In honor of winning the 50/50 on wriothesley AND his weapon, as well as finally getting him lvled to 90, some hcs if reluctant!god creator (unaware) ended up in the fortress for being an imposter :3
-would do his best to treat them like any other inmate. Is fighting internally over “do I treat them worse bc I hate their crime” “do I treat them normally cause that’s deserved by everyone” and a weird amount of like for you, despite the horrible crime you “committed”
-pray he does not discover you through a work accident because if it’s so much as a papercut that you got under his care, he will never forgive himself once he knows
-gets suspicious pretty quickly. Of what, he’s not even entirely sure. Maybe something you say, the way you talk to people like you know them despite having never met, maybe even just the look in your eyes
Uh sorry this isn’t much it’s been sitting in my drafts cause I wanted to add more but alas my brain is blank. Anyways I hope it is an enjoyable post! Feel free to make any asks / requests :3
random ahh sagau au idea I had, srry if this has been done before, prolly expland later
Reader who gets plucked straight into teyvat while playing genshin impact by the real creator of Teyvat, becausewe'll, the true crearor had no desire to continue with this they made, theyve grown burnt out of making and plan to make another, they'reso tired of Teyvat, they don'teven feel like saving it! So who better to assign that task to than a random human who loves the game that was based off the world they (the god) made!
You aren't given much of choice, but the god promises that once you save Teyvat, they'll send you back and they'll even give a little gift for helping so much!
All you need to do is stop their creations from tearing the world and eachother apart!
To do that! You have to:
Stop the primordial abyss from causing all life on teyvat to go extinct
Destroy the heavenly principles and put in a new order that can EFFECTIVELY maintain teyvat without its creator holding things up
Oh yeah, also destroy forbidden knowledge so that the world doesn't suffer from that either!
(Preferably) Restore Khaenri'ah to its original glory make sure they don't dabble in anything they shouldn't, although if thats to tiring, simply destroy the abyss order
And reunite the the twin blondes! Or kill both of them, whatever gets the variable and its sibling out of the way out of the way.
And unite the people Teyvat
In short, bring peace to Teyvat, and make sure it can thrive for a long while!
If you do allllllll of that, you can go back home! It doesn't matter how you do it or how long it takes, if it gets done, you can go back home!
....
That was 300 years ago, you were given that list of things to do, and you've finally achieved it, you've brought peace to Teyvat, reunited the long lost siblings, gotten rid of forbidden knowledge, killed the heavenly principles, you even restored irminsul after it got destroyed and input a code into it to keep it running and functioning with reasonable laws of reality that it had to follow, you even sealed away the primordial abyss, aren't you deserving of a reward!
Well of course you are! And you reward for all your hard work, and trials and error, and hardships- is of course being found out of not being the true God of Teyvat, being confronted as so and the people who once sung your name in praises turning their swords on you for being a deep fake, no matter what you've done for the world,
You, yourself, are not their God.
You impersonated their creator, one of the highest sins by Teyvats people's standards, you had to go.
It didnt matter what you had did right for them, but what you had done wrong, a d so of course, for such wrongdoing, you must die.
Some people want to help you, but what can they so against the many people of teyvat who want your execution, and thus, their voices are drowned out.
You expected this to be honest, 300 years is far longer than any human mind comprehend, but in all your years of living, you've learned one thing, any being intelligent enough to hate, will.
But, you are tired, and you suppose death is a suffice reward, you doubt anyone you care about is still alive in your world, and eveb then, you've completely lost your mind, you're brain is running on fumes.
But before you could killed! A higher power (probably a witch from the hexrenzirkel(Alice maybe), comes with a communication given to them by their grace themselves,
Where they learn their own creator views them as nothing more than project they've grown burnt out and tired of, and that, by their creators standards, you, are Teyvat's God and Maker, you are the one who "saved" Teyvat in the first place, under the creators orders, regardless of why you did it, you did do it, and in such a short amount of time, you deserve to be recognized!
But, whats this?
You don't want to be the god of Teyvat?
Well of course you don't, this entire time you've been working towards going back home, why would you need to be considered a god? You want to go back to earth, where you were human, where you comfortable, even if you weren't happy all the time.
But, you learn there is no earth to return to, just 10 years after being in teyvat, Nuclear Armageddon happened, earth completely inhabitable, there is nothing left for you. Teyvat is the only place you can be...
Then what was all work for, why were you never told?
What?
[Mental breakdown insues]
Well, the creator is sure you'll find happiness in Teyvat, unfortunately, it's all the creator can do for you, sending you back to earth isn't an option, and their other simply aren't finished. This all they can give to you.
You're so, so, so tired....
.
.
.
.
.
but!
Atleast you have a bunch of regretful yanderes waiting to do whatever they can to get you to forgive them!
“Seems like you’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
Tim lets the comment slip out with all the dry sarcasm he can manage, to make it clear this is less an observation, and more an accusation in disguise. His cape catches the wind as he moves across another rooftop with practiced precision. Gotham stretches endlessly beneath him, the city humming with that low, constant tension it never really sheds.
Beside him, floating several feet above the rooftop is Conner. Kon-El. Superboy.
The two of them move across Gotham’s rooftops like they’ve done this dance a hundred times before—or, more accurately, like Tim has and Kon simply decided to insert himself into it. Looking entirely too comfortable doing it.
“What?” Kon says, hands lifting slightly in mock innocence. “Can’t a guy sightsee nowadays?”
Tim finally glances at him, expression flat.
“Not when said guy is a Project Cadmus creation who absolutely can’t be left alone,” he deadpans.
Kon places a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense so theatrically Tim almost rolls his eyes on instinct.
“Ouch, Tim. And here I thought we were friends.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Didn’t think I needed permission just to exist in Gotham.”
“You always did.”
Kon pauses, actually considering that for a second. Then shrugs. “Fair enough. But it’s not like I can… rewire my DNA now, can I?”
Tim exhales through his nose, already regretting entertaining this. He adjusts his grapple line and keeps moving, eyes scanning the next stretch of rooftops with practiced precision. He then focuses on the scanner in his other hand, eyes sweeping over the layout of nearby blocks as he lands on the next rooftop.
“Can’t you wait one more hour ‘til I’m off patrol?” he asks, irritation threading through his voice despite his best efforts. “I’ll entertain your nonsense then.”
“Geez, Rob.” Kon places a hand over his heart again, somehow even more offended this time. “Who says I can’t be patient?”
Tim gives him a look.
“Have you ever been?”
Kon opens his mouth, pauses, then points at him.
“…Okay, you got me there.”
Tim almost smirks at that, but the feeling doesn’t quite stay.
“Listen,” he says instead, sharper than he means to, “I don’t have time for this right now. Flash suspects Riddler and Trickster are teaming up for something, and Batman wants these sectors scoped before tonight. So unless you’re planning to actually help, I don’t have time to deal with you.”
The words come out sharper than intended. Too sharp.
Tim knows it the second the words leave him. And that’s the problem. Because yes—normally, he’s serious on patrol. Patrol is patrol, and Gotham has never exactly been forgiving toward distraction. Patrol has always been one of the few things Tim knows how to treat with absolute focus.
That much is expected.
But the edge in his voice isn’t entirely about the current objective.
There’s weight behind it. Something tighter. Colder. A pressure he can’t quite shake.
And—annoyingly enough, he knows exactly where and when it started.
Yesterday.
At the orphanage.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the thought. Because somehow, within what felt like no time at all—you and Kon had gotten… close.
Not close, close. Tim isn’t stupid.
But close enough to bother him in a way he deeply resents.
Hours. That’s all it took.
A few hours of Tim being occupied elsewhere, letting his attention split for what felt like five seconds, and suddenly you and Kon were walking out of that building together like you’d been orbiting each other for years.
And worse—you looked lighter.
That’s the part that keeps replaying in his head no matter how much he tries to shove it aside.
That expression on your face.
Not dramatically happier. Not transformed into some entirely different person.
Just… lighter. Looser around the edges. Like something had momentarily unclenched inside you.
And Tim hates that he noticed.
Hates even more that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you look like that in the four years he’s known you.
Not with him.
Never with him.
Sure, Kon is friendly to a fault. Charismatic in a way that somehow never feels entirely accidental. Good with people. Good with women, especially.
Too good, honestly.
But you?
Tim wouldn’t have placed you anywhere near that category.
Not because you couldn’t get along with people—but because you don’t exactly let people in easily.
Especially not men like Kon.
Loud. Impulsive. Emotionally transparent to an almost offensive degree. The human equivalent of kicking a door open instead of knocking.
Granted… maybe that part is exactly why you got along.
There’s something to be said for emotional directness, even if Tim personally finds it exhausting.
Still. That’s not the point.
The point is that something happened in those few hours Tim wasn’t paying attention.
Something shifted. And he doesn’t know what. And no matter how much he tried to pry it out of Kon, the Super was relentlessly stubborn about whatever secret you two suddenly seemed to share.
That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But it does. Because was that really the problem here? Seeing you happier around Kon than you had ever been around him?
What did Kon say?
What did he do?
How had he managed to slip past defenses Tim had spent years bouncing off of?
And the thought that bothers him most—the one he refuses to sit with for too long—is the possibility that maybe it really was that simple.
Maybe Kon hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Maybe he’d just been himself. And maybe that had been enough.
Tim’s grip tightens slightly around the scanner.
Because if that’s true, then what does that say about him?
About all the years of careful steps and deliberate patience that somehow never got him there?
Was that the real problem?
Seeing you happier around Kon more than you’d ever been around him?
Seeing your guard melt for someone else when with Tim, it had always felt like navigating sharpened edges and carefully concealed knives?
The thought lands heavier than he wants it to.
And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.
Knives and distance. That’s what it had always been between you and him. And maybe that was inevitable.
Because Tim knew, from the very beginning, that you and him were never going to get the luxury of something normal.
Not after everything. Not when he had been the reason your entire life effectively imploded.
Not when he had been the one standing there while you learned the truth about your father. About Dick. About Jason. About everything that your family seemed to have hidden from you for years.
Not when, back then, he’d essentially been a stranger who somehow held the answers about your own life that you didn’t even know existed.
There was never a version of this where you met under better circumstances.
Never a clean slate. No uncomplicated beginning. Just fallout. And maybe that poisoned everything before it even had the chance to become anything else.
Tim’s thoughts are abruptly cut short when Kon floats directly into his line of sight, forcing him to stop short before walking face-first into a Kryptonian-shaped obstacle.
“Well,” he says, hovering there like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “if I help you out with your little patrol situation, wouldn’t that literally solve all your problems?”
Tim stares at him.
Of course.
Simple as always.
While Tim is busy dissecting every thought until it barely resembles itself anymore, Conner just… acts.
Sees a problem. Offers a solution—even if it’s reckless or half-formed.
No spiraling. No overthinking. Just straightforward certainty. Tim hates how irritatingly refreshing that is.
“Right..” he mutters, voice dry as he lifts his binoculars again, scanning the next stretch of rooftops like Kon isn’t hovering directly in his peripheral vision. “Of course. Save me from my crippling tendency to follow a set procedure, will you?”
Kon grins, entirely unfazed, and drifts a little closer—closer than necessary—just enough to be a nuisance.
“Hey, knock it out,” he says, tilting his head. “Some of us work better without a twenty-step plan and a three-page briefing.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose, lowering the binoculars just long enough to shoot him a look.
“Some of us like not causing unnecessary problems,” he shoots back, before turning his attention right back to the skyline. “Try it sometime.”
He forces himself to refocus. To think about literally anything else besides what happened yesterday.
Anything but the way your expression had looked—lighter, easier—standing next to someone who wasn’t him.
Anything but the way Kon winked at you yesterday and brought his finger to his lips, like whatever you’d confided in him was now some secret kept between the two of you and the two of you only.
Anything but the way you’d smiled back at the small, fleeting gesture so genuinely that, for a moment, it felt like it outweighed everything Tim had ever tried to do for you. Everything that he had done for you.
…Fuck.
There was no point dwelling on that.
Besides, it’s not like Kon’s here to see you anyway. So it doesn’t matter. It should be fine. As long as the two of you don’t run into each other again—
“Hey, isn’t that (Name) over there?”
What?
Tim’s head snaps up before he can stop himself, his gaze immediately darting to where Kon was seemingly looking at. And then his eyes land on you. You’re coming out of… a Bat Burger restaurant? With…
Tim’s eyes narrow slightly.
Helena?
Well. That’s a little shocking.
Shocking in the sense that Tim genuinely cannot picture a world where you would willingly spend time with her outside of the suits and whatever circumstances that had once forced you to work with her before in the same space. Of all people….
You’re standing close enough to her that it doesn’t look incidental, doesn’t look like some coincidence—that the two of you simply bumped into each other and exchanged a few polite words before parting ways. No. It looks… cordial. Easy, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right in Tim’s chest.
Since when?
Tim’s always liked Helena. She’s cool and has looked out for him a couple times before—something he’ll always appreciate. They have this… camaraderie that’s built up over the years.
But Tim also knows your history with her—or rather, the lack of one. You’ve worked alongside her when necessary, tolerated her when the situation called for it, but that was it.
Because Huntress doesn’t operate the way Batman approves of. Not exactly. And unlike Tim, you’ve always been careful about that.
Careful about lines and where you stand. Abour the kind of choices Bruce would or wouldn’t approve of. That was part of the reason you never really sought her out beyond what was required.
So then why are you here with her now? Why does it look like you chose to be there with her? Did the fact that you weren’t Batgirl anymore change the way you viewed Helena? Or was Helena the one that sought you out first—and you just went along with it because you had no real reason to avoid her this time around?
Possible.
Looks like Tim’s gonna have to drop by her apartment and ask her what you two were talking about…
“Woah,” Kon says, sounding far too smug to be unaware of it, “what are the odds?”
Tim doesn’t answer that blatant attempt at provocation, only because he’s still trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.
“Well,” Kon continues, already shifting midair like he’s made up his mind, “since you’re apparently too busy for me right now, guess I’ll just move on to the next Wayne.”
Tim’s head snaps toward him, already opening his mouth to fire off a retort. But Kon’s already drifting backward, that familiar grin settling into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He most definitely does.
Tim reaches out, catching the end of his jacket and yanking him back just enough to stop him.
“Don’t you dare, Kon—”
But Kon twists out of his grip with ease, hovering just out of reach now.
“Too late,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe drop me a text when you’re finally free to deal with my nonsense, Drake.”
And then he drops. Straight toward you. You, who had just parted ways with Helena and were about to go your own way.
Shit.
Tim’s jaw tightens as he watches Kon catch you off guard.
Of course this is happening. Of course it is. Because apparently one confusing interaction wasn’t enough between you and the Super.
Well, at least it seems like you weren’t actually buying into whatever Kon’s doing, Tim notes from above as he watches you start to walk away from Kon.
Good.
Wait.
Did he seriously just feel… relieved? Over the fact that you weren’t going to hangout with his best friend?
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to look away. Because he was supposed to be patrolling. Checking the areas Bruce told him to. He definitely wasn’t sent out here to babysit Conner. Or to make sure you didn’t get involved with him.
He knows that.
He knows better.
But that doesn’t stop the uneasy feeling sitting low in his chest—the same one that’s been there since yesterday, now settling in deeper as he watches Kon land a little too close to your personal space, refusing to let you get away.
Just reject him again, (Name).
Tim can’t believe he’s actually thinking that right now. Stop it.
But just as Tim manages to steel himself to look away and go about his patrol again—
What the hell.
Somehow, in the split second that he looked away, Kon’s changed out of his suit and… is carrying you away?
What the fuck just happened.
Tim’s whole head is spiralling now, like every thought is trying to outrun the next, as if he’s genuinely standing there weighing two completely life changing decisions.
But the more logical part of his brain is louder. Sharper and more insistent. Because this shouldn’t even be a question.
He should be continuing patrol. Finishing the sectors Bruce assigned him. Sticking to the plan like he always does, because that’s the entire point of being out here in the first place.
He should let Kon go. Let you go. You both were perfectly capable of making your own responsible decisions… Well, Kon less so than you.
He exhales through his nose, forcing his grip on the situation—on himself—to tighten. Patrolling the areas for signs of Trickster or Riddler was more important.
Not whatever mess that was inevitably going to unfold with you and Kon elsewhere.
…
Fuck it.
If he pushes through patrol fast enough—clears the remaining sectors, double-checks the areas Bruce flagged, cuts down every unnecessary delay—then it’s not really abandoning anything, is it?
It’s just… adjusting the order of operations.
Yes.
That works.
He can still fix this. Fix what?
He can still—
Tim’s hand moves almost on instinct, already pulling up the tracker interface. A small blinking signal still active on Kon’s body. The one he’d discreetly placed earlier.
Tim exhales, sharper this time, and pushes off the rooftop.
“Just a little detour…” he mutters under his breath, like that somehow makes this better. Makes him feel better about all this…
By the time you and Helena both finish your meals, the conversation you both had earlier was long since finished. You two slide out of the booth, heading toward the exit when a sudden commotion near the counter catches your attention.
A little girl crying.
Not the quiet, sniffly kind. The full-on, stubborn, teary-eyed crying, whilst clutching a…Red Robin figurine?
Her mother’s crouched beside her, trying to soothe her, while the employee at the counter awkwardly holds out a handful of other Bat-themed toys like that might somehow fix it.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the mother is saying gently, brushing the girl’s hair back. “It looks like they ran out of the Batgirl one you wanted.”
That doesn’t help.
If anything, it makes the girl cry harder.
You pause in your movements, and you weren’t even sure why you were so drawn to this commotion.
It’s not your business. You should just leave. Walk out, pretend you didn’t see it.
But your hand moves before you can really think it through.
“…Hey,” you say, stepping closer, holding something out. “Would this one do?”
The flimsy Batgirl figurine. The figurine of your Batgirl. The one you’d been feeling shitty about earlier.
The girl’s crying hiccups to an abrupt stop. She looks up at you, eyes wide, then at the figurine in your hand—and just like that, her whole face lights up.
She nods so vigorously that it looks like her head might just fall off.
“Yes! Yes! Mummy—look!” she tugs at her mother’s sleeve excitedly. “It’s the Batgirl I wanted!”
For some reason, those words tug at something in your chest… just a little.
Her mother looks up at you, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something grateful.
“Oh..! You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in lightly, already handing it over.
In the background, the poor employee who had to deal with this visibly deflates, letting out a quiet sigh of relief like you’ve just saved him from a problem he absolutely did not get paid enough to handle.
The girl clutches the figurine like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Thank you,” the mother says again, more firmly this time, like she means it.
You just nod, already turning to leave when you feel a small tug at your sleeve.
You glance down, and you see the girl looking up at you in an earnest, serious way that only kids can be when they’re set on doing something.
“Here!” she says, holding something out to you. “You can take this one! Mummy says I always need to give something in return when I get something.”
You blink, and look down.
Only to see the girl holding out the Red Robin figurine that she had just been refusing moments earlier. You stare at it for a good few seconds, something dangerously close to a deadpan settling in.
…Seriously?
You could refuse. You probably should.
Because why the hell would you possibly want a Red Robin toy? Hell, you’d even been silently agreeing with the girl’s outburst for not wanting it in the first place.
But the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, insistent, like this actually matters—
Yeah. You’re not winning this one.
You sigh softly, the edge in it already gone as you take the figurine from her hand.
“…Thanks,” you say, offering a small, admittedly weaker smile than usual.
Her face lights up again, bright and unfiltered, like you just did her a favour.
“Bye!” she chirps, already turning, her hand slipping back into her mother’s as they start to head out.
She waves at you with her free hand.
You lift yours slightly in return, watching as they disappear out the door before you physically slump in place.
A chuckle comes from your side, and your eyes dart toward Helena, who looks mildly—no, very amused at what just happened.
“Were you that eager to get rid of mini-you? Or well—mini-Batgirl?”
“As if.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “If I’d known I was going to end up trading it for a shitty Red Robin toy, I would’ve kept that Batgirl like a sacred shrine.”
Helena raises an eyebrow. “Why, not a fan of Red Robin?”
“Who even is?”
It’s a bold-faced lie. Lots of people are—and Helena clearly knows you know that, given the look she’s giving you right now.
“Didn’t think you and him had bad blood.”
“Not bad blood.” You sigh, shaking your head. “More like… awkward, strained, complicated blood.”
Which is true. Because to be honest—you don’t hate Tim. You two just seemed to… clash. One too many times. He was logical and measured. You were emotional and reactive. Or well—at least you used to be.
“Really? I thought you two would’ve gotten along quite well.”
You shoot Helena a scandalised look, as if you can’t believe she just said that out loud.
“Did you really just say that??” you say, pure disbelief bleeding through every word.
“Why not? What’s so bad about Tim?”
“Everything…!” You flail your arms now, as if that somehow strengthens your argument.
But Helena doesn’t budge. She just crosses her arms, steady and unimpressed.
“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Name one thing then.”
You freeze for a second.
Were you really about to do this? Sit here and list out everything you couldn’t stand about Tim Drake? Everything that had somehow led to this… strained, complicated mess between the two of you?
Well apparently, yes you are.
“…He’s insufferable,” you start, pointing vaguely like that explains anything. “And condescending. And he always shuts me down when I used to ask him anything about patrols or recon. Sometimes he acts like I’m asking the stupidest questions, and treats me like I’m some sort of idiot before taking over my stuff entirely.”
“Hm… but doesn’t that also mean he cares enough to be thorough and help you out?” she asks, and that stops you immediately. You open your mouth—then close it again.
Because, annoyingly, what she said makes sense. Because she’s right about that.
You notice it then—the way Helena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening just slightly at your silence, before she continues, quieter now.
“Sure, he probably could’ve been a lot kinder about it. Could’ve explained things better, or just… trusted you more instead of just—well, shutting you out. But I don’t think he meant to come off that way or make you feel like you were some idiot spouting foolish shit. He’s a good kid.”
That lands differently.
He’s a good kid.
Well, maybe that was right. No—it is right.
He’s trusted by almost everyone you knew—your father, Dick, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. Hell, even Helena too apparently. He’s a good leader, and no doubt a great Robin. A great friend too—you can see that in the way his friends treat him.
Maybe at one point…. you envied that. That Tim could so easily become the person you wanted to be for your family—for the people you cared about. He was smart, dependable, and he made it seem effortless doing it.
So was it just your arrogance—your pride that set off the alarms every time you and Tim attempted to get along? That…underlying grudge you never really acknowledged, the one that only seemed to grow stronger when he looked at you like he was already two steps ahead. Like he’d already figured you out before you even spoke. Like he was doing himself and everyone else a favour by outright taking over your leads and recons and pursuing them himself?
To you—all those times seemed to feel like he was trying to one-up you. Showing you exactly why you were never let in about the secret your family hid from you in the first place. Proving to everyone else why you taking up the suit could never make sense at all.
But to Tim… could he really have just been trying to help you? Just by stepping in entirely even if he’d been blunt and sharp about whatever doubts you had? Did he seriously not mean to shut you out by taking over whatever leads you had come across? Was that him just trying to make things… what, easier for you?
