. His breath hitched, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of helplessness settled heavily on his chest.
âGodâŚdamnitâŚâ he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. âOpen your eyes. Please.â
The room was too quiet. Too still. The sterile hum of the machines was a cruel mockery of life.
Bruce dropped to his knees beside the bed, his gloved hand trembling as he reached for yours. It felt so small, so cold.
âThis wasnât supposed to happen,â he whispered, his voice trembling, the words breaking apart with every syllable. âI promisedâI promised Iâd protect you. And I couldnât even do that.â
He bowed his head, his forehead brushing against your hand as his grip tightened. âIâm sorry. I failed you.â
so⌠đŤŁ
have this while i continue working on chapter 3 and 4 đĽ°
taglist (open): @tricksters-maze @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @silverklaus @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @beeweensblog @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinosankles @vebbiewuzhere @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @buddee @alor-thes | ask to be added <3 (idk why i canât tag some of yâall, must be your settings i think đ)
Bruceâs brows furrowed, his usually calm expression giving way to faint confusion. âYouâre⌠quitting?â
âYes.â
For a moment, silence filled the cavernous Batcave, save for the faint hum of the Batcomputer. He studied you, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to read your mind. âWhy?â he asked finally, his voice measured, almost clinical.
You froze, caught off guard. Why? Why had you suddenly decided to quit? Sixteen-year-old you wouldnât have even entertained the idea. This life was everything she had worked forâevery patrol, every bruise, every sleepless night fueled by a desperate need for validation. Why had the words come so easily to you now?
Your mind reeled, racing to string together an explanation that made sense. After a long pause, you took a deep breath and met his gaze. âBecause⌠you were right,â you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. âThis life⌠it was never meant for me. I was just too dumb to realize it before. But now, I do.â
The admission felt strange, almost foreign. Sixteen-year-old you wouldnât have said thatânot to him, not to anyone. And yet, as the words left your mouth, they felt right.
Bruce didnât respond immediately. He just watched you, his gaze intense, cold, and calculating. You could almost feel him inspecting every inch of you, every nuance in your expression, searching for cracks in your resolve or signs of insincerity. The weight of his scrutiny was almost unbearable, and you found yourself holding your breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back slightly and nodded. âIf thatâs what youâve decided,â he said simply, his tone unreadable. Without another word, he turned back to the Batcomputer, his eyes scanning the reports as if the conversation had never happened.
You blinked, stunned. That easy? He really just let you go like that?
For a moment, a flicker of relief passed through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by another thought: Just how much did he not want you to take up the Batgirl mantle? The thought gnawed at you, but you shoved it down, forcing yourself to nod.
âThank you,â you murmured, your voice barely audible. Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked back toward the staircase, your footsteps echoing in the vast space.
As you ascended, you couldnât help but glance back once, but Bruce didnât move, his attention fixed on the screen. You pressed your lips together and forced yourself to keep going.
Bruce heard your footsteps fading up the stairs, each one echoing through the cavern like a countdown. He stared at the Batcomputer, his hands resting motionless on the console. But his eyes werenât scanning the reports anymore.
He couldnât stop himself from glancing over his shoulder as the clock door slid shut behind you. His expression hardened, his brows furrowing deeply.
Something about this felt⌠wrong. Letting you walk away like thatâit felt final, like a line had been drawn in the sand. A line he couldnât cross.
Youâd said you were quitting because the life wasnât meant for you. Bruce should be relieved that you were no longer putting yourself on the line, no longer risking your life for the sake of crime-fighting.
But now, it was as if he was watching you slip through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Should he have said something? Say what exactly? That you shouldnât quit being Batgirl? That he wanted you in his this life?
Bruce clenched his jaw and forced himself to look back at the screen, willing the unease in his chest to go away. He told himself it was for the best. He already long knew that this path was never meant for you.
And yetâŚ
A faint, nagging voice whispered at the back of his mind, telling him heâd made a mistake. That letting you go like this wasnât just about the Batgirl mantleâit was about you. About him. About the growing distance between the two of you.
He couldnât afford to dwell on it, not now. Pushing the thoughts aside with the same discipline he applied to every other personal distraction, Bruce returned his focus to his work.
But that unease lingered, a heavy weight in his chest that no amount of reports or missions could quite shake.
âRichard,â Damian began, his tone flat and serious. âWhat does it mean when a girl cuts her hair short?â
The fast-food restaurant buzzed with the usual cacophony of clinking trays and murmured conversations. Damian sat stiffly across from Dick, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in a way that made it clear heâd rather be anywhere else.
Dick, mid-bite of his burger, froze. Slowly, he put the burger down, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. Then, with a sly grin, he leaned forward. âWhyâre you asking? Is there someone who caught your eye, little D? Someone from school, maybe?â
Damian scowled, his cheeks tinging slightly pink. âDo not be absurd. This is not about me.â
Dick chuckled, brushing crumbs off his hands. âOh, so itâs not about you. But you want my expertise on the matter? Man, I didnât know you valued my opinion so much.â
âI donât,â Damian snapped, his glare intensifying. âBut youâre a certified idiot when it comes to women, so your insight into their ridiculous behavior might be useful.â
âOuch.â Dick placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury. âAnd here I thought we were bonding.â
âWeâre not,â Damian replied flatly, though his posture shifted in discomfort.
At that moment, Tim approached the table, balancing a tray piled high with burgers and fries. He slid into the booth beside Dick, setting the tray down with a thud.
âWhatâs going on?â Tim asked, popping a fry into his mouth.
âDamian here wants to know why a girl would cut her hair short,â Dick said, his grin widening. âAnd apparently, Iâm the expert on âridiculous behavior.ââ
Tim raised an eyebrow at Damian, who was now scowling at both of them. âUh⌠okay. Who are we talking about?â
âItâs about⌠(name),â Damian muttered.
The lighthearted teasing immediately stalled. Tim and Dick exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting to something more serious.
Dick, however, quickly recovered, leaning back in his seat. âNah, no way. (name) wouldnât cut her hair. Sheâs been growing it out for years. Youâre making this up.â
âI am not,â Damian snapped, crossing his arms. âYouâll see for yourselves later if youâre too thick-headed to believe me.â
âOkay, first of all, rude,â Dick said, grabbing a fry. âSecond, I donât know, man. Sheâs always been pretty attached to her hair. Like, she used to freak out if even half an inch got trimmed too short when she was younger.â
Damian scoffed audibly, narrowing his eyes at Dick. âTsk. Itâs not just a trim, Grayson. She cut her hair to her shoulders.â He said the word shoulders like it was a personal affront. âAnd it looks ridiculous.â
Dick frowned immediately. âDonât say that, Damian,â he chided, but then his voice trailed off as his mind wandered. Shoulders? That was⌠really short.
His brow furrowed slightly as he thought about it. Had you really cut your hair? You were always so particular about it. He remembered vividly the offhanded comment you made years ago about how you liked your hair long because it made you feel elegant, prettyâlike yourself.
Wait, years ago?
That sinking feeling began to gnaw at him. Sure, people changed their preferences all the time, but this felt⌠odd. Why now? Why so drastic?
âGrayson?â Damianâs sharp tone cut into his thoughts. âAre you malfunctioning, or have I rendered you speechless for once?â
âHuh?â Dick blinked, refocusing on the youngest Wayne.
âUseless,â Damian muttered under his breath, shaking his head. âI should have known better than to seek advice from you.â
Dick snapped out of it, shooting Damian a half-hearted glare. âHey, you came to me, remember? And cutting hair isnât ridiculous; itâs just a personal choice. People grow, Damian. Maybe she just⌠wanted a change.â
Damian raised a skeptical eyebrow. âWanted a change? Thatâs the best you can come up with? Tt. I thought you were supposed to be insightful.â
âOkay, first of all,â Dick said, pointing at him with a fry, âyouâre lucky I donât throw this at you. And second, youâre the one acting all worked up about her hair. Iâm just trying to figure out why you even care.â
âOh, trust me, buddy, we know your standards are very high.â Dick smirked. âFor someone who claims not to care, youâre putting a lot of energy into this.â
Damian glared, his lips pressing into a thin line. âI will not waste further time explaining myself to a fool.â
âLove you too, Dami,â Dick said with a cheeky grin, earning an eye roll from the younger boy.
Tim, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. âAlright, so⌠are we just going to sit here debating haircuts, or are we going to eat?â
âGood idea,â Dick said, popping a fry into his mouth. But the momentary distraction didnât stop his mind from circling back to you.
Why did you cut your hair? Was it really just a preference change? Maybe.
Damianâs voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts again. âGrayson, youâre doing it again.â
âDoing what?â
âStaring into space like a dim-witted cow.â
Dick sighed, shoving a fry into his mouth. âGreat talk, Damian. Really helpful.â
But Dick was already tuning him out. He needed to check in with you later. He heard you had patrol tonightâor at least thatâs what Barbara had mentioned. Wait, why didnât you tell him that yourself?