“…Yeah, I guess…” you mutter after a beat, a little less certain than before, as you push open the door and step out of Bat Burger.
But still.
That doesn’t suddenly mean you should pretend none of it hurt. That just because Tim might not have intentionally meant to make you feel small, make you feel… redundant, you were supposed to brush everything aside like it never affected you in the first place.
Because it did.
It did affect you.
And honestly, how much longer were you supposed to keep letting things go just because someone meant well? Just because they couldn’t properly convey their intentions through their actions?
It’s like Helena senses the slight shift in your expression—your thoughts spiralling all over again—because she sighs lightly before following you out.
“Look, I’m not saying you should suddenly go all… buddy-buddy with Tim,” she says. “I’m sure you and him have had your fair share of clashes and what not.”
She glances at you briefly.
“You’re more than entitled to feel however you wanna feel about the way things happened. I just don’t think either of you actually understood where the other was coming from. And yeah, maybe it’ll be a little unfair to not give yourselves a chance to understand.”
“Probably…” you mutter, feeling a little more frustrated now.
Because yeah, you definitely wished you’d treated Tim better when you first met. Definitely shouldn’t have subconsciously blamed him for “ruining” your life when none of it had actually been his fault.
If you hadn’t done that, would things between you and him have turned out differently? Would the two of you have gotten along better?
Or would it have ended up the same anyway?
Because what if in Tim’s eyes, he really had just been trying to help you—in his own blunt, overly controlling, slightly extreme kind of way.
You feel Helena nudge your shoulder with hers.
“Just think about it, alright?” she says. “Nobody’s telling you to run off and have some heartfelt reconciliation with the guy tomorrow.”
She laughs softly.
“If sulking in your unresolved issues for a little longer makes you feel better, then go for it. Everybody needs a little emotional constipation every now and then.”
You glance at Helena with exaggerated offence, letting the sarcasm sit in your tone. “Haha, Helena. I’m not one of your elementary school students, by the way. No need to treat me as if I need a lesson in feelings 101.”
Helena’s brows lift in mock surprise, like she’s genuinely considering the accusation for half a second before she gasps dramatically. “Oh, my bad. You might actually pass for one, though.”
That makes you open your mouth immediately—to fire something back—but she doesn’t even give you the chance.
Helena just reaches over and ruffles your hair again, unbothered, like she’s done this a hundred times and intends to keep doing it.
“Gotta run, though,” she says, already stepping back. “I was supposed to meet someone later. But hey—if you need someone to talk to again, you know where I live.”
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s debating something, then adds more lightly, “Or… we can always get you another Batgirl figurine if it’ll make you feel better.”
You huff under your breath, rolling your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it this time. Not really.
Because it’s… nice. In a way you don’t quite want to acknowledge right now.
So instead, you just lift a hand in a lazy wave as she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. You linger for a moment, and stare at Helena’s back for a few more seconds, before turning away yourself. But her words don’t really leave with her as you’d hoped.
About you as Batgirl. And about you and Tim.
Honestly? A very, very small part of you wanted to set things right with him. Just a tiny part.
But then everything he’s done just comes rushing to your head—and that tiny part just completely… dissolves. Because yeah, it had always felt like Tim had the upperhand when it came to you and him. Like he was always a step ahead, always seeing more in your half-baked leads than you ever did. You didn’t want to take another L again. To give in and go to him and try to fix whatever strained mess existed between you two.
Maybe it was just your stubbornness stopping you.
Something that had started to surface again after you quit as Batgirl and decided to live for yourself instead of constantly trying to fit into something that didn’t really have a place for you.
It definitely wasn’t because of what you had told him the day before. About making sure he wouldn’t have to bother with you again.
Nope.
….
Okay. Maybe that conversation you had with Tim yesterday still haunts you a little.
But hey! You’ll take whatever win against him anyday.
Even if said “win” quite literally ended with you storming away like you actually did something, when all it really did was leave you with unbearable second-hand embarrassment at yourself. And to make things worse—the entire thing was overheard by Conner Kent of all people—
”Well if it isn’t my favourite Wayne!”
Oh my god.
Before you can even process it, a flash of red and blue drops right in front of you, black leather jacket and the giant S symbol included.
This cannot be happening.
“Didn’t know I got promoted to that…” you mutter, the sarcasm automatic even as your eyes dart around instinctively.
Thankfully, there aren’t many people nearby. Most of the customers inside Bat Burger seem far too invested in their greasy fries and burgers to care about what’s happening outside, while an elderly couple further down the street are more focused on each other than the very obvious superhero standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Honestly, for someone as flashy as Kon, it’s kind of uncanny how nobody seems to care that he’s here at all.
Your gaze finally lands back on him, immediately meeting the grin stretched across his face. “Well,” he says casually, “after our little endeavour yesterday, I’d say you’ve moved up the ranks.”
You deadpan slightly, because of course he had to remind you that he overheard your entire conversation with Tim yesterday. And how he’d essentially blackmailed you with that information into letting him tag along while you were checking the orphanage for suspicious activity.
“You’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
It’s not even phrased like a question. More like an accusation. Or maybe it was you trying to deflect.
But instead of looking offended, Kon just grins wider, far too amused for your liking.
“Woah,” he says. “Freaky. You and Tim said the exact same thing to me.”
And just like that, the one name you seriously did not want to hear again gets dragged right back into the conversation.
You let out a frustrated sigh and immediately try to walk past him.
But Kon immediately floats right back in front of you, moving sideways when you try to walk around him again. “Hey now—you haven’t even heard me out yet.”
“Heard enough already,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.
Honestly, you still don’t even know why he’s here. And you didn’t really want to know the actual reason. Especially if it’s because of you and what happened yesterday.
“Oh, come onnn,” Kon drags out dramatically. “Aren’t we, like… partners in crime now?” He points at you accusingly. “I kept your little secret from yesterday, y’know. Do you have any idea how hard Tim was trying to pry it out of me?”
Your eye twitches slightly.
Nope. Not thinking about Tim again. Absolutely not.
Kon floats a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something deeply confidential.
“Seriously. I even had Damian Wayne on my ass about it.”
He grins suddenly. “I think I deserve a reward for surviving those two for your sake.” And there he goes again. Invading your personal space like he’s done it a million times before. At this rate, he’ll probably hit that number sooner rather than later.
You immediately shove your hand into his face and push him back.
Kon lets out the most dramatic, offended-sounding ow you’ve ever heard in your life—which is ridiculous, considering you’re pretty sure you could’ve punched him with full force and broken your own wrist instead.
“Ouch. Goddamn,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically. “You might actually go toe-to-toe with Cassie with that shove—”
“Just tell me why you’re here, Superboy.”
“Woah. Back to titles now?” Kon gasps. “I thought we were close—”
“I’m definitely not entertaining whatever this is if you keep walking around like that,” you cut in before he can say something particularly personal out loud. You gesture pointedly at his outfit.
The leather jacket. The giant S-symbol. The overall I am very obviously Superboy of it all.
Kon freezes midair for a second. Genuinely freezes. Like the thought had somehow never crossed his mind at all. And just as he opens his mouth to respond, the Bat Burger door swings open behind him.
Your eyes immediately land on the employee from earlier—the same exhausted cashier who’d dealt with the crying child. He’s changed out of uniform now, looking dead on his feet as he steps outside.
Kon glances at him once.
And before you can even process what’s happening—
A blur of red and blue shoots past you.
The poor employee yelps.
The Bat Burger door slams open again barely two seconds later.
And suddenly Kon is standing in front of you wearing the employee’s clothes, while said employee has somehow been shoved back into his work uniform, hair completely wrecked and expression utterly hollow—as if his soul briefly left his body during the experience.
Yeah. He definitely does not get paid enough for this shit.
“Good enough for ya?” Kon asks proudly, like this was somehow a perfectly reasonable solution.
You just stare at him.
Honestly, at this point, you’re starting to understand why Tim constantly sounds one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced migraine around him.
But before you can even form an actual response, Kon suddenly scoops you straight off the ground.
“What the—Kon?!”
“No take-backs, (Name),” he says far too smug. “You said you wouldn’t entertain me in that getup. Now I’m changed, which means you’re legally obligated to hang out with me for the next hour.”
“That is not how legality works—”
But he’s already flying upward. Fast enough that your stomach drops immediately.
Your hands instinctively latch onto him tighter before gravity can personally humble you in front of Gotham City.
Wind rushes past your ears as the streets disappear beneath you, Kon laughing like this is the most normal thing in the world while you seriously contemplate the possibility of dying a second time.
This might actually be the longest day of your life….
MEANWHILE…
“Where’s Father, Brown?”
Stephanie looks up from where she’s half-slouched in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest as she watches Damian descend the cave stairs like he personally owns the whole place.
Which, honestly, he probably thinks he does.
“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “Probably already went out somewhere.”
“Tt. At least attempt to make yourself useful.” Damian scoffs as he walks past her, already making his way toward the Batcomputer.
Stephanie watches him with narrowed eyes.
You’d think after working alongside him as Batgirl and Robin for a decent amount of time now, Damian would’ve developed at least a tiny bit of tolerance toward her existence.
Nope.
Still prickly and condescending as ever. And somehow still capable of sounding personally offended every time she breathes too loudly near him.
Honestly, some things really do transcend character development.
But seriously—where the hell was everyone?
Even Barbara was gone. Stephanie had already checked the Clocktower first out of habit—and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra wasn’t around either. The cave felt weirdly empty today.
Not that being left out of things was exactly unfamiliar territory for Stephanie Brown.
But at least this was better than before. Back when she was still Spoiler and almost everyone treated her like an outsider and acted like she was one wrong move away from accidentally blowing herself up. Which she… well, kind of did. But everyone’s gotten over it. At least—that’s what she hopes.
Damian’s already typing something into the Batcomputer now, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Stephanie glances over automatically.
Sue her for being curious, but he’s literally typing directly in front of her like she’s invisible or something.
“Narrows Children’s Home?” Stephanie reads aloud.
Damian immediately shoots her a sharp glare. “Do you not know how to mind your own business?”
“Well, is it a crime to look?” Stephanie shoots back. “Besides, you’re literally typing it out in front of me.”
Damian scoffs under his breath and pointedly ignores her existence again, eyes fixed back on the screen.
Stephanie rolls her eyes so hard it almost physically pains her—before leaning back toward the monitor herself.
Narrows Children’s Home.
Long-running orphanage in Gotham’s Narrows district. Privately funded alongside support from the Martha Wayne Foundation and two other organisations.
Stephanie zones out halfway through the wall of information because, wow, Bruce-related charity archives somehow manage to be even more boring in text form. So instead, she spins the chair around toward Damian.
“Okay, so why exactly are you searching this up?”
Damian ignores her again. Because apparently basic communication is beneath him.
He clicks another file open instead. Stephanie only catches a brief glimpse before the screen changes.
“Warden, Margaret Cole…?” she reads aloud slowly.
The screen immediately fills with an entire profile page. Damian’s expression doesn’t change much, but Stephanie notices the way his eyes narrow slightly as he reads. Focused and quiet.
Which is honestly more unsettling than when he’s actively insulting people.
“Okay—what gives, Damian?” Stephanie says, sitting up straighter now. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’re doing the whole creepy silent brooding thing.”
“Seems like nothing,” Damian replies flatly.
Stephanie’s eye twitches. But then the wording catches up to her.
“…Seems?” she repeats, brow raising slightly.
And wow.
Stephanie genuinely cannot believe she’s at the point where she misses Damian being openly bratty instead of weirdly contemplative. At least the insults were something familiar—as much as she hates every bit of it.
Damian’s gaze remains fixed on the screen for another second before he finally speaks.
“(Name)’s been wary of her.”
Stephanie blinks.
Oh.
Wait—what?
“Hold on,” she says immediately. “I thought you two were, like… fighting or something.”
“Old news, Brown,” Damian says dismissively. “Seriously, how thickheaded can you possibly be?”
“Okay—rude,” Stephanie huffs. But then she pauses. “…Since when were you even close enough to know who (Name)’s wary of?” she asks slowly. “Didn’t think she’d willingly let a judgmental piece of shit like you be around her long enough for that.”
The comment’s meant to provoke him. To get Damian to snap back with some dramatic insult about her intelligence or genetics or whatever he decides to weaponize today.
But instead…Damian smirks.
“Think again, Brown.”
Stephanie stares at him in mild horror.
Wait. Was he seriously looking smug right now? Over the fact that he was apparently… close with you??
“You’re telling me she lets you of all people stay close to her??” Stephanie gestures at him wildly now. Because this was Damian Wayne—the boy who quite literally held a blade right at your neck on your first meet—the one who called you the “inferior” child. And Stephanie knew very well that you definitely wouldn’t have liked that.
Damian barely even reacts. Which somehow makes it worse. If anything, he just looks more self-satisfied now. “Unlike you, Brown,” he says coolly, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining relationships without incessantly irritating the other party every five seconds.”
“Well, that’s a first,” she says flatly. “Are you sure you’re not talking out of your ass right now?”
“Additionally,” Damian continues, completely ignoring her outrage, “she simply has superior taste in company and enough intelligence to appreciate my better qualities.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes immediately.
“Okay, now I know you’re making things up for your ego.”
Damian only scoffs softly before turning back toward the Batcomputer, attention already shifting away from her like the conversation has ceased being worth his time now that he’s won it in his head. Which, annoyingly enough, probably means there’s at least some truth to what he’s saying.
Because seriously—how the hell did he manage that?
How was Damian Wayne, of all people, somehow able to get past whatever defenses you had up around yourself?
Stephanie likes Damian in the weird, sibling-adjacent way most of the Bats eventually end up tolerating each other, but even she can admit his personality is… a lot.
He’s bratty. Condescending. Aggressively judgmental. Possesses approximately zero social finesse and somehow even less patience.
So why him?
Why did you let him get close? And not her?
“You must’ve bewitched her or something,” Stephanie mutters, slumping farther back into the chair with a slight pout.
Damian clicks his tongue at that, looking vaguely offended by the implication.
“Or perhaps,” he says coolly, “she simply has valid reasons to be selective with the company she keeps.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable. Are you trying to say that I was a bad influence—and that’s why she acts like I did something wrong just by being around her??”
“You are Brown. Formerly associated with Cluemaster,” Damian replies without missing a beat. “Need I elaborate further? Father most likely intervened back then, would he not?”
Stephanie opens her mouth immediately, a retort already loaded—because ouch. Even if Damian technically wasn’t wrong, being reduced to just that sucks. But then she pauses.
Because suddenly, she’s pulled back to a certain moment from a few years ago. Back when Cassandra first started being Batgirl. Around that time, Stephanie had started getting close to her, patrolled with her—even trained with her. But Bruce had intervened.
He had told Cass to stop going on patrols with her. To stop the training.
Stephanie remembers how much that stung at the time. Not because Cass had listened—well, partially because of that—but because for a while there, it genuinely felt like Bruce had already decided what kind of person Stephanie was before she’d even gotten the chance to prove otherwise. Like one mistake had already sealed her into place. And everything else she did—or tried to do afterward—just… didn’t matter enough to outweigh it in his eyes.
Back then, she’d been upset with Cass for choosing Bruce over her. For not trusting her enough to handle Gotham’s lowlifes and crime.
But eventually, they’d made up. Moved on from it. Still…
Stephanie’s gaze drifts slightly.
Could it be the same thing here?
Could Bruce have said something to you before you and Stephanie ever really had the chance to properly know each other?
Was that why, after you helped her back then, the two of you somehow just… never crossed paths again afterward? No follow-ups or accidental run-ins despite how ridiculously interconnected the vigilante community usually was?
Oh.
Huh.
That… would actually explain a lot.
And honestly, you wouldn’t even really owe Stephanie anything in the first place. You were the one who’d gone out of your way to help her.
Still… Damn.
Even if you and Stephanie had never particularly been close after all this time, she could tell from a mile away how much approval meant to you. Especially Bruce’s.
The way you carried yourself. The way you listened and tried to adjust yourself every time.
Stephanie knew what that looked like because, honestly, she’d wanted the same thing once too. Bruce’s approval. Proof that she could be more than Cluemaster’s daughter—that there was something genuinely good in her worth acknowledging.
So the thought that Bruce’s opinion might’ve robbed her of ever really getting the chance to know you properly in the first place leaves something sour curling in her stomach.
She immediately tells herself she’s jumping to conclusions. Damian made one comment and now her brain’s running with it.
But then again…
She really wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.
After all, this is Bruce Wayne they’re talking about.
Batman.
Batman whose words somehow become law the second he says them out loud. Batman whose orders are quite literally absolute. Batman who—
“Of course the one thing you’d inherit from that insufferable Drake is his tendency to overanalyse every insignificant detail. Snap out of it.”
Stephanie blinks hard, abruptly pulled out of her thoughts.
Damian’s staring at her now with a deeply unimpressed expression, like he’s mildly offended she stopped paying attention to him mid-conversation.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stephanie immediately shoots back.
Damian lets out a dry, disbelieving scoff.
“Are you actively attempting to prove how much of an idiot you are by not understanding basic implications?”
“You—”
Before Stephanie can properly retaliate—or verbally destroy him, preferably—a sharp ping cuts through the cave. Both of their attention snap toward the Batcomputer as the screen redirects automatically to a live map feed. Red Robin’s tracker.
Except… he’s off-route. Far off-route from the standard patrol sectors. The blinking marker is currently heading towards… Gotham Mall?
Damian narrows his eyes.
“Timothy.” The comm line clicks open. And immediately, a loud, deeply frustrated sigh crackles through the speakers.
Stephanie snorts quietly.
Yep. Definitely Tim.
“Why,” Damian says flatly, “are you deviating from patrol?”
“I already checked the sectors Batman assigned me,” Tim replies a little too quickly.
Vague. Suspiciously vague.
Damian clearly catches it too.
“That did not answer my question.”
“It’s handled.”
“You are currently heading toward Gotham Mall.”
“I’m aware.”
“That statement somehow raises more concerns.”
Stephanie physically watches Damian’s interrogation tactics start kicking in now, relentless in the exact same exhausting way Bruce’s usually are.
Honestly, sometimes she forgets how similar those two actually are until moments like this. Tim clearly notices it too, judging by the increasingly strained silence coming through the comms.
“…It has to do with (Name), alright?” Tim finally admits, sounding like he’d rather eat concrete than say that aloud.
Stephanie immediately straightens in her seat. What?
Damian’s expression hardens instantly.
“Explain. Now.”
Tim exhales sharply through the comm.
“…Kon took her with him.”
Silence. Heavy silence.
Stephanie actually sees the exact moment alarm bells start going off in Damian’s head. “Wait—hold on,” she cuts in quickly, finally making her presence known over comms. “Did you just say (Name) got picked up by…Superboy?!?”
“Stephanie? You’re there too?”
But before Tim can continue, Damian abruptly grabs one of his blades from the nearby table and immediately starts striding toward the cave exit. Stephanie’s eyes widen.
“Woah—woah woah woah!!!”
She practically lunges forward to grab his arm before he can leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re bringing that?!”
“That Kryptonian clearly failed to comprehend my warning from yesterday,” Damian says coldly, trying to yank himself free. “It is only appropriate that I demonstrate more thoroughly what occurs when he—”
“He hasn’t even done anything!” Stephanie interrupts incredulously.
Damian looks genuinely offended by that statement, brows furrowing sharply like Stephanie just said something personally absurd.
“He placed his hands on her,” he says flatly, as if that alone should immediately justify attempted murder.
Stephanie stares at him for a long second before dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god,” she groans, looking at him in disbelief, “you sound insane right now.”
Damian straightens slightly at that, expression going cold with offense as he tugs his sleeve back from her grip.
“I sound perfectly reasonable.”
“You are literally trying to bring a sword into a shopping mall,” Stephanie shoots back immediately, gesturing wildly toward the blade in his hand like she cannot believe this conversation is real.
Damian glances down at the weapon briefly before looking back at her without even a shred of shame.
“A precaution.”
Stephanie throws both her hands up into the air.
“That is not what precaution means..!”
Damian clicks his tongue impatiently, clearly already done with this conversation.
“Brown, release me.”
“No?!?” Stephanie says, still hanging onto his arm. “You can’t just stab every guy that mildly inconveniences (Name)!”
“I have shown remarkable restraint thus far.”
Stephanie stares at him blankly. “…That was restraint?”
“Obviously.”
Oh, that is deeply concerning.
“Damian,” Stephanie says slowly, like she’s talking down an especially hostile stray cat, “I think she can survive one outing with Superboy without you going full medieval executioner.”
“You say that as though I distrust her judgment.” Damian scoffs. “I distrust him.”
“Additionally,” Damian continues over her, “my sister has demonstrated an astounding tendency to attract reckless individuals.”
Stephanie freezes. Her grip on Damian’s sleeve loosens slightly.
Wait.
Did he just say—
My sister?
Stephanie just stares at him.
Because seriously—what the fuck is going on?? What the hell happened while she wasn’t looking?
Last she remembered, you and Damian could barely survive a conversation without sounding one inconvenience away from attempted manslaughter. Damian used to undermine you at every possible opportunity. Every patrol turned into some weird dominance battle where both of you acted personally offended by the other’s existence.
And now he’s out here calling you his sister?
Casually too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Stephanie feels like she skipped five seasons of character development of Damian Wayne.
“Hold on,” she says immediately, pointing accusingly at him now. “Since when did you use the word sister here??”
Damian looks at her like she’s the idiot for being shocked.
“She is my sister.”
“That was not how you used to act about her!”
“People are capable of developing relationships over time, Brown. Surely even you comprehend such a simple concept.”
“Don’t get philosophical with me right now!” Stephanie snaps. “You literally threatened her with a blade when you first met!”
“And yet she still possesses enough sense to tolerate me. Curious.”
Stephanie squints at him.
Oh, he was definitely smug about this.
Somehow, Damian Wayne had apparently managed to worm his way into your good graces, and now he was acting like he’d won some invisible competition nobody else knew was happening.
Which honestly explains a lot about the weird attitude he’s had lately.
Damian attempts to move again. Stephanie immediately grabs him harder.
“Nope. Absolutely not. You are not storming into Gotham Mall armed like a tiny assassin.”
“Brown.”
“No.”
Damian’s eye twitches faintly in annoyance. Stephanie exhales sharply through her nose before finally relenting a little.
“…Fine,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m coming with you.”
Damian raises an eyebrow.
“And only if you put the blade away,” Stephanie continues immediately. “Because contrary to whatever assassin upbringing you had, security will call someone if they catch you carrying that thing through a literal shopping mall.”
Damian looks deeply dissatisfied by this compromise.
“And,” Stephanie adds quickly before he can argue, “someone clearly needs to make sure you don’t overreact when you see (Name) and Conner together.”
Damian scoffs. “I do not overreact.”
Stephanie gives him the flattest look imaginable.
“You were two seconds away from hunting Superboy for sport.”