Whatever. Heâd figure it out. If you were on patrol, heâd just join you and ask about that then. That is, if Damian doesnât insist later on being his patrol partnerâŚ
Maybe it was nothingâŚ
Tim sat in the booth, idly picking at a fry as his mind wandered. Heâd been the one to steer the conversation away from your haircut, but now he couldnât help but think about what Damian had said. You cut your hair? That didnât sound like you at all.
Then again, what did Tim really know? It wasnât like the two of you were close. Despite living in the same manor for the past threeâalmost fourâyears, there had always been this⌠distance between you.
He frowned, resting his chin on his hand. It hadnât always been that way. He remembered the earlier days, when both you and him were just starting out. Back then, you used to ask him the most ridiculous questions about cases and missionsâquestions that made him pause and wonder if you were even paying attention to the briefing.
âWhat do you mean, âHow do you know which lead to follow?ââ Tim had asked once, incredulous. Heâd given you a look, that signature are you serious expression he reserved for when someone asked something truly baffling. Then, as always, he ended up solving the issue himself, bypassing the need to answer you at all.
At the time, it was mildly annoying but manageable. He figured you were just trying to find your footing. He told himself it wasnât a big deal. But gradually, the number of times you came to him for help lessened. At first, Tim thought it was progress, that you were finally figuring things out on your own.
But no.
It didnât take long for him to realize that your work was slipping. Youâd miss key details, overlook evidence, or focus on the wrong leads entirely. And every time, it was Tim who ended up fixing it behind the scenes, covering for your mistakes before they could turn a caseâor worse, a missionâinto a disaster.
He hadnât minded at first. But as it kept happening, as he kept watching you barrel forward with that same stubborn, hard-headed determination, something shifted.
Timâs frustration grew. He started to wonder why you were even in this line of work. If you couldnât handle the basics, what were you doing risking your life out there? Of course, he never said it out loud. He wasnât that cruel, and he knew voicing those thoughts would probably lead to a fight neither of you wanted.
But still, it gnawed at him. That unspoken tension built over time, creating the invisible wall that now sat between you. Heâd distanced himself on purpose, convinced that staying out of your way was better for the both of you.
But was it?
Tim sighed, pushing his tray of fries away as Damian and Dick bickered in the background. Now, the idea of you cutting your hair had wormed its way into his thoughts, and he couldnât shake it.
You cut your hair.
It wasnât about the haircut itselfâit wasnât about aesthetics or style. It was about what it represented. Something had changed. Had you?
And while Tim told himself he didnât care, deep down, a small part of him wondered if heâd made a mistake keeping you at armâs length all this time.
âHold up, Babs, why exactly am I needed at the Batcave tonight again?â Stephanie said, twisting the tool in her hand to tighten a small screw.
She sat at Barbaraâs clocktower, absentmindedly flicking through her phone while doing a small repair on one of her gadgets. She was content, for the moment at least, doing something mindless and waiting for whatever task Barbara would assign her for the night.
But when Barbara called her name and asked her to suit up for the night, Stephanie couldnât help but frown.
Barbara sighed, her voice a little tired but still managing to hold a calm tone. âTonight, weâre a little short-handed, Steph.â
âA little short-handed?â Stephanie repeated, letting out a disbelieving scoff. She glanced up at Barbara, clearly unimpressed. âHow can it be short-handed when sheâs around?â
Barbara knew who Stephanie meant by âsheâ. Why? Because you used to grab every mission or patrol you could, like you were always hungry for action, hungry for validation. There had always been this one-sided animosity between you and the blondeâmore so you toward her. And it wasnât like Stephanie was oblivious to the reason why.
It was because sheâs Batgirl too. When Barbara and Dick allowed her to don the cowl during the events after Bruceâs âdeath,â Stephanie had been given the opportunities you wanted for yourself. Barbara knew that too, but she had chosen not to intervene, thinking that the animosity you felt would die down after a while.
Well, it did. But not in the way anyone expected.
Barbara adjusted her glasses as she leaned back in her chair. â(Name)âs not around tonight.â
Stephanie raised an eyebrow, confused by the simple statement. âWell thatâs a first. Why not?â
Barbara hesitated, the words slow to come. âShe⌠she quit.â
ââŚ..â
ââŚ..â
âWHAT??!?â
Barbara didnât flinch at the outburst, her calm demeanor masking her own lingering confusion.