“…Irrelevant.”
“Also,” Stephanie mutters mostly to herself now, already heading after him, “apparently I need to make sure Tim doesn’t lose his mind too, seeing how he’s literally speeding there already.”
Because wow.
Whatever weird thing was going on between you, Tim, Damian, and now somehow, Conner Kent?
It was definitely becoming everybody else’s problem. Hers too, apparently.
“Seriously, can’t people come up with more creative names for malls around here? Gotham Mall is such a lazy name.”
Somehow, against all odds, you’ve managed to end up in this predicament.
Kon had dragged—well technically, flown you all the way here under the excuse of “having fun”, because apparently you looked like someone who forgot how to.
Which was ridiculous. You absolutely knew how to have fun. …Probably.
Still, somehow, Kon had spent the last hour making sure you’d seen practically every corner of the mall imaginable.
Honestly, you were starting to suspect he just enjoyed dragging you around to random places for the sake of watching your reactions. And now, you’ve ended up inside one of Gotham’s ridiculously high-end clothing stores.
Entirely because you physically refused to let Kon continue walking around in that poor Bat Burger employee’s clothes.
Seriously.
That guy definitely did not get paid enough to experience whatever the hell that was earlier. You’re definitely making Kon apologises to him tomorrow. Assuming the employee still worked there, at least.
Because honestly? You genuinely would not be surprised if the guy quit immediately after getting borderline kidnapped by Superboy after his shift.
Which, now that you think about it, feels like something that should probably violate at least several workplace safety laws. (Because wasn’t he supposed to be one of the good guys?)
“You’re thinking really hard over there.”
Your eyes flick upward from where you’re leaning against one of the walls, only to see Kon stepping out from the fitting room wearing a dark red jacket over a dark grey shirt, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who technically committed clothing theft less than an hour ago.
“I’m thinking about how you probably traumatised that Bat Burger employee for life,” you reply flatly. “Poor guy’s gonna develop fight or flight responses every time he sees the Superman logo now.”
Kon snorts, glancing at himself in the mirror again before tugging lightly at the sleeve of the jacket.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”
You stare at him.
“Kon. You literally superspeed-swapped his clothes off his body.”
“Temporarily borrowed,” he corrects immediately, raising a finger like that somehow changes the situation legally. “And hey, he’ll get them back.”
“Yeah, after getting whipped around like a human ragdoll.” you say, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head slightly, arms loosely crossed like that alone proves your point.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
Kon grins at that, completely unbothered.
Which honestly should probably concern you more than it does by now. He turns toward the mirror again, tilting his head slightly as he looks himself over.
“So?” he asks casually. “How do I look?”
You glance up at him briefly.
Unfortunately, annoyingly, the outfit actually suits him. Not in a subtle way either—he’s got that effortless kind of confidence that makes even questionable fashion choices look intentional. He’s got taste. Funky taste, a borderline obnoxious sense of style… and somehow it works. Because it’s Conner Kent.
And that somehwo feels unfair.
“Like every other overly confident guy in Gotham with a superiority complex,” you answer dryly, leaning back a little more against the wall.
Kon presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow, (Name).” he says, voice dripping with mock betrayal. “ And here I thought we were bonding.”
“This is bonding. I’m insulting you instead of actively trying to ditch you.”
“Aw.” Through the mirror, you catch his grin widening, bright and unbothered in a way that makes the entire exchange feel like it’s something he’s enjoying instead of tolerating. “So we are making progress.”
You deadpan immediately, because of course he’d frame it like that. It feels weird—because you know you’re probably not exactly the best company right now—but he still looks like he’s enjoying every bit of it. Like he actually wants you to be like this because it’s more… what—fun?
That thought sits a little too oddly in your chest.
“Don’t push it, Kon.” you mutter, glancing away as if the wall suddenly became very interesting, heat creeping up your neck at the realisation.
“Too late,” Kon says easily, already slipping back into the fitting room to try on another outfit.
You stare at the closed fitting room door for a second longer than necessary before exhaling quietly through your nose.
Then you drift over to one of those deliberately placed store chairs—meant for waiting customers who clearly aren’t getting out of here anytime soon—and drop into it with a small, resigned slump, letting your weight settle as you wait for Kon to inevitably emerge with yet another outfit.
Somehow, against every logical decision your brain could’ve possibly made today, you’d ended up spending an evening at Gotham Mall with Conner Kent. You’d even had to call the orphanage earlier just to let them know you wouldn’t be coming in that day.
Damn.
Kon’s emerging now, this time in a dark blue jacket, adjusting the black fingerless gloves on his hands, as he checks himself out in the mirror. Two of the female employees trail just behind him, chatting and laughing a little too easily, clearly caught in whatever gravitational pull he naturally came with.
Yup. That was his mojo apparently.
You watch as he gives a quick flex—not subtle, and absolutely intentional, before walking over toward you.
“What do you think?” he asks, completely unfazed. “This or the dark red?”
You blink at him.
“Don’t you have your little fan club over there helping you decide?” you say, nodding vaguely toward the employees still lingering a few feet behind him.
Kon shrugs, grin curling like he’s been waiting for you to say that.
“Well, maybe,” he says lightly. “But I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
He leans in just slightly, then reaches for your hand. Before you can properly react, he’s already pulling you up from your seat with effortless ease. Surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it.
“And who’s to say Gotham’s princess wouldn’t have the best taste around here?”
You let out a short, incredulous huff at that, immediately shaking your head.
“Gotham’s princess?” you repeat flatly. “What kind of title is that supposed to be?”
“You fit the criteria, don’t you?” Kon says matter-of-factly. “Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be. Safe to say you are exactly that.”
You stare at him for a second. Does he not know what shame is??
“Intimidating?” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most questionable part of his statement.
Kon nods immediately, completely serious.
“Yeah, y’know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You kinda give off this aura sometimes that says ‘leave me alone or I’ll tell you to fuck off personally.’”
Your brows furrow slightly at that. Did you really? Was that actually how people saw you? No way, right?
“That’s…” you start automatically, trying to defend yourself out of pure instinct—but the words stumble halfway through.
Because honestly? You didn’t have enough faith in yourself to believe otherwise. Maybe you really had become like that.
Closed off. Easier to keep people at arm’s length before they could misunderstand you first. Before they could make you feel like too much or not enough all over again.
“But that was before I saw who you actually were yesterday.” Kon’s words snap you cleanly out of your thoughts.
You look back at him—and there’s that stupidly easy grin again. Confident. Warm. Like he says things without overthinking whether he should.
“You’re caring,” he says simply. “With the way you are around kids. And honestly? It seems like you think you care too much about the people you care about.”
Your stomach twists slightly. He’s talking about Tim now, isn’t he? About yesterday. About the conversation he overheard.
“Isn’t that why you were trying so hard to hide this from me?”
Kon lifts something between his fingers.
Wait—Isn’t that…
Your eyes immediately dart downward toward your pockets, hands patting against them frantically before realisation hits. The Red Robin figurine. The one from the little girl at Bat Burger. It’s not there.
Which means the figurine currently dangling from Kon’s hand is very much yours.
“When did you even—”
“Why?” Kon interrupts innocently, though the grin on his face completely ruins the act. “Embarrassed after getting caught with this? Didn’t know you were secretly a Red Robin fan.”
“That’s not—!” You immediately try to snatch it back, heat rushing straight to your face as panic spikes through you.
Damn it.
Damn it, damn it, damn it—
But Kon just laughs outright, effortlessly lifting the figurine higher out of your reach like this is the funniest thing he’s experienced all week.
“Oh?” he teases. “So you do want it back?”
And that—unfortunately—makes you freeze.
Because wow.
That definitely made it look worse.
You immediately pull back, crossing your arms tightly as embarrassment crawls even further up your neck. You didn’t even want the stupid thing in the first place.
You were just embarrassed Kon found it on you and immediately jumped to conclusions.
Kon chuckles softly at your expression before finally lowering his hand and offering the figurine back despite your stubborn silence.
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice lighter this time. “You know I was joking.” His grin softens just slightly.
“Don’t go back into your shell on me now.”
You let out an exasperated sigh before finally looking at him properly again.
“You’re genuinely insufferable, you know that?”
But instead of faltering, Kon’s smug grin only widens further, like he takes that as a compliment at this point. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. And definitely won’t be the last.”
You roll your eyes at that, though the embarrassment from earlier has mostly settled now into something more manageable. Kon notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His expression eases a little after that, less teasing now as he gestures toward the Red Robin figurine still in your hand.
“Well,” he says casually, “since I’m apparently keeping another one of your secrets, I think you owe me a jacket or two.”
You deadpan instantly. “…What.”
But Kon’s already wandered off toward another rack before you can properly process that statement, flipping through clothes like he fully expects you to entertain this nonsense. You stare at him for a second before sighing dramatically.
“What am I?” you call after him. “Your sugar mommy or something?”
“Well,” Kon says, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “if you’re offering—”
You immediately raise the figurine like you’re fully prepared to launch it directly at his face.
Kon reacts on instinct, laughing as he throws both hands up in surrender. “Woah now—no need for attempted assault!”
You shake your head, lowering the figurine with a quiet scoff. Honestly, you can’t believe yourself right now.
Somehow, somewhere between getting dragged through half the mall and arguing with him over jackets, you’d apparently started… giving in.
Maybe it was because Kon tolerated you just as much as you tolerated him.
No weird expectations. No walking on eggshells around you. No carefully measured responses like he was trying to figure out the “right” version of you to talk to. He just… dealt with whatever attitude you threw at him head-on and somehow still stuck around afterward.
Weirdly enough, that made it easier to breathe around him.
“Fine, fine,” you mutter eventually, dropping back into the seat with a resigned slump. “Pick out whatever. I’ll play that role for you just this once.”
Kon practically lights up.
“Hell yeah!” The sheer excitement in his voice makes you let out a quiet, involuntary huff of amusement before you can stop yourself.
Honestly, there were definitely worse ways your father’s endless amount of money could be spent. You’ve always preferred using it on other people anyway, if it meant making them happy—even temporarily.
But suddenly, Kon points dramatically at you from across the store like he’s just realised something deeply offensive.
“You,” he says accusingly. “Why are you sitting back down?”
You blink once. “…Because I’m tired?”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” He gestures toward the clothing racks around you. “Pick something for yourself too. I can’t be the only one buying stuff here.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “So now you have a conscience.”
“Hey!” Kon protests, already grabbing several more hangers off a nearby rack. “Everyone deserves a little dress-up moment every now and then.”
He points at you again with one of the hangers dramatically.
“I better see you trying something on by the time I come back out.”
And before you can even properly argue against it, he’s already disappeared back into the fitting rooms again. You stare after him for a second before finally dropping forward, elbows resting against your knees as you bury your face in your hands with a long, exhausted exhale.
Were you seriously going to entertain him like this?
The answer apparently comes before your brain can even process it properly, because next thing you know, you’re already standing back up.
Well.
Yes, apparently you are.
You make your way toward another section of the store, aimlessly flipping through clothing racks without much thought behind it.
It’s been a while since you last shopped for yourself like this. There was a time you actually used to enjoy it.
Back then, you’d usually drag Jason along because there wasn’t really anyone else you wanted to go with. He’d complain the entire time—about the waiting, the crowds, the number of stores you insisted on checking “just in case”—but even then, he still stayed. Grudgingly. Dramatically. But he stayed.
…
Your hand shifts absentmindedly against one of the hangers before your gaze catches the faint redness along your knuckles—mostly faded now.
Damn you and your stupid sentimentality.
You groan softly under your breath, immediately forcing yourself to snap out of whatever emotional spiral your brain was threatening to crawl into. Which somehow leads to holding up a blue jacket that looks suspiciously similar to something Kon himself would wear.
You stare at it for a second longer before a quiet, helplessly fond smile slips through despite yourself.
“Ew. I didn’t know they’d let strays into this store.”
The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts.
…Oh.
You recognise that voice immediately.
You glance to your side only to see Chloe Travers standing there with her arms crossed and one hip tilted sharply, staring at you with the kind of exaggerated disgust only rich school girls seem capable of mastering.
Beside her stood her poor valet, absolutely drowning beneath an unreasonable amount of shopping bags.
Your expression immediately flattens.
And honestly?
You just blatantly ignore her.
Because no way in hell were you letting Chloe Travers of all people ruin what was somehow turning into a weirdly decent day.
Apparently, though, being ignored is the greatest offense imaginable to her.
“Wow,” Chloe continues loudly when you don’t respond. “That color is really not helping your case.”
You keep flipping through the rack.
“And that jacket?” she scoffs. “God, your taste is still so tacky.”
You finally glance at her over your shoulder.
“You done?”
Chloe gasps slightly like she genuinely can’t believe you interrupted her performance.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just asking,” you reply calmly, tone almost painfully flat. “Because if this is building up to one of your usual monologues, I’d rather prepare myself mentally first.”
That apparently offends her even more.
“You know,” Chloe snaps, folding her arms tighter, “no matter how hard you try dressing yourself up, it’s not suddenly going to make people pay attention to you. Especially not your little daddy.”
…Wow.
Way to weaponize your underlying daddy issues even outside of school.
You feel irritation spike instantly in your chest—
Only for it to abruptly stall when an arm suddenly hooks itself casually around your shoulders, pulling you slightly sideways into someone’s side.
You blink in surprise before glancing up.
Kon. Somehow now wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute menace he is.
He pushes them down slightly along the bridge of his nose, peering over them toward Chloe.
“Oh wow,” he says lightly, “and here I thought Gotham people were supposed to be nicer than Metropolis people.”
Where the heck did he even get that idea from??
You fully expect Chloe to get even more annoyed after that. But when no immediate insult follows, you glance back toward her—and holy shit.
Chloe looks completely entranced.
Right. You almost forgot.
Kon is, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Like—offensively so. He has that effect on people.
Chloe’s entire demeanor visibly shifts in real time, expression smoothing out almost instantly as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, voice noticeably sweeter now. “I didn’t realise you were with someone.”
You stare at her in disbelief.
No way. There is absolutely no way she switched sides that fast.
Meanwhile, Chloe’s already leaning slightly closer toward Kon, posture shifting entirely as she offers him a polished smile like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes insulting your existence.
“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” she asks smoothly. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing you around.”
Kon tilts his head slightly behind his sunglasses. “Damn,” he says casually. “That sounds either really flattering or really threatening.”
Chloe lets out a light laugh a little too quickly. “Maybe both.”
You physically feel your soul leave your body a little. And somehow, Chloe continues talking like you’re not even standing there anymore.
“You seriously came shopping here?” she asks him, glancing around dramatically. “You should try somewhere downtown instead. This place is kind of…”
Her eyes flick briefly toward you. “…tacky.”
Ah.
There it is.
You were wondering how long it’d take before she circled back to insulting you indirectly again. But instead of feeding into the flirting like you expected him to, Kon just casually talks right over her.
“Fortunately, seems like I like tacky.” He turns his attention fully back toward you like Chloe’s suddenly become background noise. “Hey, do you think this blue looks better or the red?”
Chloe visibly falters for half a second.
“What?”
“The jackets,” Kon says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m letting Gotham’s resident fashion expert decide.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t drag me into your poor financial decisions.” You muttered out, averting your eyes.
“Too late. You’re already emotionally invested.”
Chloe’s smile strains slightly now.
“Well,” she says, trying to slide herself back into the conversation, “if you’re looking for actual fashion advice, I could probably help more than—”
“Nah.” His words cut straight through her sentence anyway. Kon gestures toward you with complete confidence.
“I trust her taste more.”
The silence afterward is painful. Chloe’s expression tightens immediately. “Seriously?” she says with a short, disbelieving laugh. “Her?”
You can practically hear the judgment dripping off the word.
“I mean, no offense, but she literally looks like she picked her outfit based on whatever was lying on her floor this morning.”
…Okay.
Rude. But she wasn’t that off—
You open your mouth automatically, fully prepared to snap back. But Kon beats you to it.
“And somehow,” he says bluntly, “she still dresses better than whatever rich mean girl cosplay you’ve got going on right now.”
Silence. Complete silence. Even you stare at him for a second in shock.
Because wow.
That was vicious.
Chloe looks genuinely offended now, eyes widening slightly like nobody’s ever spoken to her like that before in her life. Kon, meanwhile, doesn’t even look remotely bothered.
If anything, he just seems mildly unimpressed.
His arm slips from your shoulders then, hand sliding naturally down until his fingers curl loosely around yours instead.
Gentle. Easy. Completely at odds with the absolute verbal destruction he just unleashed two seconds ago.
“C’mon,” he says lightly, already tugging you away with him. “I think we’ve reached today’s limit for brain damage.”
You’re still halfway processing what just happened as he leads you farther down the store, leaving Chloe standing there looking utterly scandalized behind you.
A tiny part of you almost feels bad. Almost. But it seems like she wasn’t done yet.
“Hey—you don’t just—!” Chloe starts somewhere behind you, clearly not finished with whatever social war she was trying to wage—
“There you are, (Name)!”
…Huh?
You blink immediately, turning toward the new, familiar voice—and freeze.
Stephanie.
She’s calling out to you with the kind of casual familiarity that makes it sound like you two were longtime friends meeting up at the mall on purpose.
Which is alarming already. But then your eyes shift slightly past her—
And you physically feel your soul begin leaving your body.
Damian is storming toward you at concerning speeds—wearing one of those fake sunglasses with a moustache disguises that absolutely nobody over the age of five should be taking seriously.
And right behind him—Tim.
Oh my god.
What in the actual intervention is this? Where the hell did those three even come from?!
Your brain immediately starts trying to piece together the situation in real time. Meanwhile, beside you, Kon goes suspiciously still.
“…Uh oh,” he says quietly.
You slowly turn toward him.
“Uh oh?” you repeat. “What do you mean uh oh?”
Kon subtly jerks his head toward the chaos rapidly approaching behind you.
“Pretty sure your brother’s about to murder me in a Forever 21.”
“That’s your takeaway from this?!?” you whisper-shout, immediately face-palming.
From across the mall, tucked into the seating area outside one of the cafes nearby, three highly trained vigilantes were currently conducting what was, objectively speaking, the stupidest surveillance mission Gotham had probably ever seen.
Which was apparently watching you shop with Conner Kent. Or more accurately—watching Kon drag you all over Gotham Mall while you tolerated him with steadily decreasing resistance.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Stephanie mutters under her breath, hiding half her face behind one of the laminated café menus. She points dramatically across the table toward Damian.
“First of all, we probably look insane right now.”
Damian barely reacts, arms crossed tightly as he stares across the mall with intense focus beneath the ridiculous fake disguise he was wearing—the oversized sunglasses attached to a plastic moustache.
“Second of all—where the hell did you even get that thing?!”
Damian doesn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was a gift.”
“From who?”
Damian refuses to elaborate further. Which only makes it worse. He continues staring outward toward the clothing store where Kon had just disappeared into another fitting room while dragging you along with him.
Stephanie groans loudly before turning toward Tim for support, gesturing pointedly at Damian like please say something about this.
Tim only sighs tiredly into his drink. Which tells Stephanie absolutely nothing except the fact that he, too, has apparently committed himself fully to whatever this situation is now.
Honestly, both of them looked like idiots.
Stephanie watches the two of them silently track your movements through the store windows and realises with dawning horror that these idiots are genuinely too far gone to be self-aware anymore.
“Seriously,” she says slowly, lowering the menu. “Even though I love a good stakeout… why are we spying on their date?”
“It’s not a date.”
The response comes instantly. Simultaneously.
And Stephanie blinks in disbelief, because both Damian and Tim had said it at the exact same time. She stares at them flatly.
“…I’m actually surrounded by morons.”
Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.
“That Kryptonian is growing excessively touchy with (Name).”
Stephanie rolls her eyes automatically, but Tim’s gaze shifts back toward the store anyway. Toward the exact moment Kon casually grabs your hand to pull you back onto your feet. Toward the way he leans too close into your space afterward, grinning at something you say.
Tim’s jaw tightens slightly before he even realises it.
Because the annoying thing is… you don’t actually look upset.
Embarrassed sometimes? Sure. Exasperated? Definitely. But not uncomfortable.
Which, for some reason, is what sticks.
Then Kon pulls something out, holding it right in front of you. Something bright, obnoxiously red. Tim squints slightly.
Wait.
Is that… supposed to be him? Or well—Red Robin??
And then he watches you reach for it—only for Kon to lift it just slightly out of reach, laughing.
What.
“Tt.” Damian scoffs beside him. “Why would she even want that thing. Clearly a Robin one is far better than whatever that is.”
Oh.
Tim glances over at the boy. Is he… sulking?
Before he can even process that, Damian is already pointing at him like he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“Don’t misunderstand her, Drake. She is likely intending to give it to that Elliot child.”
Ah. Elliot…
Right. The kid from the orphanage you’d seemed to gorw unexpectedly fond of.
Tim’s gaze flickers back toward you again. So it wasn’t for you. That makes sense. That’s… fine. That much was expected.
Still, there’s that brief, irrational thought that comes to his head before he can stop it. Did he really just let himself get even a little hopeful over something like that?
He pushes it down immediately. Because, objectively, nothing had been confirmed. You weren’t even necessarily getting it for the kid. It could’ve meant nothing at all.
“…Maybe not,” Tim says at last, voice even.
Damian’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s almost comical.
But whatever argument was about to happen gets cut off immediately.
“Okay, wait” Stephanie says, leaning forward, “who even is Elliot?”
Both boys go silent. Which is never a good sign.
Stephanie stares between them, offended. “What the heck you guys? I didn’t come all the way out here just to be left out of the loop.”
Damian crosses his arms. “No one invited you here, Brown.”
“Oh yeah?” she shoots back instantly. “Like how (Name) invited you to spy on her? Oh wait—she didn’t.”
That earns her exactly what she wants. Damian going momentarily silent, jaw tightening as if he’s actively reconsidering every life choice that led him to this cafe table.
Stephanie doesn’t waste the opening. Her gaze snaps to Tim instead. He exhales, like he’s already tired of all of this. “Elliot’s a kid (Name) met at an orphanage.”
Stephanie raises an eyebrow, gesturing to Damian now. “What—the orphanage you were looking up earlier?”
This time, Tim turns slowly toward Damian. “You were searching up the orphanage? What for?”
Damian doesn’t answer.
Stephanie, unfortunately, does it for him. “Apparently—.”
”Brown.”
“(Name)’s been wary of the warden there.”
What.
That pulls the air out of the moment. Tim’s focus shifts instantly—something colder threading through the confusion.
Wary.
So that’s what this is about. That’s why you started going to the orphanage in the first place.
But what exactly, were you wary of about the warden?
The question settles in his chest and doesn’t quite leave. It sits there, uneasy and persistent, like a detail he should have already noticed but somehow hasn’t.
Tim’s gaze lingers a second too long on the store front before he makes a quiet decision of his own. He’ll look into the orphanage later.
His gaze returns to you without thinking.
Kon has disappeared back into the fitting room again. You’ve sunk briefly into your seat, shoulders loose—then stood again, drifting toward another rack like you’re moving on autopilot. Aimlessly checking out the clothes.
But then Tim notices it. The shift.
Your body language changes subtly—just enough that it catches his attention. A fraction slower in your movements, a slight dip in your posture.
You look… a little sad.
And it doesn’t make sense.
Why?
What changed? What thought slipped in just now that pulled that expression out of you?
Tim’s mind starts working before he can stop it, turning over possibilities, trying to find out the cause like it’s an immediate problem that needs solving. And the worst part is how easily it spirals—how quickly it stops being just observation and starts feeling like concern he can’t quite place a reason for.
Why is his brain doing this to him?
But then he sees you pick up a certain blue jacket, something in your expression softening—almost fond. For a second, it looks like whatever had weighed on you earlier just… disappears.
Like it was never there at all.
The moment was short lived though as this blonde girl walks up to you.
“Now who the heck is that?” Stephanie whispers under her breath, leaning forward slightly as she watches the exchange unfold.
The girl says something to you—too quiet to fully hear over the cafe noise—but your expression shifts almost immediately. A slight frown. Tim notices it instantly.
The change in your stance. The way your shoulders tighten. The way you look away instead of directly engaging.
Then fragments of the girl’s words drift through—broken by distance, swallowed by background chatter.
“…not… going to… pay attention…not… daddy…”
What?
Stephanie lets out a low groan. “Ugh. Should’ve known she was going to be one of those mean girls from the way she strutted in.” She pushes back her chair.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Damian snaps at her. Stephanie doesn’t even look back. She gestures sharply toward you instead. “Duh. Are you seriously going to sit there while that bitch is talking to (Name) like that?”
Tim doesn’t respond. Because his attention has already shifted back to you. And he freezes.
Because Kon has appeared again. His arm slides across your shoulders—casual and effortless, pulling you slightly into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something in Tim’s chest tightens before he can name it.
And beside him, Damian is already on his feet. He’s storming out of the cafe, following after Stephanie. Straight toward you without a second thought.
But Tim’s quick to follow after them.
Stephanie is the first one to reach you—cutting through the small knot of tension forming in the store. She doesn’t even hesitate before rudely shouldering past Chloe on her way in.
“Hey—!” Chloe snaps, whirling around immediately, offended. She looks ready to fire something cutting back, but Damian is right behind Stephanie and does not bother with diplomacy.
He doesn’t shove her. It’s worse.
A sharp, precise hit to her ribs with the back of his hand that makes her gasp mid-sentence.
“Watch yourself,” Damian says flatly, already moving past her like she’s not worth more than a passing obstacle. Chloe opens her mouth again, fully prepared to escalate—until she sees Tim.
“Oh..! Tim Drake?”
Her entire expression flips in an instant. The irritation melts into practiced charm, shoulders straightening, voice going syrup-sweet.
“I’m Chloe Travers,” she says, stepping forward as if the previous confrontation never happened. “I’m sure you know my father—”
Tim walks straight past her. Chloe freezes mid-introduction. Tim doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of you instead.
For a second, he seems like he’s hesitating—like the words he wanted to say felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
“…Are you alright?”
It comes out slightly awkward. Careful. Not quite like the Red Robin or Tim Drake you knew. Not exactly.
What the fuck.
Behind you, you feel Kon’s hand suddenly get smacked away—Damian clearly not appreciating the contact anymore. Kon lets out a quiet, betrayed “ow” and—to his credit, actually releases your hand without argument.
Stephanie hovers near Tim’s side, close enough that it looks like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to intervene or just… observe. Her expression is something of.. concern? Worry?
Even Damian, who was usually allergic to emotional ambiguity—is watching you now, still tense, still ready to act.
It’s… weird. All of it.
You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of the attention pinned on you.
“I—uh,” you say, glancing away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
It sounds weaker than you intend. More embarrassing than anything else.
And then Chloe clears her throat loudly. Very loudly. Like she’s demanding the entire scene reset itself around her presence.
Every head turns sharply back toward her.
Chloe straightens immediately, smoothing her posture, already back in control of her tone as she clasps her hands in front of her.
“As I was saying,” she continues, eyes fixed on Tim now, “I’m sure you know my father. I’m also sure he’d be very pleased if we got to know each other—”
“And why’s that?” Tim cuts in.
His voice is unexpectedly firm. Clean-edged. Not unkind, but not indulgent either.
It makes Chloe falter for half a beat. And somehow that makes you want to laugh despite every reason not to right now.
”Sweetheart? What are you doing here?”
The voice—for some reason, suddenly sends a chill down your spine before you even look up.
A tall man approaches, composed and polished in that effortless way that suggests he’s used to being listened to.
Chloe brightens instantly.
“Dad!”
He places a hand on her shoulder before looking over all of you.
“Now, now,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene when you go out?”
Then, as if nothing happened at all, he continues smoothly, “Ah—allow me to introduce myself. Wilson Travers. My apologies if my daughter has been… a little difficult.”
“A little?” Damian repeats immediately, scoffing.
Stephanie, faster than him, reaches over and physically clamps a hand over his mouth with a tight, apologetic smile aimed at Wilson like please do not take him seriously under any circumstances.
Mr. Travers just smiles politely in return, unbothered. Then his gaze shifts, landing on you. Something in his expression softens immediately.
“Ah,” he says, a gentler tone slipping in. “It’s been a while, (Name). I hope you’ve been doing well.”
Right. You know him.
A presence that once felt reassuring in a way you didn’t question at the time.
So why does your body react like this now?
That same instinct. That same quiet, crawling alarm in your chest—the same one that flickered whenever you were around… Mrs. Cole.
Your throat tightens before you even understand why. Still, you manage a small smile.
“Yes. I have.”
But even as the words leave your mouth—you can’t shake the feeling that something here is wrong.
Mr. Travers doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already guiding Chloe away with a practiced ease, tone smoothing itself out as he adds, “Once again, I apologise for my daughter. We’ll be on our way now.”
Over his shoulder, Chloe shoots you one last look—sharp, deliberate, promising that this isn’t finished.
You don’t really feel threatened by it. Not in the way you probably should. Instead, your attention lingers on something else entirely.
Because this feeling—it’s familiar in a way you don’t like. The same uneasy, instinctive alarm that had flickered when you met Mrs. Cole’s. And now it’s here again.
With Mr. Travers.
“So… are we going to talk about anything or are we just going to brood and walk.” Kon is seriously not helping the situation here at all.
You’ve long since left the store, but somehow the group has just… stayed intact, wandering aimlessly through the mall. This is stupid.
Damian walks between you and Kon like some guard dog, whereas Tim is on Kon’s other side, with Stephanie trailing slightly closer to Tim.
Damian suddenly points at you.
“You,” he says sharply. “Why were you associating with this fool?”
Ah. So the interrogation begins…
“In my defense,” you say flatly, “this guy picked me up.”
Kon turns to you instantly, looking personally betrayed. “Hey—come on,” he protests. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy my company.”
You did. Unfortunately. Admitting that out loud, however, feels like voluntary self-sabotage, so you just shrug instead.
Which apparently is enough confirmation for Damian to immediately lose interest in you entirely and go chase after Kon for reasons only Damian Wayne and Conner Kent understood.
Kon, to his credit, runs.
And just like that, you’re left behind. With Tim. And Stephanie. The sudden drop in noise is immediate. The mall feels louder for it somehow, even though nothing has changed. You glance between them.
Yeah. This is definitely worse.
You think back to earlier—Stephanie’s expression when she looked at you. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not after everything that’s happened between you two.
And yet it does. Because despite everything… she still looked concerned. Still looked like she genuinely cared. That alone tugs at something uncomfortable in your chest.
Even if, yes, she also kind of spied on you with Damian and Tim.
…Yeah. That detail does not help.
You exhale through your nose, then turn your attention to Tim.
“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice coming out sharper than intended.
Tim freezes. You see it immediately—the way his posture stills, the way his eyes lift to yours like he’s trying to read you before he answers, carefully sorting through every possible response that won’t make this worse. But you don’t let him find one.
“And don’t say it’s a coincidence. Kon already told me you were on patrol.”
That lands. You can tell by the way Tim runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in a quiet, frustrated motion—like he’s been caught out and hates that he has.
“I was just—” he starts, then stops. “I was just worried, okay?”
“Worried?” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “About what—me hanging out with Kon?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks away, like the answer he needs just isn’t sitting in any of the usual places. And it frustrates you more than it should.
Dammit, Tim. Just say something. Anything.
Something that would settle the noise in your head. Something that would make sense of everything that’s happened between you and him. EVerything that led to this moment.
You wanted—no, needed him to say something that proves to you that he actually cares.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because no matter what he says—or doesn’t say, no matter how carefully he phrases it… is there even a version of this that fixes everything? A definitive answer that straightens out all the misunderstandings, all the half-spoken thoughts, all the things that have been said and have been left unsaid for too long?
Because it feels like there isn’t. And that realisation sits there, heavy and unresolved, right between you both.
You let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Because honestly? You just want this day to be over.
One bad conversation with Jason already feels like more than enough. Helena’s blunt honesty and Kon’s chaotic presence had helped—somehow—like a temporary distraction from everything sitting too heavy in your chest. But it only just gave way for something else. With Tim.
And you don’t want that. You really don’t.
You don’t want to turn this into another problem between you and him. You’ve had enough of those already—too many unresolved edges, too many things left hanging in the air until they start to rot.
Especially not like this.
Not with the way he’s looking at you right now. Like this isn’t just affecting you.
Like it’s hurting him too.
And that thought, more than anything else, makes everything feel worse than it already is.
“Never mind,” you mutter. “Forget I said that. I don’t even want to know the answer.” You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a hand catches yours.
Stephanie stands there, grip gentle but firm, like she’s decided she’s not letting this end the way it feels like it’s about to. Her expression is serious now. Less… defensive. Just honest.
“Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re probably pissed at us for spying on you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want you walking away thinking that’s all this was—”
“No,” you interject, letting out a tired sigh as your free hand drags across your face. The one Stephanie is still holding stays there. Warm, grounding in a way you don’t really want to think about too much.
“I mean… I wasn’t really pissed,” you admit. “More like… in disbelief.” You glance back at her, the words catching slightly in your throat before you force them out anyway.
“And… thank you,” you add, quieter now. “For stepping in earlier. Even though we’re not exactly—well... friends. You still chose to help me back there.”
Stephanie visibly blinks at that, like the words don’t quite compute at first. Shocked. Caught off guard.
Which, honestly, makes sense. You can’t really blame her for it.
Because you remember this period of your life too clearly—the way you’d been around her. Defensive. Sometimes outright unfair in a way that sits a little uncomfortable in hindsight now.
Not because she deserved it. She didn’t. She definitely didn’t. She didn’t deserve half the attitude you gave her.
But despite all that, she still chose to step in. She really is a good person. Unlike you.
The tension snaps the moment Damian reappears—already dragging Kon back by the collar like he’s somehow concluded a full fight off-screen. You’re not even sure if Kon resisted or if he just… let it happen at this point.
“…Let’s go,” Damian says flatly, eyes flicking between you, Stephanie, and Tim, who’s still hovering slightly to the side like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to exist in all this. He doesn’t elaborate further.
Kon, of course, immediately ruins the attempt at a clean exit.
He straightens up like nothing happened, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity. “Excuse you,” he says, pointing vaguely in Damian’s direction. “I haven’t finished commemorating my day out with (Name).”
You raise a brow at that. Commemorating?
Before you can even question it, Kon suddenly grabs both you and Tim. One hand on each of you.
“Wait—what are you—” Before you can question him, he moves.
There’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift in gravity, and Kon bolts off at impossible speed, dragging both of you along with him.
You vaguely hear Damian shouting behind you, voice sharp with outrage as he takes off in pursuit—but it fades quickly, swallowed by wind and movement and the sheer absurdity of what’s happening.
When everything finally stops, you’re standing outside a… photobooth store? Kon looks far too pleased with himself, as he turns to you now.
”I’m sure you know what a photobooth is, (Name). Unless..?”
You click your tongue immediately. “Of course I do.”
Your gaze drifts toward the rows of brightly lit booths before flicking back to him. “This is your way of commemorating today?”
“Why not?”
Dammit. He answers way too fast for someone who definitely improvised this entire plan three seconds ago.
Before you can say anything else, Kon steps into one of the empty booths and grabs your hand again to tug you inside with him. You glance back just in time to see Tim about to follow after you both.
Only for Kon to abruptly hold a hand out toward him.
“Ah-ahh, Tim. You’re standing guard.”
Tim blinks. “…What?”
“You know,” Kon says easily, already pulling the curtain halfway closed, “making sure Damian doesn’t storm in and photobomb us.” Then he points dramatically toward the outside.
“You can have your turn after me.”
And with that, he shuts the curtain directly in Tim’s face. You let out a half-amused laugh at that scene, shaking your head.
“Kicking your best friend out?” you ask. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“Well,” Kon says dramatically, “serves him right for spying on us in the first place. Guy clearly couldn’t handle leaving me alone with you.” He sighs like he’s personally suffered today before immediately perking back up and reaching for the pile of photobooth props. Within seconds, he’s shoved a pair of sparkly star-shaped sunglasses onto his face.
“Come on,” he says, hitting the start button on the machine. “Pose and smile.”
Then he points at himself proudly.
“Do I look good?”
He strikes the most unserious pose imaginable. You stare at him for exactly one second before laughing under your breath in disbelief.
“You look ridiculous.”
Which, apparently, is the correct answer because Kon’s grin only widens.
“That’s the point.”
The countdown begins flashing on the screen.
Kon immediately grabs another prop—a plush cat-ear headband—and before you can stop him, he carefully places it on your head himself. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Perfect.”
You deadpan at him. Meanwhile, Kon’s already cycling through all the props, somehow making every single one look weirdly natural on him. Then he suddenly looks at you again, expression softer beneath all the theatrics.
“Now remember this day,” he says dramatically. “The day Conner—Kon-El—Kent brought you out to have fun.”
“Even though he used me for my money?” you ask, raising a brow.
Kon gasps like you’ve deeply wounded him.
“I prefer the term that you willingly embraced your role as my sugar mommy for the day.” he says, leaning closer.
You immediately point a threatening finger at him.
“Never say those words again. Ever.” But there’s already a smile tugging at your mouth anyway as the camera flashes.
And honestly?
Maybe today really wasn’t that bad after all.
The timing, unfortunately, betrays you.
Because the second the photostrip finishes printing, the curtain violently gets pulled open.
Damian appears.
Kon barely even has time to react before Damian physically yanks him out of the booth by the sleeve, sending the Kryptonian stumbling backward with an offended yelp.
Damian immediately slides into the empty seat beside you like this was always his rightful place. You blink at him, equal parts amused and confused.
“…What’s this?”
“Tt.” Damian completely ignores the question, already leaning forward to rummage through the prop basket. A second later, he straightens back up—with a ridiculous frog headband now sitting atop his head.
“You cannot seriously allow that imbecile to be the only one taking photographs with you.” he says stiffly, adjusting the headband like this is a matter of pride and dignity.
You stare at him for a long second. Then your mouth curls despite yourself.
“Just admit you wanted a pic with me too, Damian.”
“As if,” Damian says instantly, refusing to look at you even once.
Which honestly tells you everything you need to know.
Outside the booth, Kon presses a hand dramatically to his chest.
“I’m being replaced in real time,” he says mournfully.
“You were never occupying the position to begin with.” Damian replies without missing a beat.
“I definitely was if you had to literally throw me out.”
“And I should do it again.”
Before Kon can launch himself back into the booth, another face suddenly appears between the curtains.
“Well,” Stephanie says, peeking in with blatant curiosity, “can’t we all?” And before Damian can object properly, she’s already squeezing herself into the booth beside you. Damian immediately points at her like an outraged prosecutor.
“Get out, Brown.”
“No thanks,” Stephanie says, completely ignoring him and picking up a headband herself.
Safe to say—you end up taking a lot of pictures. With everyone.
finally done omfg… (lowk had to push back a few scenes to part 4 so… 😟🫡) 16k words chapter here… might kms if there’s typos lmfao 💀 unfortunately not as angsty as i would have liked it to be but oh well 🤣🤣 hopefully yall enjoy this…. also new character alert! (he’s an oc, not a dc character…)
She woke up early, not because she needed to, but because her mind refused to stay quiet past a certain point, already turning over unfinished threads from the night before, already reaching for feeds and data before she was fully out of bed.
Coffee came first, always. Though it often sat untouched for longer than it should as she worked, fingers moving across keys with practiced ease, pulling up reports from the night shift, cross-referencing incidents, scanning for inconsistencies that others might overlook.
She couldn’t even ignore them if she wanted to. Information came to her constantly, most she pulled out of habit more than necessity sometimes, because staying informed had long since stopped being a choice and started becoming instinct.
There was always something to fix. Something to monitor.
Something that needed her attention.
Even if she wasn’t out there physically anymore, Barbara still moved through Gotham in her own way, through screens and systems that bent just enough under her hands to give her access where others didn’t have it.
Gotham never really slept, and neither did the systems that kept track of it.
And, by extension, neither did she.
There was a kind of comfort in that.
Not a pleasant one, not something she would ever describe as good, but something familiar. Controlled. Predictable. Safe, in a way she didn’t always like to acknowledge.
It gave her structure. Kept her from thinking too hard about the things she couldn’t change, even if she wanted to.
By midday, she had forced herself out.
Not for anything major.
Just the usual—checking in on things that didn’t require a screen, picking up small things she could’ve easily ordered instead, moving through the city in a way that reminded her she was still part of it beyond wires and data. A quiet check-in at the precinct, more out of habit than necessity, exchanging a few words with familiar faces who had long since stopped treating her presence as unusual.
Normal.
Or at least something close enough to pass.
It grounded her. Reminded her of the reason why she does what she does.
After that, she stopped by a cafe, though she couldn’t say she remembered much about it. The drink had been decent, she thinks—warm enough to serve its purpose at least.
It should have ended there.
Just another stop in a day that had followed its usual rhythm.
But before she even fully registers it—before she can pinpoint the exact moment her route shifts from familiar to something else, Barbara finds herself here.
Narrows Children’s Home.
The very orphanage you’d been going to.
Again and again.
For the past few days, after your lessons ended, instead of heading straight back to Wayne Manor like you always had, you came here instead.
It wasn’t that Barbara had meant to track you. Not intentionally. It was just… hard to ignore.
She hadn’t actively kept tabs on your movements in a long time—not like she used to, not like she could have if she’d allowed herself to—but that didn’t mean she’d stopped noticing when something was off. And lately, something was.
Your behavior had shifted too suddenly to dismiss. The way you quit being Batgirl without warning, without explanation, without any of the signs that should have led up to a decision like that. It left too many loose ends. Too many questions.
And Barbara had never been good at leaving things like that alone.
So no, she hadn’t been tracking you.
But she had been paying attention.
Something she should’ve been doing from the moment she took you under her wing. From the moment you chose to be Batgirl.
Barbara knew very well that old habits don’t just… disappear because you want them to. She knew that better than most—she had seen it happen, over and over again, in the people she knew and cared about. Bruce, Dick, Dinah, Cassandra, Stephanie…. You.
Which was exactly why she knew something was off now.
The change hadn’t been gradual. It hadn’t been something she could trace back to a slow buildup of events, something that made sense when laid out piece by piece. It had been abrupt. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped overnight.
It was like you weren’t the same girl anymore. Not the one who would take whatever patrol came your way without hesitation, who would throw yourself into whatever situation needed handling, no matter how messy or unpredictable it got. You had always been… persistent, in your own way. Stubborn, even. Willing to push past your limits just to prove that you could.
To prove that you belonged.
Though to who? Barbara wasn’t entirely sure anymore.
And maybe—maybe—she could have written it off. Said it was the weight of everything finally catching up to you, incident after incident piling on until something in you gave way.
That would have been the easy explanation. The convenient one. But it didn’t sit right.
Because you had been so adamant. So insistent on staying, on pushing forward, on proving something even when it cost you more than it should have.
So why now?
Why, when Gotham had finally settled into something resembling calm—calm, at least by Gotham’s standards—would you choose to walk away?
The thought lingers longer than she likes.
Because it makes her uncomfortable. Because it makes her feel like she’s missing something she should have already caught.
Barbara exhales slowly, her fingers shifting against the wheels of her chair.
It feels hypocritical.
No—she is a hypocrite.
She had been the one telling Stephanie to give you space. Telling Dick not to push, not to corner you into a conversation you clearly weren’t ready to have. That at the end of the day, that decision was yours, and they had no right to press you on it, no matter how much they wanted answers.
She had no right to press you on it.
And yet, here she was.
Right outside a place she has no real reason to be at, drawn here by subconscious thoughts despite telling everyone else to leave this alone.
As if, on some level, she had already decided that it wasn’t enough.
As if she wanted more than distance. More than silence.
A real conversation.
Not… whatever that had been at the cafe.
Barbara’s expression tightens faintly at the memory, something sharper cutting through her thoughts.
That had been a mistake. A careless one.
She shouldn’t have let herself get carried away like that, shouldn’t have assumed she could… bridge a gap that clearly hadn’t been ready to close. Inviting Dick without telling you first? Without even giving you the chance to decide if you wanted that kind of conversation? That had been shortsighted on her part.
She should have known better.
There were still things left unresolved between the two of you. Tension that hadn’t been dealt with, feelings that had been left to sit and harden after everything that happened when Bruce was lost in the timestream and Dick had to step into a role neither of you were fully prepared for.
Barbara knew that.
She just… hadn’t accounted for how deep it still ran.
She exhales quietly, her shoulders easing just slightly as her gaze lifts back to the building in front of her.
The orphanage stands there, unassuming in the way places like this often are when they’ve managed to survive Gotham long enough to become something steady. The grass field out front is neatly trimmed, the kind of careful upkeep that doesn’t happen by accident, and the exterior of the building is clean, well maintained in a way that suggests effort rather than abundance.
Her eyes drift further, settling on the children scattered across the yard.
They’re running, laughing, chasing each other in uneven circles, their voices carrying faintly through the air. There’s a lightness to it—something unguarded, something easy. A few caretakers stand nearby, watchful but not overbearing, stepping in only when needed, letting the children exist without hovering too closely.
Normal.
Or at least, as close to normal as Gotham ever allows.
Barbara watches for a moment longer than she means to.
And a thought slips in, quiet but persistent.
Was that why you were drawn to a place like this?
Because outside of Gotham’s grit—the dirt and the crime and the constant weight of everything pressing down on it—this felt like something else entirely?
A haven.
A reprieve.
She almost calls it a distraction, but the word feels wrong the second it forms, too dismissive for something that looks like this.
No—this was something steadier than that.
Something grounding.
A reminder, maybe, that outside of the masks and the patrols and the endless cycle of violence, there was still something resembling normalcy left in this city, fragile as it might be. Gotham had been through worse and still managed to stand back up again. After the earthquake, after being cut off and declared a no man’s land, after everything that should have broken it beyond repair—it endured.