âWait, wait,â Stephanie said, waving her hands in the air like she was trying to physically stop Barbara from speaking nonsense. âShe quit? Are we talking about the same person? (Name) Wayne? The same person who basically begged to be Batgirl?â
Barbara shrugged slightly. âBruce told me earlier today. Said she came into the cave, and told him she was done, and walked out. Thatâs all I know.â
âThatâs all you know?â Stephanie repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. She shook her head, scoffing. âThatâs insane. Sheâs gotta be pulling some kind of dramatic move. Like, I donât know, trying to get some attention or whatever. Sheâll come back. Give her, like, two days, tops.â
Barbara frowned, though she didnât entirely disagree. You were the type to make bold, emotional decisions, always seeking to prove yourself in some way. But there was something about how quiet and decisive youâd been when you quit that didnât sit right with her.
âYou donât think sheâs serious, do you?â Stephanie asked, raising an eyebrow.
âI donât know,â Barbara admitted. âItâs⌠unlike her, Iâll say that.â
Stephanie scoffed again, shaking her head as she stood up to grab her Batgirl suit. âWhatever. Iâm calling it nowâsheâll be back, and when she is, Iâm going to remind her just how ridiculous sheâs being.â
Barbara watched Stephanie slip into her suit, her mind racing with questions she didnât have answers to. This wasnât like you at all. You were persistent, stubborn even. You fought tooth and nail for the Batgirl mantle, always pushing to prove yourself despite the doubts and obstacles.
For you to just walk away, without warning, felt⌠wrong.
As Stephanie tightened her utility belt and prepared to head out, she didnât notice the far-off look in Barbaraâs eyes. Even if you were planning to come back, the decision to quit felt too deliberate, too final.
And for the first time in a long time, Barbara found herself worrying about you in a way she hadnât before.
After telling your father that you quitâand seeing how easily he let you goâyou couldnât stop replaying the scene in your head.
You walked through the halls of Wayne Manor, your mind heavy with frustration, confusion, and a gnawing emptiness that you couldnât quite name. As you turned the corner, too lost in your thoughts to pay attention, you bumped into someone.
âSorry,â you muttered automatically, not even looking up at first. But when you did, you froze.
Cassandra.
She stood in front of you, already suited up in her sleek black Bat costume, the faint outline of her emblem catching the light. She looked ready for patrol, or maybe she was just on her way to the Batcave. Her mask wasnât on yet, so her sharp eyes were trained directly on you, studying you in the way that always made you feel exposed.
For a moment, you two just stared at each other in silence.
You were the first to move, brushing past her quickly without another word. But before you could make it more than a few steps, her voice stopped you in your tracks.
âYour hair.â
You turned around, confused, and caught her still looking at you with that unreadable expression of hers.
âYeah,â you said, your tone clipped. âI cut it. I know. I get it. Itâs awful.â
You made a move to leave again, but her next words surprised you enough to freeze you in place.
âNo,â Cassandra said simply, her voice softer now. âIt looks⌠really nice.â
You blinked, staring at her like sheâd grown a second head. A compliment? From Cassandra? That wasnât something you were used to.
âThanks,â you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. âI guess.â
Without waiting for her to say anything else, you turned and headed back to your room. Your mind raced with the strangeness of the interaction as you climbed the stairs, the faintest trace of heat rising to your cheeks.
It wasnât just her compliment that threw you off. It was the fact that sheâd initiated a conversation at all. Cassandra had always been silent around you, her communication limited to nods, gestures, or the occasional word when necessary. For her to speak up, to make an effort, felt⌠different.
Weird, you thought as you closed the door behind you.
Uncharacteristic.
But as you sat on the edge of your bed, you couldnât help but replay her words in your mind.
âIt looks⌠really nice.â
For some reason, they lingered longer than you expected.
From the moment Cassandra bumped into you in the hallway, she could tell something was off. The way you carried yourself, the weight in your movementsâit was different. Subtle, but undeniable. She couldnât quite place what had changed, but it unsettled her.
As she descended into the Batcave, the low hum of tension greeted her before she even stepped off the elevator.
Bruce and Damian were mid-argument, their voices sharp and escalating. Damianâs fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his face twisted in anger, while Bruceâs tone was firm but weary, as if heâd been repeating himself for the hundredth time.
Nearby, Dick stood between them, hands raised in a futile attempt to diffuse the tension. Stephanie leaned casually against the wall, scrolling on her phone while occasionally glancing at Tim, who was tinkering with one of his gadgets. They were the only ones who seemed unaffected by the brewing storm.
When Cassandra stepped into view, Steph looked up and gave her a warm smile. âCass! Finally, someone sane. Come join us before this place explodes.â
Tim glanced up as well, offering a quick wave before turning back to his project. Cassandra hesitated for a moment but walked over to join them, her eyes still flicking toward the argument at the center of the cave.
Damianâs sharp voice cut through the relative calm of her corner. âWhy is Brown here? Isnât it supposed to be (Name)âs turn to patrol tonight?â
Stephanie scoffed, rolling her eyes. âWow, thanks for the warm welcome, little guy,â she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Damian ignored her, his gaze locked on Bruce. âWell?â he demanded.
Bruce sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. âSheâs not patrolling tonight.â
Damianâs brows furrowed, his tone growing more impatient. âAnd why not? Where is she?â
The tension in the room thickened as Bruce finally answered. âShe quit.â
For a moment, the entire cave went still. Everyone except Stephanie and Bruce froze, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.
âWhat?â Damian said flatly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Dick was the first to intervene, stepping forward and addressing Bruce directly. âWhat do you mean, she quit?â
Bruceâs tone was even, but there was an edge of finality in it. âExactly what I said. She told me she quit, and I respected her decision.â
Damianâs jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. âAnd you just let her?â
Bruce gave him a calm but firm look. âIf thatâs what she wants, who am I to stop her?â
Damianâs expression darkened, his anger bubbling over. âUnacceptable,â he growled. âThereâs no way she just quits. Somethingâs wrong.â
Before Bruce could respond, Damian spun on his heel. âIâm asking her myself,â he snapped, already storming toward the elevator.
âDamianââ Bruce started, but Damian ignored him, disappearing up the elevator shaft before anyone could stop him.
The silence that followed was palpable, the weight of Damianâs fury lingering in the air.
Dick broke it first, his voice calm but resolute. âIâll go talk to him.â
Bruce hesitated for a moment before nodding. âGo. Make sure he doesnât do something reckless.â
As Dick followed after Damian, the remaining group stayed quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Cassandraâs gaze lingered on Bruce, her mind still replaying your distant expression from earlier. Something about all of this felt⌠wrong.
And she wasnât the only one who thought so.
The peace and quiet of your room shattered when the door slammed open without so much as a knock. You looked up, startled, to see Damian standing in the doorway, his eyes blazing with fury and confusion.
âYou quit?â he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
Caught off guard, you blinked at him. âGood evening to you too, Damian,â you said dryly, already bracing yourself for the argument that was clearly brewing.
He stepped inside, fists clenched tightly at his sides. âDonât give me that,â he snapped. âWhat do you mean you quit? You seriously quit? Why?â
You let out an annoyed sigh, already tired of his interrogation. âWhy? Canât I quit?â you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice.
Damianâs jaw tightened, his expression shifting from anger to utter disbelief. âAre you right in the head?â he shot back, his voice rising. âWhat kind of madness is this? Did all those late nights finally drive you insane?â
Ok, that ticked you off. Slightly.
âSeriously?â you deadpanned, giving him a pointed look. âYou think this is about me losing it?â
âYes!â Damian barked, his voice ringing through the room. âFirst, you cut your hair off like it didnât mean a damn thing to you, and now you suddenly walk up to Father and say youâre done being Batgirl? Just like that? Youâve completely lost it!â
You frowned, irritation creeping into your voice, but you kept calm. âNothing is wrong with me,â you replied firmly. âI made a decision. I donât see how thatâs any of your business.â
âNot my business?â Damian repeated, his voice incredulous. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at you. âThis affects all of us! You canât just make a decision like this without considering what it means for the rest of the family!â
You stood up, arms crossed. âAnd why does that bother you so much? Youâve never cared about what I do. All youâve ever done is criticize me, undermine me, act like I donât belong here in the first place! So why do you care now?â
âI donât care!â Damian snapped, though his voice faltered for just a second. âI care about what your actions mean for our family. You walking away like thisâitâs selfish, recklessââ
That was it. The breaking point.