Rebuilt.
Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough.
Barbara exhales again, softer this time, her fingers shifting lightly against the wheels of her chair.
She’s overthinking this.
She knows she is.
Reading into something that might not be as complicated as she’s making it out to be, projecting questions onto something that doesn’t necessarily have answers waiting for her.
And you? You hadn’t asked for any of this.
Her gaze dips briefly before lifting again.
She should go.
Before she runs into you and turns this into something else entirely. Another misunderstanding. Another conversation that goes wrong before it even has the chance to start.
Barbara begins to turn her chair, the motion slow and deliberate, when—
“Ms. Gordon?”
The voice catches her mid-movement.
She pauses, and turns slightly, her brows drawing together just a fraction as she looks toward the source.
An older woman stands a few steps away, her presence quiet but assured. Silver hair is neatly tied back into a bun, a soft cardigan draped over her shoulders, paired with a long skirt that moves gently with the breeze. Her gray eyes are warm, attentive, settled on Barbara with a familiarity that suggests recognition rather than curiosity.
“Ah, so it is you,” she says, her voice gentle but certain. “I’m Mrs. Cole. Margaret Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She extends a hand.
Barbara hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking it, returning the handshake with a polite nod. “Barbara Gordon. Likewise.”
“Leslie told me about you. We’re old acquaintances, she and I.”
Barbara exhales softly through her nose, something in her posture easing just a little at the mention.
Of course.
Leslie Thompkins had a way of being everywhere that mattered without ever making it feel intrusive. A constant, steady presence in Gotham, connected to more people than most would ever realise.
Mrs. Cole tilts her head slightly, her expression open, inviting.
“Would you like to come in for some tea?” she asks. “I’d enjoy the company, if you have the time.”
Barbara’s fingers rest lightly against her wheels again, her gaze flicking briefly past the woman, toward the orphanage behind her.
Toward the place you’ve been returning to.
Again and again.
For a moment, she considers declining. Going away like she intended. Leaving this alone, like she told everyone else to.
But then, her attention shifts back to Mrs. Cole. And something in her pauses.
“…Alright,” Barbara says after a beat, quieter now, but certain enough.
Just this once.
Barbara now finds herself seated inside Mrs. Cole’s office, looking around.
It’s… modest.
Not in a lacking way, but in a deliberate one. The kind of space that’s been built over time rather than decorated all at once. Shelves lined with books that look well used. A few framed drawings—clearly done by children—hung a little unevenly along the walls. A desk pushed neatly to the side, papers stacked in a way that suggests order without rigidity.
Lived-in.
Barbara’s gaze lingers for a moment, taking it all in, before it shifts back to Mrs. Cole just as she returns with a tray of tea.
She sets it down with practiced ease, the faint clink of porcelain filling the otherwise quiet room as she takes a seat opposite Barbara on the couch.
Barbara watches as she pours.
One cup.
Then another.
“Thank you,” Barbara says, her voice even as she reaches forward to take it, the warmth seeping into her hands almost immediately. She brings it up for a small sip. Chamomile, it seems. Softened with a hint of honey.
Gentle. Calming. The kind of tea meant to settle nerves, to ease tension without drawing attention to it.
But chamomile has always been like that—something used to soothe, to lull, to make things feel safer than they actually are.
Barbara lets the taste sit for a moment longer than necessary before lowering the cup slightly, her eyes flicking back up to Mrs. Cole.
Comforting. And just a little too deliberate.
The kind of warmth that isn’t accidental—carefully chosen, carefully offered, meant to ease something before it’s even been voiced. Barbara recognises that instinct immediately. She’s used it herself, in different ways, in different contexts. Offer something steady. Something harmless. Something that lowers a person’s guard just enough to make the rest of the conversation easier.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“So, is there any particular reason you found yourself here today?”
Barbara smiles. It’s easy enough to do—natural, practiced, something that doesn’t give away more than she intends.
“I was just taking a different route, that’s all. Happened to pass by.”
It’s a clean answer. Simple. The kind that closes a door without making it obvious that there was one to begin with.
It should be enough.
Mrs. Cole hums softly, as if considering it.
“Are you sure?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly. “You seemed rather deep in thought before I came up to you.”
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup. Just a fraction.
“Is there perhaps something you were concerned about?”
There’s a pause. Not long. But long enough.
Because the question settles somewhere it shouldn’t, brushing up against thoughts Barbara hadn’t planned on voicing—hadn’t planned on acknowledging, even to herself.
She could deflect.
She should.
But before she can—
“Or perhaps…someone you were concerned about?”
That—
That makes her look up.
Barbara’s gaze meets hers again, sharper this time, searching.
But there’s nothing overt there. No accusation. No knowing smirk. Just that same calm, open expression, as if she’s simply stating an observation rather than prying.
It would be easy to dismiss it as intuition.
As perception.
Or—
Barbara’s mind flickers, unbidden, back to the past few days. To the quiet, repeated appearance of one name in a place it hadn’t been before.
To you.
Even without an answer, Mrs. Cole is speaking up again, as if the silence itself had already told her enough.
“(Name) Wayne truly is a remarkable child,” she says, her tone softening just slightly. “Very kind. Very attentive. She’s been a tremendous help here… especially with the younger ones. And the friends she brings along as well.”
Barbara lets out a quiet scoff at that, not sharp enough to be rude, but not entirely devoid of meaning either. It slips out before she can stop it, more reflex than intention.
So that’s what this is.
Mrs. Cole hadn’t approached her because of Leslie. Not really.
Barbara shifts slightly in her seat, her gaze settling more firmly on the woman across from her now.
“You seem like you have something you want to say to me,” Barbara says, her tone measured, but not unkind.
About (Name), she leaves unsaid, but it was unmistakably implied.
Mrs. Cole doesn’t react the way most people would. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t deflect. If anything, her smile deepens just slightly, still as warm and composed as before.
“I suppose I do,” she admits gently, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
Her gaze meets Barbara’s, steady and unhurried.
“But I think…” she continues, tilting her head just a fraction, “…it might be more accurate to say that you came here because you have something you want to understand.”
The words settle between them.
Not accusatory. Not forceful. Just… there. And deep down, it definitely was true. She came here, agreed to have tea purely because there was something she wanted to understand. About you.
Mrs. Cole gestures lightly toward the cup in Barbara’s hands.
“You’re welcome to ask.”
Barbara studies her for a moment longer, weighing that—how easily the woman turns the conversation without ever sounding like she’s doing it. It’s subtle. Careful. Intentional.
Barbara has done the same thing before.
Which is exactly why she recognises it. Still, she keeps her tone polite. Even.
“How would you know we’re acquainted?”
Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t falter.
“Oh,” she says lightly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “she’s mentioned you before. In passing, mostly. While helping out with the children.”
Barbara stills, just slightly. It’s not obvious—not outwardly—but internally, something shifts.
Because that—that she hadn’t expected.
Her mind turns it over immediately, searching for gaps, for inconsistencies. You mentioning her. Here. Casually. Not with tension. Not with distance.
Would you have?
Barbara doesn’t know.
And the fact that she doesn’t know—that she can’t confidently say one way or another—sits heavier than it should.
But… if you really did…
Then that means something, doesn’t it?
It means that there’s still something there for heer to work with.
That whatever distance had formed between the two of you hadn’t fully severed things the way it sometimes felt like it had.
Right?
Her grip on the cup steadies as she clears her throat softly, lifting it for another sip—not because she needs it, but because it gives her a second to collect herself.
“I see.”
Mrs. Cole watches her over the rim of her own cup before taking a slow sip, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world.
“She’s very good with them,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational. “The children, I mean.”
Barbara nods once, the motion automatic, practiced.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“No,” Mrs. Cole agrees, a small, knowing smile forming as her gaze softens just slightly. “It shouldn’t.”
There’s a pause after that—one that lingers just a little too long to be entirely natural, but not long enough to call out. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, but instead settles in, patient, waiting to see what rises to meet it.
“She doesn’t raise her voice,” Mrs. Cole continues eventually, as if picking up a thread that had never truly been dropped. “Even when they test her patience. And they do, quite often. Children always do. One way or another. Without meaning to most of the time.”
Barbara’s fingers shift faintly around the porcelain of her cup, the warmth no longer quite as grounding as it had been a moment ago.
“She corrects them, of course,” Mrs. Cole adds, tilting her head ever so slightly, her expression still gentle, still composed. “But she’s very careful about it. There’s a certain… deliberateness to the way she chooses her words, as though she’s always weighing how much is too much… and what might leave a mark if she isn’t careful.”
Barbara exhales quietly through her nose, her gaze dropping for just a second to the tea in her hands.
Careful. Measured.
It’s not unfamiliar. It never had been.
“She takes instructions well, too,” Mrs. Cole goes on, her voice thoughtful now, observational in a way that feels almost detached. “Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push back unless she absolutely has to. If anything, she adapts very quickly to whatever is expected of her.
Barbara’s jaw tightens, faint but unmistakable.
Because that word—
Adapts.
It lands somewhere deeper than it should.
“She seems… used to it. Adjusting herself to meet expectations that may not have been entirely fair to place on her in the first place. Especially at her age.”
Something shifts. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.
But enough.
Barbara feels it before she can name it—the way certain memories begin to surface, uninvited, threading their way into the present with a clarity she hadn’t given them permission to have.
Back when you first became Batgirl. Back when you first learned the truth about your family and came to her—full of questions, not acceptance. You hadn’t been someone who simply… absorbed whatever was placed in front of you then. Not after learning the truth.
You questioned things, whether it was because you couldn’t let them sit unanswered or because you refused to accept them at face value anymore? Barbara didn’t know. But what she did know was that you needed to understand why.
Why Bruce made certain decisions. Why Dick handled things the way he did. Why she was correcting you in ways that sometimes felt sharper than necessary.
You pushed.
Not recklessly at first. Not loudly. But persistently, in the way someone does when they still believe they’ll be answered honestly if they just ask the right questions.
And you did get answers.
Just… not always the kind that encouraged you to keep asking.
The way they responded—the way she responded—hadn’t been unkind in intention. Not always, but it had been firm in a way that left little room for uncertainty. Instructions given as facts. Decisions framed as necessity. Silence where explanations might have—would have helped.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, something in you began to shift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But gradually, the questions came less often. The hesitation to accept instruction faded. The pushback softened, then disappeared entirely, replaced by a kind of quiet compliance that made everything easier on the surface.
As if the safest way to move forward was simply to stop resisting what was being asked of you.
Barbara had told herself that that was progress. That it meant you were learning. Adapting. Fitting into the role.
All the training sessions that stretched longer than they should have, pushing past the point of usefulness into something closer to endurance. The kind that left no room for pause, no space to breathe, just repetition layered over repetition until it stopped being about learning and started being about proving something—though she isn’t sure now who it had been for.
Every correction she made, precise to the point of excess. Every small mistake she picked apart, not always because it mattered in the moment, but because focusing on that was easier than sitting with everything else she didn’t have answers for. Easier than acknowledging how much weight she might have been adding without meaning to.
And then there was Bruce.
Bruce with his impossible standards. His silence where there should have been answers. The way he allowed it all to continue without ever truly stepping in, without ever clarifying where the line was supposed to be when it came to your training. Detached. Unyielding. Unkind with his words. Expecting more without ever saying it outright, saying more than necessary. As if that alone justified it.
And you—
God.
Barbara doesn’t know why that image keeps resurfacing so clearly now, as if it had been waiting somewhere just beneath the surface for the right moment to return.
The way you stopped pushing back entirely with her.
Not because you stopped thinking. But because somewhere along the way, pushing against her became less effective than complying.
Nodding when she corrected you, even when the tone was sharper than it needed to be. Adjusting immediately, without argument, without hesitation—without ever asking if she was being unfair. As if pushing back hadn’t been an option you allowed yourself to consider. Not anymore.
As if you’d already decided that whatever was being asked of you—without pushing back, each time you absorbed it like it was simply part of what you were supposed to do. No protest. No argument. Just that small pause before acceptance, as if you were checking something off internally rather than engaging with it outwardly.
As if whatever discomfort you felt was something to be managed internally, neatly, without ever spilling outward where someone else might have to deal with it.
And now, she wonders, uncomfortably, if the corrections that went too sharp, the moments she sidelined you, the times she pushed you harder than necessary, those moments had all been a way to level something she didn’t want to name. To make it feel less like she’d lost something you still had.
Being Batgirl.
Except that wasn’t what it was.
It wasn’t just that.
Right?
She stops it there. Firmly. Cuts the thought off before it can take shape into anything more concrete, anything harder to ignore.
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again, grounding herself in the present as she forces the thought back down carefully—deliberately—before it can turn into something she can’t sit with here.
Not now. Not here.
But it doesn’t leave. Not really.
She can’t help but wonder why it feels like this.
Why words that are, by all accounts, observational—harmless, even—are landing with this kind of precision. Why they’re managing to press against things she hasn’t consciously revisited in a long time.
It’s not the tone. It’s not the intent.
Mrs. Cole hasn’t even said anything outright. Hasn’t accused. Hasn’t blamed. But it was something about the way she speaks. The way she frames it. It makes it harder to dismiss.
Harder to ignore.
Like she’s not uncovering anything new, but rather… brushing against things that were already there, waiting.
And Barbara doesn’t like that.
Doesn’t like how easily it pulls at ends she’s purposely left alone. Doesn’t like how quickly it makes those memories feel relevant again.
Necessary, even.
Even when she knows they shouldn’t be.
“Ms. Gordon, is everything alright?”
Ah.
Barbara’s starting to find that voice increasingly difficult to sit here and listen to.
She lifts her gaze, the shift almost seamless as she smooths her expression back into something practiced, something familiar. A small smile follows, measured and polite, slipping into place with the ease of long habit.
“Yeah,” she says lightly, “just got a little lost in my thoughts.”
Mrs. Cole simply smiles. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what thoughts. She doesn’t even seem curious about what Barbara had been lost in.
And somehow, that feels worse.
Because there’s no probing, no follow-up—nothing that would suggest she’s trying to get something out of her.
It’s as if she already has.
It’s as if she knows.
As if the things she said were placed there knowingly, nudging, guiding, pressing in just the right places to bring those thoughts to the surface.
Wait. What?
No, that can’t be right.
Mrs. Cole hadn’t said anything out of line. Hadn’t overstepped in any way that could clearly be pointed out.
And yet, the timing of it—the way each observation seemed to land exactly where it shouldn’t, exactly where it couldn’t have been guessed so precisely—
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again.
No.
She’s reading too much into it. She has to be.
Because the alternative doesn’t make sense.
She takes another sip, finishing what’s left of the tea in a few measured swallows. The warmth no longer feels grounding—if anything, it feels like it’s holding her in place longer than she wants to be here.
She sets the cup down with a soft clink, her fingers withdrawing almost immediately.
“I should get going,” Barbara says, tone polite, composed—already pulling back.
Because staying any longer would start feeling like an obligation. Like she’s being edged toward something she hasn’t agreed to confront. And maybe it’s irrational, maybe it’s nothing more than her own thoughts turning in on themselves, but sitting here—across from a woman who is nothing but warm, nothing but pleasant—still feels… wrong. Like there’s something just beneath the surface she can’t quite name.
And Barbara doesn’t like that.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Cole asks, calm as ever. It’s gentle. Casual. But it almost sounds like she doesn’t want her to leave.
Barbara opens her mouth to answer, but a knock interrupts.
“Mrs. Cole? It’s me, Miss Jenkins.”
The door opens before a response is needed, and a woman steps in, pausing slightly when she notices Barbara.
“Ah—sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone with you.”
Mrs. Cole smiles easily. “It’s quite alright. Go ahead.”
Miss Jenkins nods, clearing her throat. “Ms. Wayne called earlier. She said she won’t be dropping by today.”
There’s a pause.
And Barbara can’t help the thought that slips in, sharp and unwelcome.
Of course.
The one time she shows up here—you don’t.
It almost feels deliberate. Like you’ve developed some… instinct for avoiding the people you don’t want to see. And Barbara hates, distantly, how easily she slots herself into that category.
“I see,” Mrs. Cole says, her smile never quite wavering. “That’s a shame.”
She turns back to Barbara then, as if the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all. “I suppose I should see you out, then.”
Barbara nods automatically, though something in her chest dips faintly at how quickly that changed.
Because for a moment there, it had felt like Mrs. Cole wanted her to stay. That is, until she was informed that you weren’t coming—
Barbara exhales quietly, brushing the thought aside before it can take root. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
“Thanks,” she says instead, already turning her chair, hands settling against the wheels as she starts wheeling toward the door.
Better to leave these thoughts here. Before it turns into something else entirely.
A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER
One moment, you were standing in an empty alleyway, trying to keep everything from spilling over. It felt like you said everything you needed to say, but at the same time, you didn’t say enough. And here you were left with the aftermath.
Trying not to cry. Not over what Jason said. Not over the way his words landed. Not over the way your knuckles still stung from the punch you’d thrown back at him—sharp, pulsing, familiar in the worst way and yet strangely distant at the same time. Like your mind remembered something your body hadn’t caught up to yet.
Next thing you know, you’re seated in a cracked vinyl booth at a mostly empty Bat Burger outlet. The fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, the smell of grease and salt settling into the air as you try to piece together what the hell just happened between then and now.
You don’t remember walking here. You don’t even remember agreeing to this.
Your thoughts are still stuck somewhere back there—in Jason’s warehouse, in that conversation—if you could actually call it that.
Calling it a conversation feels generous. It was more of a, “Jason throwing whatever bullshit narrative he’s come up with about you” straight at your face and you punching him to get his ass to shut the fuck up and listen to you.
Not everything had been resolved and frankly? It probably never would be. You should have made peace with that by now. But the tight, stubborn feeling in your chest refuses to let you.
Damnit. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe you were just like your father after all—
CLANG.
A tray slams down in front of you. Loud enough to snap you out of your thoughts.
You blink, your head jerking up slightly, only to find yourself staring straight into a pair of familiar brown eyes.
Helena Bertinelli. Aka Huntress.
Of course.
Just your luck.
Of course the alleyway you’d chosen to mope around was close to her apartment. Of course she had to see you—probably what she’d describe as barely holding it together in her eyes.
You hadn’t cried. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. That single stray tear doesn’t count. The sting in your eyes doesn’t count either.
But apparently, that was enough for her to decide that the appropriate response was to drag you to Bat Burger.
“Eat,” she says simply, nudging the tray an inch closer to you as she slides into the booth across from you like this was normal. You, sitting here with her—eating with her, was just another Tuesday. “Before it gets cold.”
You stare at her, then at the tray. And you immediately notice how there was one regular burger meal, and one Batmeal. And you watch as she picks up the burger—
“…please don’t tell me that Batmeal is supposed to be mine,” you deadpan, lifting your gaze back to her, somewhere between accusation and disbelief.
Helena doesn’t even look up at first, already halfway through unwrapping her burger. She takes a bite, chews, swallows, then finally glances at you with a shrug.
“What? You looked like you needed the toy.” She looked so completely unbothered by it, which undeniably pissed you off.
“…Do I look like I’m ten?”
“No,” she says, unbothered, leaning back slightly. “But you definitely act like you’d benefit from shitty Batman and Co. merchandise.”
Okay.
You just stare at her again in pure disbelief, because there is no way she just said that like it was a normal sentence. Like it wasn’t mildly insulting. Like it didn’t somehow make it worse that she was right there, completely unfazed.
“Hurry up before your fries get cold.”
You groan in exasperation, but eventually—begrudgingly—you pull the Batmeal closer to you.
The two of you eat in silence for a while.
It’s… weird.
Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar in a way you can’t immediately place. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you, doesn’t press, doesn’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.
But that’s also the problem.
Because she saw you.
In the alley. At probably one of your worse states.
And she hasn’t said anything about it since. You don’t like that she’s seen you like that. You like even less that she’s pretending it’s not a big deal.
“Don’t tell me you went out of your way to buy me a meal just to dip afterwards,” you finally say, breaking the silence first.
Helena is lazily eating fries now, glancing at you sideways like she’s been waiting for you to speak.
“Depends,” she says. “Are you gonna tell me why you were crying your ass off in the middle of nowhere?”
“Okay—I was not crying my ass off.”
“The evidence is all over your face, y’know.”
Your hand immediately goes up, wiping at your cheeks and under your eyes on instinct, like you can physically erase that accusation out of existence.
Helena watches you, a slow, knowing smirk tugs at her mouth.
Damn. Did she really say that just to mess with you?
“Fuck you…” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your food.
“Relax,” she cuts in, popping another fry into her mouth. “I only said that to see if you’d do that.”
You pause just slightly, then tilt your head without looking at her.
“And what’s your conclusion after all that?” you ask, already unwrapping the mini burger that came with the Batmeal like it’s suddenly become a very serious task.
Helena doesn’t answer immediately. But you can feel it. Her stare. Heavy, unbothered, annoyingly observant in a way that everyone seemed to be lately.
Then, like she’s deciding to pivot instead of press further, she leans back slightly.
”Y’know, word gets around quick. Very quick in Gotham, especially.”
You shoot her a look, wondering where the hell she’s going with this. “I’m not doing whatever this… therapy session is, Helena.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Right. Of course not.” A beat. “Don’t blame you. But you look like you need to let out some steam.”
“Already did.”
Helena’s gaze drops—almost absent-mindedly—toward your hands. Specifically your right hand.
The faint redness still lingering across your knuckles, fading but not gone. Proof that refuses to fully disappear no matter how much you try to ignore it right now.
“But doesn’t seem enough, does it?”
Ok, that ticked you off.
“Damnit, Helena,” you exhale, finally looking up at her properly, “I just had a back and forth with Jason. I am really not looking for another one right now, alright?”
Helena lets out a soft scoff. No bite. Just acknowledgement.
“Right,” she drawls out. “I forgot you bats like your conversations one-sided. You just prefer to be the one leading them.”
Ouch.
Well, as annoying as she was being, she’s not entirely wrong. But to lump you in with everyone else right now kind of sucked. Especially when you—
“Except you, of course,” she adds, like she didn’t just casually throw you under a general category. “Honestly, you were probably the most sane out of all of them.”
That makes you pause slightly.
“Were?” you repeat, deadpan slipping in before you can stop it.
“Like I said, word gets around here really quick.” She takes another bite. “Like how it’s been… a whole month since Batgirl made an appearance on the streets?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. Not enough to show. Not enough to give away anything real. Still—
“…And?”
Helena blinks at you, like she wasn’t expecting that tone. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Wow,” she says. “Who finally managed to get you to walk away? I’m almost impressed.”
That lands wrong.
You frown slightly. “No one made me do anything. I just decided to quit.” Your words come out clean. Controlled. Final. But it doesn’t stay that way in your head.
Because now, her words are looping. It was meant to be casual, half-joking, but it was still there—and you can’t quite shake the implication buried underneath them. Just how long had you been doing this for basically everyone you know to react like that? How long had you been… there, in a way that made your absence feel like some elaborate prank?