âSelfish?â you shot back, the irritation in your voice finally boiling over. âYouâre calling me selfish? After everything Iâve done to prove myself? After all the crap Iâve put up with just to show all of you that I deserve to be here? And you have the audacity to call me selfish?â
Damian threw his hands up in frustration. âThis isnât just about you! Do you even realize what youâre throwing away? What your actions say about the rest of us? Youâre acting likeââ
âLike what? Like Iâm done?â you yelled, cutting him off. âBecause I am, Damian! Iâm done trying to live up to expectations that no one even thought I could meet in the first place! Iâm done being the one who has to prove herself every damn day just to get a shred of acknowledgment!â
âThatâs ridiculous!â Damian shot back, his tone defensive. âFather wouldnât have given you the mantle if you didnât deserve it. Youâre justââ
You cut him off again, your voice sharper, harsher. âHe gave me the mantle because I practically begged him to. Not because he thought I deserved it. And every day since, Iâve tried to make up for it, to prove that I do deserve it. But nothing ever works. I get sidelined, tossed aside, whenever Father or Dick or anyone else decides Iâm not good enough to help.â
Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. âYou donât get sidelined. Youâre just making things up.â
âOh, shut up,â you snapped, your tone biting now. âDonât act like you know what I go through.â
Damian opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off again, your voice rising. âNo, donât you dare. You donât know. You donât know how it feels to constantly feel like youâre not good enough, to be compared to everyone else and always come up short. You donât get it, Damian, and you never will. Because youâve always been the heir, the one Father sees as his true successor. But me? Iâve been nothing but an afterthought.â
Damianâs face faltered for a brief moment, something unspoken flashing in his eyes. He hated the way his chest ached at your words.
âThatâs not true,â he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
âIsnât it?â you challenged, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. âBecause it sure doesnât feel like it. Not when Iâm constantly being sidelined, not when I have to fight for scraps of approval while everyone else gets a free pass. And definitely not when even you canât see me as anything but second-rate!â
Damian hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion in your voice. He quickly shook it off, doubling down. âThis is beneath you,â he said coldly. âThrowing a tantrum and walking away wonât fix anything.â
âA tantrum?â you echoed, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. âYou think this is a tantrum? Damian, this is me saying Iâve had enough. Iâm tired of breaking myself for a family that doesnât even see me!â
âThen make them see you!â Damian countered, his voice rising again. âYou donât just quit because itâs hard! You donât just give up!â
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. âOf course, thatâs your answer. Just fight harder, right? Because thatâs all you know how to do. But Iâm not like you, Damian. I canât keep pretending that this fight is worth it.â
âNot worth it?â Damian repeated, his tone disbelieving. âAre you actually kidding me? Richard told me that fighting for family is always worth itââ
âWell Richard can go fuck himself for all I care,â you snapped, cutting him off. âFor someone who prides himself as a family guy, heâs done a great fucking job proving that, hasnât he?â
Damian bristled, his voice rising. âDonât talk about Richard that wayââ
âOh, Iâm sorry,â you said with a roll of your eyes. âI forgot he actually gives a damn about you. No wonder you have such a biased perspective on how he really is.â
Damian froze, stunned into silence by your words. The room grew unbearably quiet, tension heavy in the air.
Finally, Damian let out a sharp breath, his voice low but laced with finality. âThis isnât over,â he said, turning on his heel.
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone, your chest heaving from the intensity of the argument. You sank back into your chair, exhaustion settling in as the adrenaline faded. But the ache in your heart lingered, sharp and unyielding.
Damianâs words echoed in your mind, each one like a sharp jab to the chest. Selfish. Reckless. The words rang in your ears, infuriating and unfair.
Damnit. You hadnât meant to blow up on him. But everything was just⌠too much. It wasnât like you could keep pretending it was fine anymore.
Your fingers dug into the armrest of the chair as you shut your eyes, the headache beginning to set in behind your eyes. You could almost feel the physical ache of the emotional turmoil. I donât care⌠You repeated the words silently, but it only made the ache in your chest worse. You had always cared about this family. You had tried so hard to belong, to prove yourself.
But what had it gotten you? You fought tooth and nail for the mantle of Batgirl, begging for the chance to prove you were worthy of it. Yet, here you were, useless in Damianâs eyes, ready to walk away. Maybe he was rightâmaybe you were being reckless, selfish. Because if you werenât being Batgirl, who were you anymore? You certainly didnât feel like the Bruce Wayneâs daughter.
You scoffed bitterly, shaking your head. Theyâd be fine without you, you thought. They always are. It wasnât like your role in the family made a difference. You had always felt like an afterthought, never quite fitting in the way your siblings did. They all had their rolesâDamian was the heir, Tim was the brain, Jason was the wild card, Cassandra was the silent powerhouse, and Dick was the one holding everyone together. You? You were just⌠there. Batgirl, but only when they needed you, only when it was convenient. When Stephanie wasnât around. You hated to admit it, but she was undeniably a better Batgirl than you could ever be. You only saw that now, after everything youâve been through.