It starts to twist uncomfortably the longer you think about it. Like maybe you weren’t just persistent about being Batgirl before. Maybe you had been too much.
The thought turns sharper than you like. Unfair. Almost insulting. Like you’re being reduced into some version of yourself you don’t recognise—a stubborn kid who used to refuse letting go of something she should’ve stepped away from sooner.
You exhale under your breath, dragging a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose.
No. That’s not—
You were just… committed. Focused. You had your own reasons to pick up the mask. Just like everyone else did.
Still, it doesn’t quite stop the feeling from lingering a little too long in your chest.
“I still don’t see what you’re trying to do here,” you say, voice flattening slightly as you try to steer the conversation back into something solid.
Helena doesn’t immediately answer. Just takes another slow bite, like she’s weighing how much of this she actually wants to explain.
“People are starting to notice Batgirl’s been off the grid,” she says. “And in Gotham, that kind of silence doesn’t stay quiet for long. People are going to start digging for answers.” She picks up another fry and point it towards you.
“For where you went.”
You let out a soft scoff at that, almost reflexive. The idea feels… almost absurd. She’s talking as if you—Batgirl, actually mattered in the way people like Batman or Robin or even Nightwing did in Gotham.
“That only applies to people that actually matter,” you say, lightly, dismissively.
“And you’re saying you’re not one of them?” Helena asks immediately, tone edged with pure disbelief.
That makes you frown slightly.
“You’re saying I am?” you counter, sharper than intended.
Because, of course you aren’t. When have you ever been that?
Helena’s expression shifts at that—not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just a quiet, almost incredulous pause, like she’s trying to figure out just how exactly you arrived at something so fundamentally wrong.
And it unsettles you more than you expect.
Because it isn’t mockery. It’s confusion. Genuine, unfiltered confusion, like she’s looking at you and seeing something you know you definitely aren’t.
You don’t know what exactly she’s seeing.
Because for years, you tried to be what you were supposed to be. Tried to meet expectations that kept moving, shifting, tightening no matter how much you adjusted to them. And no matter what you did—no matter how hard you pushed, how cleanly you followed the lines—it was never quite enough.
Not for your father or anyone else for the matter.
So hearing Helena look at you like this—like there’s something there worth noticing at all? It feels almost like she’s talking about someone else entirely.
“Are you seriously that oblivious, or is your self-esteem just completely nonexistent??”
What the??
You open your mouth to snap back, something defensive already forming on your tongue—but Helena doesn’t give you the chance. She cuts in, like she can’t quite believe she has to spell this out.
“Don’t you realise how you’re practically worshipped by the people in the East End? Downtown?”
Huh?
It feels like you’ve heard these words before.
Right, didn’t Caitlyn say something about East End as well? But was it really true? Worship is a strong word. It felt like a stretch. Too much.
As if on cue, Helena exhales lightly.
“Okay, maybe not worshipped,” she amends, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Whatever’s the less extreme version of that then.”
You stare at Helena like she’d just spoken in an alien language. Because she had to be exaggerating. Or joking. Or—
Helena drags a hand down her face in clear exasperation because you can spiral any further.
“Hello? Two years ago?” she says, leaning forward now, eyes narrowing slightly. “When Batman practically went AWOL for months when Gotham went to shit after it got sealed off and turned into a damned no man’s land? Do you not remember who people were looking to back then? Who was still out there, keeping the idea of the Bat alive when everything else fell apart?”
The words hit harder than they should.
Even though technically, it’s been six years for you—16 year old you seemed to know—seemed to remember exactly what Helena was talking about.
Back then, when everything first started to fall apart—when your father failed to convince the government to reverse their decision to abandon Gotham after that major earthquake hit—he’d told you to leave.
Not just you. Tim, Dick, anyone he thought he could still push out before things got worse. Not wanting them to be against the law, he’d said.
You hadn’t listened. You stayed. Stubbornly. Irrationally.
Because the idea of your father trying to hold Gotham together alone—of Batman standing against all of that without anyone there—had felt worse than whatever consequences came with disobeying him.
At least, that’s what 14 year old you had believed.
Before you knew it, three months had passed. Three months of silence. Three months of Gotham unraveling at the seams, criminals flooding the streets because apparently, Jeremiah Arkham thought it was a good idea to let all the criminals in his asylum back onto the streets before leaving Gotham to rot.
Gotham splitting into sectors controlled by gangs, graffiti lining on walls to tag which areas belonged to whom. You kept moving through it, telling yourself you were just holding the line—helped those who couldn’t help themselves—until he came back.
Three months passed before your father—before Batman, finally showed up in Gotham again like a saving grace. Like Gotham could finally breathe again because he showed up.
You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you try to brush the memories off. “You’re talking like you weren’t out there too,” you say. “Didn’t you literally go around dressed as Batman himself and take down half the gangs yourself?”
“That’s not the point. Yeah, I was out there. In the shadows. Doing what was needed to be done.”
Helena leans forward slightly, her gaze locking onto yours. “But before he came back, you were the one there. Giving those who were forced to stay in Gotham due to whatever circumstances they had then hope. You really think people are just going to forget that?”
Her words hit hard. Not because they meant something to you—but because of what they meant about everything you had believed.
“Are you just trying to stir up bullshit, Helena—” you start, sharper than intended, because no, there’s no way she’s serious. No way people actually looked up to you like that. No way you mattered in the way she’s implying.
Helena just stares at you for a second, unbothered, like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely confused or just refusing to hear it. Then she scoffs.
“Are you really that determined to believe you haven’t made an impact on people?” she asks, voice flat, almost incredulous. “Whether you meant to or not, you definitely did.”
You sigh, a little exasperated now, the edge creeping back in. “I’m just saying—I think I would know damn well if I did make an impact—”
“Clearly not, if you’re acting like I’m spouting bullshit.”
That shuts you up.
Not because she’s wrong or right. But because of how effortlessly she says it, like it’s obvious to everyone but you.
The air shifts after that—noticeably tighter. What had been a strange kind of ease between you a few minutes ago now feels… disrupted. Like something’s been pulled loose and neither of you is pretending it isn’t there anymore.
Helena exhales, like she’s decided she’s done pushing that particular thread for now. She nudges the small toy figurine blindbox on the table with two fingers, the one that came with the Batmeal, making it slide slightly toward you.
“Go on. Let’s see what you got.”
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes slightly.
Is she seriously trying to pivot like this? Just like that? Or was that the point? To make you less tense—as if she hadn’t meant to make you feel this way right now?
Either way, you let out a quiet breath and open the box. And for a second—you just stare.
Because of course.
Of course the Bat-figurine you got was that.
A small figurine, neatly packaged in plastic, styled in the unmistakable silhouette of Batgirl.
You. Your Batgirl.
It’s almost absurd. Almost funny. The kind of irony that feels too on-the-nose to be accidental.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, holding it up slightly like it might suddenly make more sense if you look at it from another angle.
Helena lets out a low hum, leaning back in her seat. Whether it’s amusement or something else, you can’t quite tell.
“Well,” she says lightly, “would you look at that? Maybe the world’s trying to tell you something you’re very committed to not hearing.” Never mind. It’s definitely amusement.
You shoot her a glare at that, but there isn’t any real fury behind it. Not enough bite to make it convincing, anyway.
You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair before leaning back slightly. “Okay, let’s say what you’re saying is true,” you start, tired edge creeping in. “What’s your point now? I’m not Batgirl anymore.”
“Exactly.” She jabs a fry in your direction. “You’re not Batgirl anymore. But people don’t just… forget about what you did when you were.”
You frown slightly at that.
“They’re going to remember. The people you helped. As well as the ones you got in the way of back then.”
Ah. So that’s what this was all about?
Your jaw tightens a little. “So what, you’re saying that those gangs from back then are going to hold a grudge for that long? Just because I stopped their stupid operations?” You almost expect her to laugh it off. But she doesn’t.
“Yeah. I’d know that very well.”
That makes something in your expression stall. Maybe that wasn’t the right choice of words from you…
Considering her whole backstory, holding a grudge for that long, wanting to exact revenge was practically her whole brand before, wasn’t it? To make the person—who massacred her family and keeping her and only her alive—pay for what he did was what she had lived for.
And here you were.
Talking about grudges like they were distant, exaggerated things people would eventually grow out of. Hell, even you should know better, that it wouldn’t always be that way.
Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again. You exhale through your nose, quieter this time, the weight of your own words settling in a little differently now.
“…Right, my bad.” you mutter finally, less certain than before.
Helena lets out a sigh, like she’s deciding to abandon whatever subtlety she was attempting before. She leans back slightly, then shrugs.
“Okay,” she says, blunt now, “I’m not exactly great at this kind of stuff, but what I’m trying to say is—yeah. Even I have a conscious, alright?”
You give her a questioning look at that, but she doesn’t stop.
“Do you remember,” she continues, tone shifting into something more grounded, more serious, “the time when I was framed for murders I didn’t commit? The night Batman and Nightwing cornered me on the rooftops near my apartment?”
That pulls something into focus.
Of course you remember. You were there as well when your father and Dick went to confront her.
“You were there,” Helena adds, eyes flicking to you. “You saw it. The way Batman was ready to take me in. To shut me down before I even had the chance to prove anything. Like I didn’t get a say in whether I was guilty or not.”
Her jaw tightens slightly as she’s recalling the memories
“And if it had come down to a straight fight?” she says. “I wasn’t winning that. Not against him. Not against Nightwing either.”
A beat.
“So when I accidentally shot Batman with the crossbow, while trying to get away?” she continues, a faint exhale leaving her like she still can’t quite believe how that sounds out loud, “I thought I was done for. But you stopped Nightwing from fully coming at me—just for long enough—and that actually gave me an opening to escape. To actually leave Gotham and try to clear my name instead of getting buried there.”
And you remember that part too clearly.
Not her escape, but what came after. The way stepping out of line, disobeying orders, even for a second, had been treated like a mistake that needed correcting. The way intent never really mattered, only outcome. But there’s no point in dragging semantics into this now, is there?
“So yeah,” Helena says, like she’s deciding to stop circling it, “I owe you for that night. Because as similar as you are with your family, it’s also clear how different you are compared to them.”
She pauses, then leans back slightly and takes a sip of her drink, giving you a moment to sit with it whether you want to or not.
“I’m used to people thinking I just go out on the streets and pay creeps back for what they do to innocent people,” she continues, tone flattening a little. “Like I’m just trying to undo what my father did. Like I’m trying to make up for his sins or balance some kind of scale.”
Right, her father had been one of Gotham’s mafia lords long before you were born, hadn’t he?
She exhales, gaze drifting for a second before settling back on you.
“I picked up the mask because it hides more than just my face—more than my identity,” she says. “It hides the fear. Everything weak I don’t want anyone to see.”
A small pause. Not dramatic—just enough to let it land.
“So watching you choose to take it off?” she continues, quieter now. “That doesn’t make you lesser. If anything, it makes you better than me. Better than most of us.”
Her eyes flick to you, steady, unflinching.
“So don’t sit there acting like you did everyone a favour by quitting,” she adds. “You didn’t. And you’re not suddenly… less because of it.”
Another beat.
“You matter just as much as they do.”
No.
No Helena.
Quitting didn’t suddenly just make you better than everyone else.
You feel it before you say it. The push of something heavy and familiar pressing up against your ribs, like it’s been waiting for an opening.
You could ignore it. You’ve gotten good at that. But not now. Not with her looking at you like that.
You exhale, slow, like you’re trying to push something down—but it doesn’t stay there.
“No,” you say, quieter now, but it comes out steadier than you expect. “You’re… you’re far better than me in that aspect, Helena.”
She shifts slightly at that, like she’s about to interrupt, but you keep going before she can.
“At least your reason for putting on the mask meant something,” you add, gaze dropping to the table, drifting over to the wonky figurine of Batgirl. “You had a reason that made sense. You wanted justice—revenge for what was done to your family. For something they didn’t deserve. There was a line, and it was crossed, and you… you just responded to that.”
There’s structure to it. A cause and an effect. One of your father’s most repeated principles when it came to how he operated. It was something that can be followed, understood, even if people don’t agree with it.
A short, hollow breath leaves you.
“Me?” you let out a quiet breath that doesn’t quite pass for a laugh. “I didn’t have anything like that.”
Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table, like you need something to hold onto.
“I was just… scared.”
The word feels heavier once it leaves your mouth. It always does. Like giving it sound makes it more real than it ever was when it stayed contained in your head—smaller, easier to dismiss, easier to pretend it wasn’t shaping more than it should.
“Scared of being left behind. Scared of being alone. Of being… too much, or not enough, or whatever it is that makes people decide they don’t want to stay.”
Your jaw tightens slightly, and you look away for a second, like that might make it easier to say the rest. Because that part never really goes away, does it?
It just changes shape. Gets quieter. Less obvious. Easier to ignore when you’re busy, when you’re needed (or not), when there’s something else to focus on. It settles somewhere deeper, where it doesn’t get in the way as much—until it does.
Until it slips back in at the worst possible moments, sharp and insistent, like it never left at all.
“And I thought—” you pause, the words catching before you force them through anyway, “—I thought putting on the mask would fix that. Like if I became someone useful enough, good enough, then whoever was looking at me wouldn’t regret it.”
Wouldn’t regret you. Wouldn’t decide one day, that keeping you around wasn’t worth it after all.
“Like if I was… worth something, then they’d stay.”
Even now, you can hear how it sounds. How thin that logic is when it’s pulled out into the open.
It sounds small. Sounds stupid. And maybe it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was real. That it still is, in ways you don’t like to acknowledge. When it isn’t buried under action, under effort, under everything you did to make it feel justified.
You let out another quiet breath, shaking your head faintly.
“…It’s pathetic,” you add under your breath, not quite looking at her. “But I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
The silence that follows settles heavier than it should, stretching just a little too long. You become acutely aware of it—of Helena, of yourself. Of the way your fingers tighten around the edge of the table like you need something to anchor you before your thoughts spiral too far.
Great.
You actually said it. Laid it out there, unfiltered, without dressing it up into something more palatable. And now she sees it. All of it.
The bravado, the front you used to carry so easily, the way you made it look like everything you did had purpose, weight—like it meant something beyond yourself.
And this? This is what it comes down to?
Something small. Selfish. Driven by something as stupid and fragile as the fear of being left behind—
“So what if it’s pathetic?”
Your head snaps up before you can stop it.
Helena’s already looking at you, expression steady, almost expectant—like she’d been waiting for you to look at her again.
“Whoever made you think that that feeling isn’t normal,” She doesn’t waver, her voice firm, “is out of their goddamn mind.”
You blink, thrown off more by the certainty in her tone than the words themselves. She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table now, closing whatever distance had been sitting between you.
“Because trust me,” she adds, quieter but no less certain, “wanting the approval of the people you care about? That’s normal. Very normal. It’s human.”
Human.
“And there’s nothing wrong with feeling that way.”
The words hang there.
People you care about.
A part of you almost scoffs at that, the reaction automatic—like it doesn’t quite sit right in your chest anymore.
“And what if the people I care about are shitty at showing it back?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You don’t even know why you’re asking her, like she’s got some kind of answer waiting—but it’s out there now. Too late to take it back.
Helena snorts.
“Then congratulations,” she says dryly, “you’ve got excellent taste in emotionally constipated people.”
You just stare at her. Deadpan.
She huffs out a quiet laugh at your expression, leaning back in her seat like she’s satisfied with herself.
“Y’know,” she adds after a beat, tone shifting just slightly, “there was a point in time when even I wanted his approval.”
You don’t need to ask who she means. You know.
“Hell,” she continues, glancing off to the side for a second, “maybe I still do. Crazy, right? I needed his permission just to creep around rooftops at night. Had a full-on father fixation for a guy who dresses like a bat.”
You blink at her, caught off guard by those words.
Helena? Of all people?
It sounds almost unreal coming from her. But she laid this out so plainly, no edge to soften it, no deflection. Just said it like it was a normal thing.
And yet, it explains more than you’d like to admit. Some of the things she did. The way she moved around him. The way she reacted. Some of which you had done as well.
It clicks into place a little too easily. A small, unexpected laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You didn’t even realise you needed that.
Helena’s smile shifts—subtle, but you catch it. Less sharp now. Less guarded, now that you’re not sitting there looking like you’re about to bolt or snap back again.
“I guess we’re both people who never really grew out of needing that, huh?” you say, quieter this time, the edge from earlier gone.
“Yeah,” she replies, a faint shrug following. “Guess so.”
Before you can react, she reaches over and ruffles your hair—casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The moment feels… strangely light.
Out of place, even.
Here, of all places—some rundown Bat Burger booth, surrounded by greasy fries and half-finished drinks. And yet, for the first time in a while, your chest doesn’t feel as tight.
“Stop that,” you mutter, swatting her hand away, though there’s no real bite to it. “You’re gonna get grease in my hair.”
Helena blinks at you, genuinely thrown for a second, before raising her hands in mock surrender.
“Hah—my bad, princess. Didn’t think that’s where your priorities were.”
lowk might have butchered babs and helena a little but whatever we move on! 🤕🤣 not as angsty but the plot gotta plot ig 🤷♀️😅 bruh istg if there’s mistakes i might kms. will probably change the name of the orphanage when i come up with a better one ngl… also mrs cole isn’t a dc character, she’s an oc ‼️ (you have no idea how many asks i got asking about this)
Jason had learned, in the way you only learn things by living through them too many times, that arguments with Bruce never really ended. They didn’t resolve or settle into anything resembling closure. They just… stalled. Paused. Hung in the air like something unfinished, waiting to be picked apart again later.
And now—
Now it felt like it had reached the tip of the blade.
Sharp. Tense. One wrong push away from cutting deeper than either of them could take back.
Because without even talking to him—without even discussing it—Bruce had decided Jason was off duty.
Because he was, apparently, “in no shape emotionally to be on the streets.”
What?
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Since when did Bruce get to decide what shape Jason was in?
Since when did he get to look at him and reduce everything Jason was feeling, everything he’d been carrying, into something that could be dismissed with a single sentence?
And the worst part?
Bruce hadn’t even said it like it was a punishment. No, he said it like he was doing him a favour.
Measured in that careful, controlled way that never left room for argument. Not because it was loud, but because it sounded so certain.
So final.
Like this wasn’t a discussion. Like it had never been one to begin with.
He’d spoken like he was stating a fact. Like he was doing the responsible thing. Like this was something obvious. Something anyone with sense would agree with.
Like Jason was the only one too stubborn to see it.
He’d gone on about how it wasn’t a decision made capriciously. That only people who had their heads screwed on right were fit for this line of work.
Like Jason didn’t.
Like Jason couldn’t.
That part stuck longer than it should have. Because it wasn’t just about the streets anymore, was it?
It wasn’t just about patrols or criminals or missions. It was about him.
About who Bruce thought he was becoming.
Or maybe—worse—who Bruce thought he’d always been.
Like Jason wasn’t stable enough. Like he couldn’t be trusted to draw the line in the right place. Like he was already halfway past it.
So Jason didn’t argue. Didn’t even trust himself to talk about it without emotions flaring up even more.
He just… left. Walked out without slamming the door, without looking back, without saying anything that might crack something open that couldn’t be fixed.
And then he kept walking.
At first, it was just to get distance. To put space between himself and that suffocating, controlled quiet Bruce always carried with him.
But then the walking didn’t stop.
Three hours of it—aimless, restless, burning off the anger that refused to settle no matter how hard he tried to outrun it. He didn’t even realize where his feet were taking him until the buildings changed.
Until the streets got narrower. Dirtier. Familiar.
Crime Alley. Of course.
HIs old neighbourhood. His home.
Memories didn’t just resurface—they hit. Hard and fast and uninvited. His parents. Their smiles. The way everything had ended too abruptly.
Just as he was about to leave, it turns out, his mother’s friend, Mrs Walker, spotted him, and called him up to her apartment. She had kept a box of his family’s possessions, just in case he ever came back.
Thank god she did.
Jason hadn’t said it out loud, but yeah. He was grateful.
Because inside that box were pieces of something he thought he’d lost for good. Something he never thought he’d be able to get.
The last pieces of them. His life before meeting Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything.
Now he sat on his bed, the box open in front of him.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that pressed in on you if you let it.
Carefully, Jason reached inside, fingers hesitant, like the past might shatter if he handled it too roughly.
He pulled out a photo frame. And there they were.
Him. His mum. His dad.
Frozen in a moment of something warm and whole and alive—a moment that felt so distant now it might as well have belonged to strangers. It left something bitter in his chest. Something that didn’t go away when he exhaled. Because that morning’s conversation—if it could even be called that—kept replaying in his head.
Over.
And over.
And over.
How the hell could Bruce decide something like that on his own? Pull him off Robin duties like Jason was just—what? A liability? A ticking bomb that was waiting to go off?
They were supposed to be partners. Partners. Not… this. Whatever this was.
So what if he’d been a little rough the past few nights? So what if he’d pushed further—crossed that invisible line Bruce was so obsessed with drawing, like it meant something, like it protected anything? So what if he’d gone a little harder on a few lowlifes, finished things with more force than Bruce would’ve liked?
We don’t cross that line.
They’ll go to prison.
There are procedures even we have to follow.
No.
They deserved it.
Every single one of them. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t senseless.
They made their choices. They knew what they were doing. The deals, the threats, the violence, the moments where they looked at another person and decided that their life, their safety, their fear didn’t matter.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
Knew people would get hurt. Knew people did get hurt. And they did it anyway. Over and over again, like it was nothing. Like the consequences didn’t apply to them.
And Jason was supposed to what—hold back?
Pull his punches? Make sure they walked away with nothing worse than a few bruises and a court date they wouldn’t even take seriously?
And prison?
Prison wasn’t going to change them.
It never did. When has it ever?
It wasn’t some kind of turning point. It wasn’t redemption. It was just… time. Time they waited out. Time they endured. Time that passed until they could walk right back out those doors and pick up exactly where they left off.
When had it ever been different? When had it ever worked? They walked in, did their time, walked out—and went right back to it.
Back to the same streets. The same crimes. The same victims.
Again.
And again.
And again.
A cycle so predictable it might as well have been scripted.
And everyone just accepted it. Called it justice. Called it enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Not for the people who had to live with what was done to them. Not for the ones who didn’t get to walk away at all. Because the system let them come back. Gave them chance after chance after chance—
While the people they hurt didn’t even get one.
Unless someone finally made it stick. Made it so they couldn’t come back. Couldn’t hurt anyone else. Couldn’t keep walking through life like the damage they caused was something temporary, something that could just… fade. Something permanent. Something that actually meant something.
“For every action in this universe, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Consequences, Robin. There’s no escaping them.”
Bruce’s voice echoed in his head, steady and unwavering. Certain. And it only made something in Jason twist tighter.
He let out a quiet, humorless breath, something bitter curling sharp in his chest.
No escaping them?
Then what about the ones who did? What about the ones who always did?
What about the bastards like Felipe—men with power, money, influence. With the kind of power that twisted everything around them until consequences became optional.
Until justice became something you could avoid.
They didn’t get dragged through the system. They owned it. Walked through it untouched, unbothered, like it was built to protect them instead.
And what about the people they left behind?
What about people like Gloria? People who didn’t have power. Didn’t have a voice. Didn’t have anyone coming to save them. People who got cornered—backed into spaces so small, so suffocating, that there was nowhere left to go.
No way out. No way to fight back. No way to win.
Until the only control they had left… was how it ended. Because living stopped being living to them. It became survival. Then it became pain. Then it became something worse than either of those—something that dragged on and on until even breathing felt like a punishment.
Because the people who did that to them—
The ones responsible—were still out there. Still walking free. Still laughing, still breathing, still living their lives like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t happened. And Jason was supposed to believe in a system that allowed that?
He was supposed to stand there, hold back, trust that things would “work out” the right way? That consequences would come eventually?
When?
After how many more victims? After how many more lives ruined? After how many more people like Gloria decided that the only way to escape the pain was to stop existing in it?
His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his palms. Bruce talked about consequences like they were inevitable.
Like they were fair. Like the world actually worked that way. Like everything balanced out in the end. Like if you just waited long enough, trusted hard enough, believed in it enough—things would right themselves.
But Jason had seen it. Lived it. He knew better. Consequences didn’t come for everyone. Not equally. Not fairly. Not even consistently.
Sometimes they came too hard, too fast. Crushing the people who didn’t deserve it. And sometimes… Sometimes they didn’t come at all. Not for the ones who should’ve been buried under them.
So if the world wasn’t going to make things right… Then maybe someone had to. And maybe that someone… couldn’t afford to hesitate.
Because who was Bruce to stand there and talk about right and wrong like it was that simple? Who was Bruce to believe in something that kept letting people fall through the cracks? Who was he to tell Jason to hold back—
When holding back never saved anyone?
Who was he to draw that line and expect Jason to stay behind it when the people on the other side were the ones still getting hurt? Who was he to decide what justice was supposed to look like when it clearly wasn’t working? Who was he to ask for patience when patience had already cost too much?
Who was he to—
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through his thoughts, causing Jason to still, jaw tightening, fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the photo frame. There were only two people who would bother coming to his door now.
“Alfred, I’m not hungry.”
A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.
“It’s me, Jay.”
Ah.
That—That made something in him catch.
Your voice, softer than the noise in his head—but louder than the anger, louder than the echo of Bruce’s words still clawing at the inside of his skull. Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, something in his shoulders loosening before he could stop it.
“…Door’s open.”
He didn’t turn right away. But he heard it. The faint creak of the door. The careful, almost hesitant way it moved—like you weren’t sure you were allowed to push it all the way.
That alone told him enough. He glanced over his shoulder. And there you were.
Standing in the doorway like you didn’t quite belong there. Oversized sweater hanging off your frame, sleeves pulled down past your hands like you were trying to make yourself smaller, quieter. Less noticeable. Like if you took up less space, you’d be easier to let in.
Or easier to turn away from.
Jason clicked his tongue softly, looking away again as he shifted on the bed, one knee pulling up, the box still open in front of him.
“What are you doing up here, (Name)?”
You tilted your head, studying him in that quiet way of yours.
“I heard you yelling downstairs earlier.”
Of course you did. This place… It was too big for voices to carry the way they did. Too many empty halls. Too much space.
And yet somehow, it still managed to feel too small when things like that happened. It was suffocating, really.
Jason let out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “It’s nothing. Go back to your room, will ya?”
Dismissive. Easy. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t need to be here for it.
Yet, you didn’t move. Didn’t even hesitate. You just… stepped inside. Closed the door quietly behind you. And something about that—about the way you ignored him, about the way you chose to stay anyway—made him look at you properly this time.
There was no flinching. No backing off. Just that same look you always had when things got too loud in this house.
Concern.
Soft. Steady. Unshaken. Like you’d already decided that whatever was going on mattered more than whether you were supposed to be there.
Jason’s brows pulled together slightly, something unreadable flickering across his expression. You stopped a few feet from the bed, your gaze drifting, curious, careful—until it landed on the box.
On the things inside it. Jason followed your line of sight, and—
Shit.
He hadn’t closed it. Hadn’t even thought to. The past sat there, open and exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. In a way he didn’t like.
“What’s this?” you asked softly, stepping just a little closer. Your hand lifted, tentative, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed—but curious enough to try anyway. You reached for one of the pictures. And before you could touch it—
Jason pulled it back. Quick. Instinctive. Like a reflex he didn’t even register until it was already done.
The movement hung there for a second. Too sharp. Too fast. Too telling.
Jason blinked, staring at his own hand like it had moved on its own.
Why did he do that?
It wasn’t like you’d break it. It wasn’t like you’d ruin anything. But something in his chest had tightened the second your fingers got too close.
Jason cleared his throat, looking away, jaw tightening slightly.
“…It’s nothing,” he muttered, quieter this time. Less convincing.
You don’t say a word about that. Just… sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. Not too close. Not too far. Just there. Present in a way that didn’t demand anything from him—but didn’t leave either.
“You’re upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
He shot you a look, sharper than he meant it to be. “You gonna argue with me about my own mood now?”
You shrug, casual in that way that always somehow made things worse before it made them better. “Maybe.”
That almost makes him laugh.
Almost.
It dies somewhere in his throat before it can fully form.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less like a wall. More like something waiting to be acknowledged.
“Can’t I see what those are?” you ask again, softer this time, eyes drifting back to the box like it’s calling to you.
Jason doesn’t answer immediately. That’s the thing. It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s that he does. Those weren’t just pictures. They weren’t just “things.”
They were from before.
Before you. Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything that got layered on top of what he used to be until it was almost impossible to see it clearly anymore. They were proof that he hadn’t always been this.
And that was the problem.
Because if you looked too long, if you saw too much, you might start seeing him differently. Or worse—He might start seeing himself differently too.
Jason exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly on his palms, gaze fixed somewhere on the far wall instead of the box.
“…It’s just junk,” he mutters.
But even he hears the lie in it. You don’t move. Just wait. Of course you do.
You always do that. Like patience is just something you naturally have more of than everyone else in this house.
Jason clicks his tongue, jaw tightening.
He could say no. He should say no. Close it. Move it away. End it there. Keep it simple. Keep it locked up the way it always is.
But then he glances at you again. You’re looking at him like the answer matters, but not more than he does. That does something annoying in his chest. Something that makes it harder to keep pretending this is nothing.
“…Ugh,” he exhales finally, dragging a hand through his hair as if that alone can reset his thoughts. “Fine.”
The word lands a little rougher than he intends. He reaches forward and nudges the box toward you.
“You can look,” he adds, quieter, almost begrudging. Then, after a beat—eyes still not quite meeting yours.
“Just stop looking at me like that.”
He doesn’t specify what “that” is. He doesn’t have to. And he absolutely hates how quickly you light up at his answer. Not loud or dramatic. Just this small shift—this soft, immediate focus like the world narrowed down into something you were allowed to care about.
You carefully pull the box closer, fingers brushing over its edges like you’re afraid it might disappear if you move wrong. Jason watches before he can stop himself.
He tells himself it’s just to make sure you don’t drop anything.
That’s all. Nothing more.
Each picture you pull out, you look at like it holds weight. Like it carries something worth preserving. Your expression softens in a way that’s almost too open for this house—too unguarded, too honest.
And for some reason, that steadies something in him. Lowers the noise in his head by a fraction. Jason looks away before he gets caught staring. Clears his throat. Runs a hand through his hair again, slower this time, like he’s trying to settle himself back into something familiar.
“…It’s just Bruce being Bruce,” he says finally, dismissing whatever concern he knows you probably walked in here carrying.
An answer that said the truth, but not the whole of it. It was the safest answer he had. The only one he was allowed to give.
You frowned, pausing as you slowly put down one of the frames, your brows pulling together. “Did he scold you again?”
Jason let out a short, humorless breath that almost passed for a laugh, shaking his head faintly.
Again.
Like it was something routine. Like it was just another entry on a list of things that happened in his life now.
(It was starting to feel like that.)
“Something like that.”
It wasn’t a lie. Just… not the whole truth either.
You shifted on the bed, to a more comfortable position, close enough now that he could see the way your fingers curled into the sleeves of your sweater, like you were holding onto something invisible.
“What happened?”
It was a simple question, but with a dangerous answer. It hung there between you both longer than it should have. For a second, Jason actually considered it.
To just tell you.
To say it out loud. To rip the whole thing open and let you see it the way it actually was. The suits. The masks. The double life. The literal cave that’s been underground for years.
The fact that Bruce wasn’t just your father—he was Batman. That Dick was Nightwing. That he had been Robin during the years he was still in Gotham. That Jason was—
He swallowed. Hard. Because if there was one line in this house that was never meant to be crossed, it was this one.
Bruce had made that clear. Dick had too.
She doesn’t get to know.
So Jason forced the thought down, along with everything else that came with it. He let his shoulders drop like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t been sitting in his chest all day.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
That should’ve been enough. For anyone else, it would’ve been. But you weren’t anyone else.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true,” he replied, a little too quickly.
You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. Of course the one thing you inherited from your father was his absolute stubbornness when it came to things like this.
And that was the problem. That was always the problem. You were looking at him like you could see straight through every deflection he threw your way. Jason exhaled through his nose, a little sharper this time as he looked away.
“Seriously, (Name). Drop it.”
There it was.
The wall. Not anger. Not really. Just… distance. Necessary distance. He didn’t like this. Not one bit at all.
Didn’t like pushing you away when all you were doing was trying to care. You were the only one in this house who did it so openly, without conditions, without expectations.
And he was shutting you out anyway. Because he had to. Because if he didn’t—
“You’re acting like no one in this house is on your side.”
That stopped him. Completely. Not because it was loud or sharp. But because it was true enough to land somewhere he hadn’t built defenses for.
Jason went still, the words landing somewhere deeper than they should’ve. His jaw tightened as his gaze dropped, his hands clenching slightly against the fabric of his jeans.
“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly, before he could stop himself. “Feels like that sometimes.”
The honesty slipped out, raw and unfiltered.
He hated that it did. Because lately, it had been getting harder to ignore. Harder to pretend he still fully understood where he stood in all of this. Harder to reconcile what he was being told… with what he was seeing.
Bruce’s certainty. The way he drew lines so cleanly, so absolutely—between right and wrong, control and chaos, redemption and irredeemable.
The ones who got chances. The ones who didn’t deserve them. The ones who slipped through the system anyway, wrapped in power and influence and names that made consequences hesitate. Jason’s jaw flexed slightly as the thought tightened in his chest. The ones who—
“But I am.”
Your voice cut through it. Not loud. Not urgent. Just certain.
It pulled him out of the spiral like a hand catching him mid-fall. Jason blinked, looking up at you again—properly this time.
You didn’t hesitate. You just sat there like the answer was obvious, meeting his gaze like it was the simplest thing in the world—like it wasn’t something that was complicated or or had layers of hidden meanings. Like it was just… true.
“I’m on your side, Jay,” you say again, softer this time, but no less steady. “Always.”
Something shifted in his chest. It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t erase the argument, or the words that stuck to him, or the anger that lingered tight under his skin. But it… eased it.
Just a little. Just enough that it didn’t feel like it was going to consume everything.
Jason let out a quiet huff through his nose, glancing away like he was unimpressed, like it didn’t matter as much as it did.
But his voice betrayed him anyway—lower, less sharp than before.
“Yeah? You sure about that?”
You nodded immediately, without a second of hesitation. “Uh-huh.”
He studied you for a moment, then reached out and nudged your shoulder lightly with two fingers.
“Even if someone bribed you with, I don’t know… those stupid Sanrio stuff you like to collect for some reason?”
Your eyes widened instantly, and you gasped like he’d just presented you with the greatest moral dilemma of your life. You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think it over very seriously.
“Hmm,” you hummed. “That’s… really tempting, actually.”
Jason stared at you, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”
“It’s a serious offer,” you insist, barely holding back a smile. “You don’t understand the value of what I’m being asked to give up—”
Before you could finish, his hand came down on your head, ruffling your hair roughly.
“Hey—!” you squawked immediately, trying to swat him away, laughter breaking through your protest. “Stop that!”
He didn’t. At least not right away. And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in his chest loosened enough that something like a laugh slipped out of him too. That alone made your expression brighten.
“I’m kidding!” you said quickly, still laughing as he finally let go. “I’m kidding.”
Jason dropped his hand, shaking his head slightly as if you were the most ridiculous thing he’d dealt with all day. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. You looked up at him again, expression softening.
“Even if they offered me, like… a super rare Pompompuri plush from a Japan-only blind box drop,” you added, more seriously now, “or a limited-run Kuromi Sanrio collab set that sold out instantly—”
“Okay—Now you’re just pushing it.”
“I’m making a point.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but there was no real edge to it anymore.
You nudged his shoulder this time, gentler than he had been.
“I’d still pick you.”
No hesitation. No embellishment.
Jason didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust himself to. For a second, he just looked at you—really looked. At the way you stood there so certain, so unwavering, like the world couldn’t convince you otherwise even if it tried. Then he looked away.
“…Even if I were against Bruce?”
The silence that followed shouldn’t have felt this deafening. But it did. It pressed into the space between them, heavy and unspoken, stretching just long enough to make Jason painfully aware of everything he didn’t want to see on your face.
Because that was the thing. He didn’t look. He couldn’t. If he did, he might actually see it—disappointment. Confusion. Maybe even something worse. And that would be worse than anything Bruce ever said to him.
Damnit.
Would you be disappointed in him? For keeping something this big buried? For standing here in front of you, answering questions like this while carrying a whole other life he wasn’t supposed to speak about? For not telling you the truth, even now, even when you were sitting right here looking at him like he was someone you trusted without question?
He didn’t understand it. Still didn’t.
How Bruce and Dick could carry this—this double life, this split truth—and act like the weight of it didn’t matter to you at all. Like it didn’t leave anything behind.
“Well, if it comes down to you and Dad… I’m gonna pick you, of course!”
What?
Jason blinked. Like he hadn’t processed the words properly.
“You don’t have to lie to my face about that, y’know.” He adds, recovering slightly, though his voice still held that disbelieving edge.
“I’m not petty like a certain someone here.”
“Hey—”
You shot back immediately, deadpan at first, before sighing and shaking your head. But you were smiling. Still smiling. Like it was obvious. Like there wasn’t even a version of the world where that answer would be anything else.
“Come on,” you said gently, tilting your head at him. “You know you’re basically the only one in this house who actually spends time with me, right? Why wouldn’t I be on your side?”
Wow.
That hit something. Jason felt it before he could stop it—that small, involuntary lift in his chest. Something warm. Something almost stupidly pleased. For half a second, it was easy. Too easy. But then the guilt followed right behind it.
Sharp. Uninvited. Because that warmth didn’t exist alone. It came attached to everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he was hiding. Everything he was pretending you didn’t deserve to know yet.
The lies. The mask. The nights. The double life. What would happen when you found out?
Not if. When.
Would you still look at him like this? Would you still mean it? Or would it turn into something else entirely?
Disgust. Betrayal. That quiet, devastating realisation that someone you trusted had been standing in front of you as something else the whole time.
He could already imagine it. And worse—He wouldn’t even blame you.
That was the part that made his stomach tighten. Because he knew what it looked like from the outside. He knew what it was. And still—
He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t open his mouth and turn everything upside down in one breath.
Pathetic. He should be able to. He was supposed to be your brother. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do this one thing.
Maybe it’s because a part of him understood why no one had told you the truth. But it still didn’t change the fact that it felt completely, undeniably wrong to keep something this huge hidden from you.
“…Yeah,” he muttered finally, forcing the thought down, shoving it somewhere it couldn’t breathe. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, pipsqueak.”
He reached out and ruffled your hair again, rougher than necessary, like he could physically shake the heaviness out of the moment. You let out another indignant sound, swatting at his hand.
It worked. Barely.
Just enough to keep things moving forward. Just enough to pretend. But even as he spoke, even as he acted normal, one thought stayed lodged somewhere deep in his chest.
When you ever found out…. Would you still look at him like that? Or would that be the moment everything finally broke?
So, Jason truly wished that if the day ever came when you learned the truth, he wouldn’t have to be there to face you or the consequences. He didn’t think he’d have the guts to face you after that. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the betrayal you’d feel.
Jason exhaled quietly, pushing it down again.
“Go downstairs,” he said after a moment, withdrawing his hand. “Before Alfred comes looking for you and blames me for distracting you.”
You groaned, but pushed yourself to your feet anyway, heading for the door—only to pause, just for a second.
“Jason?”
He looked over his shoulder. You were smiling again—but softer now. Smaller. Steadier in a way that didn’t need volume to mean anything.
“I’ll always be on your side.”
Why did you have to say it like that?
So certain. So effortless. Like it wasn’t something that could ever change. Like there was nothing else to it?
Jason didn’t respond right away. Couldn’t. So he just nodded, then waved you off like it didn’t matter as much as it did, before turning back to sort through his parents’ belongings.
Jason’s eyes snap open—and immediately, he regrets it.
Everything hits him at once.
The pounding in his skull. The sharp, high-pitched ringing in his ears that refuses to fade. The way his vision swims, blurs, then slowly—too slowly—begins to piece itself back together every time he forces himself to blink.
What the hell.
His body feels like it’s been dragged through hell and back. Limbs heavy. Unresponsive. Like they don’t quite belong to him anymore.
And that memory.
Out of everything.
Out of all the things his brain could’ve pulled up in a moment like this—
That.
His last proper conversation with you.
Before Ethiopia.
Jason’s brow furrows faintly, a quiet, pained exhale leaving him as the fragments settle into place. Why that? Why now?
A low grunt slips past his lips as the rest of it comes rushing back—the unmarked warehouse he went to check, the crates filled with gimmicky weapons and devices, the gas that burst out and dispersed into the air, the way everything had gone sideways faster than he could recover from.
“Hey—Stop moving around so much—”
The voice cuts through the haze. Familiar. Too familiar.
Jason freezes for half a second, his thoughts stuttering.
…No way.
He knows that voice. He’d recognise it anywhere. It’s only then—only now—that he becomes aware of the movement beneath him. Or rather, the fact that he’s the one being moved.
His arm is slung over someone’s shoulders. His weight half-dragged, half-supported as his boots scrape unevenly against the ground.
Jason blinks again, forcing his head to tilt just enough to look. And sure enough.
You.
Of course it’s you.
His stomach twists. What the hell are you doing here? Of all places. Of all situations. This is where he ends up seeing you again? He tries to push himself off you, instinct kicking in before logic can catch up—but the moment he shifts, his body gives out on him.
Nothing. No strength. No balance. No control. It’s like his limbs just… refused to listen. Whatever that gas was, it’s still in his system—still dragging him under, still messing with his head in ways that don’t make sense.
Badly. And he barely even breathed it in.
A frustrated sound escapes him, something between a grunt and a growl.
“…Weak,” he manages, voice rough, slurred at the edges.
Directed at himself. Obviously.
“I’m not weak. You’re just heavy.”
Jason blinks. Once. Twice. His brain lags a second behind the conversation.
What?
What the hell are you—
He turns his head slightly, staring at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Which, given everything, is saying something. His expression is… frankly ridiculous. Completely unfiltered confusion, bordering on offended disbelief.
You catch it. Of course you do.
And just like that, your own expression shifts—eyes widening slightly as realisation hits.
“Oh wait—you mean you’re weak.” Your breath hitches a little as you adjust his weight.
There’s a beat. A hint of something smug. Something very you—
Jason narrows his eyes slightly, even through the haze.
Yeah. That tone did not go unnoticed.
“Still got a smartass mouth, huh,” he mutters, voice rough, edged just enough to sound like an insult—even if it falls a little short of full bite. “Kinda impressive, considering the situation.”
You huff, clearly ticked off despite the strain in your breathing.
“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, tightening your grip on him. “Well you look like absolute shit right now, so maybe just shut up and deal with it.”
Jason lets out a weak scoff, rolling his eyes even as the motion makes his head throb.
“Look who’s talking.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough for something else to settle in. His gaze drifts back to you, and then his brows pull together.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?”
He says it like it personally offended him. And you nearly choke at that tone.
“Wha—? I just cut it, that’s all.”
Jason squints at it like he’s assessing the damage dealt to it.
“…Yeah?” he mutters. “Well it looks like shit.”
“Fuck you.”
That earns a weak, breathy scoff from him.
“Real original,” he shoots back. “Took you a whole two seconds to come up with that one?”
“Oh, I’ve got more,” you snap, shooting him a glare even as you adjust your footing. “Just waiting for you to get your head out of your ass so you might actually listen for once.”
“Yeah? Might be waiting a while then.”
“God, you’re insufferable.” You scoff, breath hitching slightly as you shift his weight again, your grip tightening instinctively when he starts to slip. The strain is starting to settle in now. Arms aching, shoulders burning. But you don’t drop him. “I don’t even know why I’m helping you right now.”
“And yet, you’re still dragging me through the streets like I’m some drunk you picked up from the streets,” he mutters, his voice rough but laced with that same dry bite. “Think we’ve both made questionable life choices.”
You let out an exasperated noise, shifting his arm higher over your shoulder.
“Maybe if someone here wasn’t built like a damn brick wall—”
“Excuse you,” Jason cuts in, faint offense slipping through despite everything. “That’s all muscle.”
“That’s dead weight right now.”
He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, though it comes out strained.
“Keep talking,” he mutters. “See how far you get.”
“Further than you, apparently,” you shoot back. “At least I can walk.”
That actually makes him pause. Not because of the jab itself. He’s heard worse. Said worse. But because you don’t falter after it.
You don’t hesitate. Don’t loosen your grip. Don’t even consider letting him drop, even when it would’ve been easier—more justified—to do exactly that.
You’re still holding him up. Still steady, despite the strain he can feel in the way your arm shifts under his weight. Still here. That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
His gaze drifts slightly, like he’s trying to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re making this annoyingly difficult for him to brush off.
“…Where’s your helmet, anyway?”
Jason lets out a rough, humorless scoff.
“Got busted up,” he mutters. “Had to use something to get away from the big man himself.”
Right. Of course.
How can you forget the fact that Jason had rigged his helmet with explosives like it was all fun and games? The way he’d wired it like it was just another tool, another exit strategy. Another line he had no problem crossing if it came down to it. You remember looking at him like he’d lost his mind when you found out. Calling him a suicidal maniac hadn’t even felt like an exaggeration at the time.
Your eyes flick back to him now.
“Of course you’d resort to that to escape. Well, look where that got you now? Your head’s busted up now because of your stupid stunt.”
Jason huffs, shifting slightly like the memory itself is annoying him more than the pain.
“That’s nothing.” he says, voice rough. “Just hit my head too hard when my body decided to give up on me and plummet to the ground.”