âI shouldâve quit a long time ago,â you muttered to yourself, your voice hollow.
They didnât need you. Not really.
You clenched your fists at your sides, frustration building again. But then, as much as you tried to convince yourself that quitting was the right decision, you felt the doubt creep in. The sting of Damianâs words lingered like a cut, refusing to heal. What had you really thrown away?
Damian thought it was selfish? Well, maybe it was. But that wasnât all there was to it. He couldnât see it. He didnât know the pain youâd been carrying all this time. The weight of the mantle, the pressure to be someone you werenât sure you could be. You literally died because you wanted to prove you deserved this mantle.
But Damian didnât know that. No one in the family did. To them, you were still 16. But you were 20, somehow in your 16 year old body. And frankly, you didnât think anyone would have believed you if you told them. Theyâd probably rule you off as delirious.
Was it selfish to want to take a step back, to breathe, to figure out who you were without the costume, without feeling the need to live up to unrealistic expectations?
You ran a hand through your hair, pulling at the ends of the newly cut strands. It felt differentâlighter, maybeâbut it didnât fix anything. The ache in your chest remained.
Taking a deep breath, you stood up and walked over to the window, staring out at the Gotham skyline. The night was quiet, peaceful even, but you felt nothing but turmoil inside. It wasnât supposed to be like this. You werenât supposed to feel so lost, so empty after making a decision that was supposed to bring you peace.
But all you felt was the sting of Damianâs words, the echo of a family that would carry on without you. Maybe you werenât meant to fit in. Maybe you were never meant to be Batgirl. Maybe quitting was the only way to let go of the weight you couldnât carry anymore.
But the thought of it didnât bring relief. It only brought more questions. More doubts. And the ache in your chest kept growing.
Dick made his way out of the Batcave, the soft hum of the caveâs equipment still echoing in his ears as he began his search. He knew the halls of the Batcave well, had spent hours running through them as a child, but for some reason, he couldnât place exactly where Damian had gone.
Where would he be?
He knew Damian wasnât the type to go off and brood in silence. No, if Damian had something to say, heâd say itâloudly. So the question was: Where would he go to find you?
Dickâs feet moved without thought, his mind running through options, trying to remember every possible place Damian could have gone. There was the training room, sure, but that didnât seem likely. The library, maybe? No. He probably went to look for you in your room.
Dickâs boots echoed softly on the polished floor as he headed toward the hall where your room was supposed to be. His steps slowed, however, as a troubling realization settled in his chest.
Wait⌠where was your room?
Dick froze in the hallway, blinking in confusion. His gaze wandered down the corridor, his mind grinding to a halt. Heâd known you for years, shared the same space, even lived under the same roof for what felt like foreverâbut for the life of him, he couldnât remember where your room was.
It was a simple enough questionâwhere was your room? Heâd been there countless times, right? Heâd spent so much time around the Manor, yet now, all he could think about was the fact that he couldnât pinpoint the location of your room. The door had been right there, hadnât it? Near the end of the hall? Or maybe down by the study?
Dickâs breath caught in his chest, and he quickly shook the thought off.
This is ridiculous.
He was probably just overthinking it. He was the oldest, the one who had been around the longest. It didnât make sense for him to suddenly forget something so simple. Get it together, Grayson.
But the more he tried to focus, the more his thoughts twisted into a spiral. He knew where everyoneâs room was.
How could he not know? Sixteen years. Heâd known you for sixteen years. Heâd visited this house, stayed in this house, lived in this house for years, and yetâŚ
His breath hitched. The realization was almost too absurd to comprehend.
He knew where Damianâs room was. Knew where Timâs was. Knew Cassandraâs, hell, he even knew where Jasonâs childhood room wasâJason, who didnât even live here anymore. He even knew the little quirks about each of their spaces: the sword display in Damianâs, the books stacked haphazardly in Timâs.
But your room?
His mind was blank. He couldnât even picture it.
Had he ever been to your room? Surely, he must have at some point. Right? His stomach twisted as he tried to remember, as if dredging up a memory he wasnât sure even existed. Why couldnât he see it in his mind? How could he have let this slip past him?
Panic began to rise in his chest as the uncertainty clawed at him. Heâd been part of this family for years. He knows you the longest out of everyone. He should have known this.
Dick stood in the middle of the hall, mind reeling. How could he forget?
Before he could descend further into his spiral, he heard it. Muffled voices, raised in anger, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut.
Your room.
Without thinking, Dickâs instincts kicked in, and he started moving toward the sound. He rounded the corner just in time to see Damian storming off, his face set in a mask of fury. He didnât even spare Dick a glance, his steps quick, purposeful.
âDamian!â Dick called, jogging after him, a mix of concern and confusion flooding his mind. âHey, wait up.â
Damian didnât slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, and he shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. âI donât have time for this, Grayson.â
Dickâs frustration only grew. âWhatâs going on? What happened in there?â
Damianâs fists clenched at his sides as he turned his head back toward the direction he was walking. âNothing you need to know.â His voice was tight, clipped.
Dickâs steps faltered, but he wasnât about to back down. âDamian, come onâdonât shut me out. What happened with you and (name)?â
Damian, however, wasnât interested in talking. His head jerked up with a scowl. âI donât need you to fix this, Grayson. I donât need anyoneâs help.â
Dick, unwilling to let it go, caught up to him and blocked his path. âDamian, Iâm not trying to fix anything. I just want to understand what happened. Why are you so upset?â
Damianâs jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something more than anger. âBecause I donât understand it!â he snapped. â(Name) quit. She quit, Dick! And youâre all just standing around pretending like nothingâs wrong! That it doesnât matter!â
That stopped Dick in his tracks. His heart sank as the weight of Damianâs words hit him. Standing around and pretending like nothingâs wrong? That it doesnât matter? Of course not. Heâs worried too. You quit? It didnât make sense. But before Dick could respond, Damian was already pushing past him, practically shoving him out of the way.
âDamianââ Dick started again, but the younger boy cut him off, raising a hand to silence him.
âDonât. Just donât. Iâm done with this conversation.â
Dickâs hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Damianâs arm before he could walk past. âDamian, stop. Just talk to me for a second.â
Damian whirled around, his eyes full of frustration and barely contained rage. âWhy? So you can tell me everythingâs fine? That weâre just supposed to accept this?â His voice cracked, just slightly, and Dick saw the sharp pain beneath the anger. âYou donât get it, Grayson. She quit. She walked away, and it feels like no oneâs doing anything about it. No one cares!â His fists clenched tighter, the tension in his body radiating off him like a live wire.
Dick felt a heavy lump settle in his throat, a mixture of confusion and concern. He understood Damianâs angerâhe was angry too, but his reaction was much more raw, and far more personal than Dick had anticipated.
Dickâs hand remained on Damianâs arm, his grip tightening ever so slightly, trying to ground him in the chaos of the moment. He stared at Damian, confusion and concern evident in his eyes. âWhat do you mean by that?â Dick asked, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion. âOf course I care about her, Damian. But getting upset wonât change anything.â
Damian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing in frustration. âSure, you care now,â he scoffed. âBut it doesnât feel like that to her, does it?â
Dick froze, his hand still gripping Damianâs arm, but now it felt more like a lifeline for him, trying to hold onto something solid in the midst of this emotional storm. âWhat are you talking about?â he asked, his heart starting to pound. âYouâre not making sense.â
Damian pulled his arm away sharply, his movements tense and jerky. âWhatever,â he muttered, his voice growing colder. âI donât have time for this. Iâm going to the cave.â He turned on his heel, striding away, his anger still hanging heavy in the air.
Dick stood there for a moment, his mind reeling. Damianâs words were like a punch to the gut, and Dick couldnât make sense of them. It doesnât feel like that to her. What was he talking about? Was Damian implying that you didnât believe Dick cared about you? That youâd somehow gotten the impression that no one cared, that no one was doing anything to stop you from leaving?
A knot of anxiety formed in Dickâs stomach as the implications of Damianâs words settled in. Did you really think he didnât care? The thought gnawed at him, twisting and turning in his chest.
He had always assumed you knew how much he valued you, how much he cared for youâas family, as his sister. But now, he wondered if heâd ever truly shown that.
Damianâs words continued to echo in his head as he stood there, frozen for a moment longer. What did he mean? Dick couldnât fathom why you would feel that way.
With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside, his mind refocusing. He had to find you. He couldnât let this go on any longer, especially if you thought you werenât seen, werenât valued. He had to fix this, whatever it took. But when he makes his way to your room, Dick just freezes in his place. What should he say to you? What would make you feel better? Dick hates how nothing instantly comes to his mind, hates how he couldnât form a solution to try and resolve whatever conflict you had with Damian.
Without another word, Dick turned towards the cave, his resolve hardening. Heâll just wait until youâve calmed down from your emotional argument with Damian, and then talk to you.
how we feeling about this chapter đ
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