“So what I’m hearing is that you lost the fight with gravity and then decided that the floor was your next opponent. Truly inspiring.”
That earns you a glare—weak, but still there.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Mm,” you hum, adjusting your grip again as you keep walking. “Noted with thanks.”
Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, something quieter slipping in beneath the irritation, beneath the instinct to snap back and push you away like he always does. Like he should.
Because this—this doesn’t match what he expects. Not from you. Not after everything.
There’s a brief moment of silence before he exhales slowly, forcing himself to focus past the haze.
“Left,” he says suddenly, voice low.
You blink, thrown off by the abruptness. “What?”
“Don’t know where the hell you’re trying to take me in this situation, but there’s a safehouse,” he drawls, forcing the words out a little clearer this time, though it still sounds like it takes effort. “Around the corner. Take a left, then the second alley.”
You hesitate for half a second.
Then nod.
“Got it.”
And just like that, you adjust your grip on him and keep moving. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust. Blind, almost immediate, unthinking trust.
Something Jason can’t believe you still had in him. That sits heavier than anything else right now.
Jason lets his head tilt slightly, his weight sagging a little more into you than he intends, his body giving in where his pride won’t.
He can feel it too—the way you compensate without saying anything. The subtle shift of your stance, the tightening of your grip, the way you steady him without making a point of it.
Like this is natural. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Something about that doesn’t sit right. Because he knows better. He knows what he’s said to you. What he’s done. What he’s made clear.
And yet, you’re still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing him.
Jason’s gaze drifts, half-lidded now, the edges of his vision softening as the lingering effects of the gas creep back in, dulling the sharpness of everything around him. But even through that haze, he notices it.
You.
There was something off about you. Different.
Compared to the last time he’d seen you—almost a month ago now—you don’t look the same. Not even close.
Back then, you’d looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like everything was pressing down on you all at once and you were just… enduring it. Forcing yourself forward anyway, stubborn in that quiet, self-destructive way that Jason doesn’t even know when you’d started falling into without even realising it yourself.
But now?
You look… lighter. Like something that used to cling to you, something heavy and suffocating, has finally let go. Like you can breathe again. Like.. the you he remembers from before.
Before you picked up the Batgirl mantle.
And for some reason…. Jason can’t accept that.
He knows he should. Knows he should feel relieved—should be glad you’re not out there anymore, not throwing yourself headfirst into danger for something that was never meant to be yours to carry.
You’re safer like this. Better off. Anyone with half a brain would see that. But the thought that you can just… go back—That you can step away from it all and still be you again.
His chest tightens.
Because he can’t. There’s no going back for him. Not to that.
Not to being your brother the way he was before. Not the version of him that existed before everything that happened to him.
Before the Joker, before the grave, before whatever the hell he became after clawing his way back out of it.
That version of him is gone. Buried somewhere he can’t reach, no matter how hard he tries not to think about it. Because the truth is—
Even if you can stand here and look like yourself again… He can’t stand beside you and be the person you remember.
Not the one who used to ruffle your hair without thinking. Not the one who’d sit with you in the library or your room for hours, letting you ramble about things that didn’t matter just because it made you smile.
Not the one who could look at you without this constant edge under his skin, without the instinct to push, to snap, to keep you at arm’s length before you get too close to something he doesn’t know how to give anymore.
That version of him wouldn’t have said the things he did. Wouldn’t have looked at you like that. Wouldn’t have made you feel like—
Like you had to earn your place beside him.
His jaw tightens faintly, something heavy settling in his chest. Because you can go back. You can still be you. But him? He’s stuck with what’s left.
And no matter how much you look like the sister he remembers—
He knows, deep down, that he’ll never be your brother like that again.
His eyes drift half-shut again, vision blurring at the edges. A quiet, ugly frustration settling in his chest.
Great. Just great.
Even unconscious, even when he’s poisoned half out of his mind—
He’s still a shitty brother.
Still the same problem he’s always been.
Still not being the brother you thought he was.
By the time you finally reach the safehouse, your arms are burning and your legs feel like they might give out at any second, but you push through it anyway, adjusting your grip on Jason one last time before forcing the door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him inside.
The place is exactly what you imagined it to be—small, dimly lit, and barely furnished, more functional than livable, the kind of place meant for disappearing into rather than staying.
You don’t waste time taking it all in yet.
You guide him toward the nearest thing that resembles a couch—if it can even be called that—and carefully lower him onto it, easing his weight down despite the way your arms protest the second you let go.
For a moment, you just stand there, catching your breath, your chest rising and falling as your eyes flick around the room, scanning instinctively, taking in anything useful.
There isn’t much Of course there isn’t.
This was probably a safehouse in name only. Forgotten, half-used, stripped down to the bare minimum of survival rather than comfort. The kind of place that says more about necessity than safety.
Your lips press together faintly before you turn back to him. “So..?”
Jason’s head tilts slightly, his gaze dragging up to meet yours, heavy-lidded but still sharp enough to cut.
“So what.”
Ah. There it was.
Just like that, whatever had existed before—the brief, almost familiar ease from earlier—was gone.
Snuffed out like it had never been there in the first place. And what’s left behind is something you recognise all too well. That same tension. That same suffocating, in-between space that never quite had a name but always made itself known anyway. That strange, fragile middle ground the two of you had been stuck in for longer than you cared to admit.
And the worst part?
You’ve already done this once. Even before you had died and regressed—even before you were dragged back into this point in time—it had been like this.
Not always sharp, not always distant, but never quite settled either. Always something slightly off-centre, like the conversation was missing steps neither of you knew how to find.
But at least then… there had been that brief stretch where it eased. Where it almost felt like it could go back to something normal if neither of you looked too closely at it. The silence hadn’t felt this heavy.
But now?
Now you’re right back at the start. And it feels worse. Like the weight of everything you already know is pressing down on you, forcing you to relive it all over again with no way around it.
Seriously?
You have to go through all of this again?
The same tension. The same distance. The same unresolved, unspoken mess neither of you ever had the guts—or the chance—to properly fix.
Fuck.
Is this why just looking at him now makes your chest feel this tight?
Why your thoughts keep circling back to things you’d rather not remember? That you thought you’d already buried?
Why it still hurts?
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as the memories surface anyway.
15.
That’s how old you were when Jason did the impossible.
When he came back from the dead—not as Jason, not as the person you knew, the version you’d grown up with—but as Red Hood.
All anger. All violence. All edges sharpened into something you couldn’t recognise, no matter how hard you tried to look past it.
But you did try. Of course you did.
Because that was Jason.
Because you thought if you looked long enough, if you said the right things, if you just reached far enough, maybe there would still be something left of him—the him that you remembered—underneath all of it.
You tried to go after him, tried to understand what happened the last few years that made him this. Tried to understand what happened in those missing years to turn him into something that didn’t feel like a continuation of the boy you once knew.
You thought you could still understand him. Like reaching out would be enough. That you could still reach him the way you used to.
It wasn’t.
That intervention didn’t just end badly. It ended in a way that stuck. In a way that never really left. In a way that forever changed things between you two.
It happened again when Bruce “died”. When Jason had taken up the cowl in the worst possible way when Gotham was thrown into chaos.
Twisted it cowl into something harsher. Something final. Something that didn’t leave space for hesitation or mercy or second chances.
And you tried again. Because apparently you never learned. Because apparently distance meant nothing when it came to him.
You didn’t think you could ever bring yourself to fight Jason. Not really. Not in the way it counted. But you did.
Or at least—you tried to stop him.
Tried to pull him back from whatever direction he was spiralling into this time, even when every instinct screamed at you that this wasn’t going to end the way you wanted it to.
And that only ended just as badly. Maybe even worse.
There had been no resolution. No apology. No understanding.
No clear moment where either of you admitted fault or found understanding or even managed to put words to what had happened without it turning into something worse.
Just silence. Heavy, deliberate silence that neither of you ever broke properly again.
An unspoken agreement to leave it alone. Not talk about it. Not bring it up. Not dig into the things that would only make it worse.
To leave each other alone, to stop pushing. To act like distance was better than whatever came after honesty. To become, in practice, strangers who happened to know too much about each other to ever truly be that.
And somehow, that became… enough. Or at least, something close to it. Something you both settled into without ever really acknowledging it. You didn’t apologise or forgive.
Neither did he.
And because of that, you were now left to deal with this. Again.
Standing in front of him like none of that tension ever got the chance to fade. Like you’ve been dropped back into the part of the story where everything is still raw. Still unresolved. Still hanging there, waiting to be dealt with. And you’re the only one who knows how it ends.
Your jaw tightens faintly as you look at him.
“You done staring?”
Jason’s voice cuts through the silence, rough and edged, dragging you out of your thoughts whether you wanted it to or not.
There’s something deliberate in it. Sharp. Defensive. Like he’s already decided what this is going to be before you even say anything. You don’t answer immediately.
But he doesn’t wait.
“Go.” he’s shifting slightly where he sits, like he’s trying to push himself up despite the way his body clearly refuses to cooperate. “I’ve got it from here.”
The words would almost be convincing if not for the way his hand tightens against the edge of the couch. Or the way his shoulders tense just a little too much for someone who supposedly has everything under control.
You don’t move. Jason notices. His gaze sharpens, irritation flickering across his expression as he looks at you properly now.
“I said you can go,” he repeats, more pointed this time. “Didn’t think I had to say it twice.”
There it is.
That edge. That push. The one meant to keep you at a distance. The one he always falls back on when things get even remotely close to something real. And it still—
It still hurts.
More than it should. More than you want it to.
Because no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re used to it, that it doesn’t matter, that this is just how he is now—
It still lands. Still presses into something raw in your chest, something that never quite healed the first time. For a second, you almost let it get to you.
Almost.
Then you exhale quietly. And step forward anyway. Jason’s expression darkens immediately.
“Are you deaf or just—”
His words cut off the moment your hand comes up and grips his jaw, firm enough to stop him mid-sentence as you tilt his face toward the light.
“Hold still.”
He freezes for half a second, clearly caught off guard. Then immediately tries to pull back.
“Hey—get off—”
His hand comes up to grab your wrist, to push you away, but there’s no strength behind it. No follow-through. It falters halfway, fingers tightening briefly before loosening again like even that takes too much effort.
You don’t let go. Don’t even acknowledge it.
Your focus is already elsewhere, your gaze sharpening as you study him properly now, thumb pressing lightly against his cheek to keep his head steady.
“Pupils are still dilated,” you murmur, tilting his face slightly to catch the light better. “Reaction’s slow.”
Jason huffs, something annoyed and frustrated slipping through as he glares at you, even if the effect is dulled by the way his eyelids threaten to droop.
“Didn’t realise you got promoted to doctor. Where’s the PhD?”
“Skin’s clammy,” you continue over him, ignoring the comment entirely, your fingers brushing briefly against his temple before moving away. “Sweating more than normal. Coordination’s shot.”
“Yeah, no shit. Kinda figured that out when I couldn’t stand—”
“Heart rate’s elevated too,” you add, quieter this time, more to yourself than to him.
You pause. Your brows knit together as you run through possibilities, your mind moving faster than your body probably should be allowed to after everything.
Your grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t waver.
And for a second—just a second—there’s something else there, something that slips through the cracks of everything you’re trying to keep contained.
Something he almost notices.
Almost.
But then your expression shifts again, shutters sliding back into place as quickly as they slipped.
“…Not Ivy’s pollen,” you mutter, almost absently, your grip loosening just slightly as you lean back a fraction to take him in again. “You’d be a lot worse right now if it was. Disoriented in a different way. More… suggestible.”
Jason makes a face at that. “Don’t—”
“And it’s not Scarecrow’s toxin,” you continue, cutting him off again, your gaze sharpening as you study his expression, watching for signs that aren’t there. “You’d be hallucinating by now. Or at least showing stronger psychological symptoms.”
You pause. Look at him again. Really look this time. Then exhale, just slightly.
“…Whatever it is, you didn’t inhale enough for it to fully hit,” you conclude, quieter now, more certain. “It’s still in your system, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”
Jason huffs, slumping back further into the couch like he’s been inconvenienced more than anything else.
“Great,” he mutters. “Glad to hear I’m only partially screwed.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Just kept your focus where it needs to be. And ignore the way his glare digs under your skin, sharper than anything he’s said so far.
Ignore the way it still hurts. Ignore the part of you that remembers when he didn’t look at you like that at all.
You turn away instead, already scanning the room again, your movements quicker now, more purposeful.
It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. A place like this was always going to have something.
You spot the first aid kit tucked away in a cabinet and move toward it immediately, pulling it out and setting it down nearby as you start sorting through what’s inside.
Behind you, you can feel his gaze. Or maybe you just imagine it. Either way, when you come back over, Jason’s already trying to push himself up slightly, like he’s about to brush you off before you can even start.
Your jaw tightens slightly as you step back toward him. “Don’t—”
“Didn’t I already tell you to fuck off?” he cuts in before you can say anything, voice rough, sharper now, like he’s forcing it to land harder than his body can back up. “I can handle my own shit.”
His hand comes up and swats your arm away when you reach for him.
It’s not strong. Not really. But the intent is there. Clear as anything. Something in you stills for half a second, before snapping.
“Yeah? You call this handling it?”
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” you fire back. “And last I checked, that wasn’t exactly a high standard.”
His eyes narrow. “Funny. Didn’t realise I asked for commentary.”
“Well, someone has to say it,” you snap, crossing your arms briefly before dropping them again, too keyed up to stay still. “Because clearly you’re doing a shit job of it yourself.”
His expression hardens at that, something colder slipping into his gaze.
“Right. Because you’ve always known what’s best, haven’t you?” he shoots back. “Worked out real well for you so far.”
That hits.
You feel it. But you don’t let it show.
“Better than whatever the hell this is,” you retort, gesturing toward him. “You can barely sit upright, Jason.”
“And yet,” he bites out, “I’m still managing without your help.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving breath.
“Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“Are you?” he shoots back immediately. “Because last I checked, I didn’t ask you to be here.”
That one—That one lands deeper than the rest. But you push through it anyway.
“Yeah?” you say, your voice dropping, tightening. “And last I checked, you weren’t exactly in a position to make that call.”
His jaw clenches.
“Then leave,” he snaps. “Since you’ve done your little check-up and satisfied whatever this is—”
“I’m not leaving,” you cut in, just as sharp.
Silence. It hangs there for a second. Tense. Heavy. Unmoving.
Jason stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind the irritation.
“You always were stubborn,” he mutters, quieter now, but no less biting. “Just like Bruce himself. You really are his daughter, huh?”
Something in you stills. Not outwardly. Not enough for him to see. But internally—something tightens, sharp and immediate, like a nerve struck too precisely.
You let out a short, humorless breath.
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jason scoffs, like you’re being deliberately obtuse, like the answer is so obvious it’s almost irritating that you’d ask.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, shifting slightly despite the way his body still refuses to fully cooperate. “Well, at least unlike him, you actually know when to quit when you’re not needed.”
The words land heavier than they should. For a second, your mind almost rejects them outright. Like it misheard. Like it has to have misheard.
Surely—
Surely that’s not what he meant.
No way he would say something like that and mean it.
Right?
Your thoughts trip over themselves, scrambling for something—anything—that makes it less… final. Less deliberate. Less him.
Because if that’s really what he thinks—
If that’s really how he sees you—
Then what does that say about everything that came before?
About every time you went out as Batgirl, every time you tried to keep up with everything else. Every mistake you learned from and every time you got back up anyway, even when it would’ve been easier not to.
Every moment you pushed yourself harder, faster, further—trying to keep up, trying to be enough in a space that was never built for you to grow gently in.
Because all this while, you thought he’d be proud of you, for stepping up and doing this. That if you were able to become half the hero like everyone else was, you’d—
No.
You shut that down before it can spiral any further. You don’t let yourself go there. Not yet.
Instead, you force your breathing to even out, slow and controlled, even as something tight coils in your chest, pressing harder with every passing second.
“…What are you trying to say, Jason?” you ask, slower this time, more careful, like if you keep your tone even, you can keep whatever this is from spiraling further than it already has.
But the look on his face—that steady, unflinching, almost coldly certain look—tells you everything you need to know.
He meant it. Every word of it.
“I’m saying,” he starts, voice flattening into something colder, more deliberate, “that the best decision you ever made was quitting being Batgirl.”
The air in the room shifts. Or maybe it’s just you. Because suddenly, everything feels—Closer. Tighter.
Like the walls have inched inward without you noticing, pressing in just enough to make it harder to breathe.
Your lungs don’t quite catch up in time.
Your breath stutters before you can stop it.
“…Excuse me?”
The words barely sounds like your own.
But Jason doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften. Doesn’t reconsider what he just said.
“Everyone damn near knew you couldn’t hold your weight, especially in a city like this.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him.
Because there’s no way—
No way he actually believes that. No way he’s been thinking this all along.
“…Couldn’t hold my weight?” you repeat slowly, the disbelief slipping through despite everything you’re doing to keep it contained. “I’ve been out here for years, Jason. I’ve been protecting Gotham—with everyone else—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, a humorless edge creeping into his tone. “And how’d that go for you?”
Your chest tightens. Not all at once, but steadily. Like something pressing in from the inside, leaving less and less room to breathe the longer it lingers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jason leans back slightly, though the movement is stiff, controlled, like even now he refuses to show just how much it costs him.
“It means,” he says, “you were busy being a liability for everyone else who can actually get shit done.”
The words are simple. But they hit like something heavier.
“Always reacting instead of thinking. Always chasing leads that didn’t pan out. Always needing someone else to step in before things got out of hand.”
“That’s not—” you start, but your voice falters, just slightly. “I was not a liability. I could hold down my own shit.”
Jason notices. Of course he does.
“You think they didn’t notice?” he presses, voice sharpening. “You think they didn’t have to adjust for you? Gordon cleaning up the aftermath when things went sideways. Dickhead stepping in mid-mission when you pushed too far. Tim rerouting your intel because you couldn’t tell when to pull back.”
Each example lands harder than the last. Not because they’re entirely true. But because they’re not entirely false either.
And that’s what makes it worse.
“Those were just mistakes,” you snap, the words coming out faster now, more defensive than you intend. “I wasn’t fully trained like you were. I didn’t—”
“And that’s exactly the problem,” he cuts in sharply.
“You weren’t built for this.” Jason says, quieter now, but somehow even more brutal for it.
“You never were. So stop pretending that you ever were, even for a moment.”
Something in your chest fractures at that. Like something internal giving way under pressure it’s been holding for too long.
“…You don’t get to say that,” you manage, your voice tightening despite your best effort to keep it steady.
“I don’t?” he challenges instantly, eyes locking onto yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked like everyone else had to compensate for you just to keep things from falling apart.”
“That’s not true,” you say again, but it comes out thinner this time, strained. What the hell did he know about keeping things from falling apart?
What does he even know about trying to keep everything together despite everything never quite holding, no matter how hard you tried?
Jason doesn’t give you time to settle into that thought.
“You were the weak link,” he continues, blunt and unrelenting. “The one they had to keep an eye on. The one no one couldn’t fully rely on when things got bad.”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides before you even realise you’re doing it.
“That’s not what it was,” you say, louder now, the control you’ve been clinging to starting to slip. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t even there. You don’t know what it was like after you were gone—”
“And yet you stepped right into the mess, didn’t you?” he shoots back. “Put on the suit like it was yours to take.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Then what was it?” he demands, his voice cutting straight through yours. “Because for what it’s worth, you picked up whatever you could and ran with it. Called whatever shit you did good enough.”
That hits somewhere deeper.
You didn’t just pick up the mantle just to fill the gap. It wasn’t supposed to be just that.
“Good enough?” you echo, your voice cracking around the edges now despite your effort to hold it steady. “You think that’s what it was? That I was trying to look for validation in places I should’ve never touched in the first place?”
“You’re saying you weren’t?” Jason shoots back, a scoff slipping through like he’s already decided the answer for you. Like nothing you say is going to change it.
No.
That wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.
Because it was more than that—it had to be more than that. It wasn’t just about proving something or chasing approval. It was about staying, about doing something, about not letting everything fall apart when no one else seemed to—
…Right?
Jason exhales sharply, shaking his head slightly, like he’s already tired of the argument, like your silence just proves his point.
“You probably kept showing up anyway and told yourself, ‘this is fine, this is enough.’”
His gaze locks onto yours.
“No matter how many times it clearly wasn’t.”
Your breath catches. Your vision blurs for a second. Not from anything physical. From the sheer weight of it.
“I tried,” you say, quieter now, but no less raw. “I did everything I could to—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts again. “That’s the problem. You tried.”
The implication sits there.
Ugly. Unspoken. Clear.
“You tried,” he repeats, like the word itself bothers him. “No one asked you to, but you did.”
“Then what the hell was I supposed to do?” you cut in, the question breaking out of you before you can stop it.
Jason frowns, something sharper surfacing beneath the exhaustion, his voice rough as he snaps back, “Do nothing. Just—live your life like a normal kid your age should.”
“Normal?” you echo, the word cracking as something in you finally gives way. “And be the naive, clueless girl who had no idea what the hell was going on right under her nose? Just—what? Smile and pretend everything was fine while all of you were out there living double lives behind my back?”
Your fists tighten at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to ground you.
“Be blissfully ignorant while my own family kept lying to me?”
“At least you wouldn’t have been wrecking your life,” he shoots back immediately, jaw tightening. “Throwing yourself into shit you were never ready for just because you thought it meant something.”
“Goddamnit, Jason—!” Your voice breaks louder now, sharper, edged with something you can’t hold back anymore. “I didn’t become Batgirl because of some righteous cause or whatever the hell you think it was!”
“Oh yeah?” he fires back, eyes narrowing despite the haze of the toxin still dragging at him. “Then enlighten me. Why did you? Not for the glory? Not for the validation? Then what for?”
The words hang there. For half a second, you almost don’t say it. Almost swallow it down like everything else. But you don’t.
“Because I thought you’d be proud of me.”
Everything stills. Not gradually. All at once. Like the air itself has been pulled tight between you.
Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And somehow, that’s worse.
Because the look on his face—
It’s unreadable.
Flat in a way that feels wrong. Like whatever’s behind it isn’t something you’re meant to see.
“…What the fuck are you talking about?”
Jason’s voice comes out rough—low, strained, threaded with something sharp that doesn’t quite settle into anger, but isn’t anything close to calm either.
For a second, your resolve wavers under it. Under him. The weight of his stare alone feels enough to make you second-guess everything you were so sure about just moments ago. But if you back down now—
If you take it back, soften it, pretend you didn’t mean it, then he wins.
Then everything he’s been saying about you—about this—stands uncontested.
So you force yourself to stay where you are. Force the words out, even if they don’t come out as steady as you want them to.
“I thought…” Your voice dips, quieter now, your gaze dropping to the floor because you can’t quite hold his anymore. “I thought if I became a hero like you, I’d be… honouring what you did.”
The admission sits there. Bare. Unprotected. And for a moment, there’s nothing.
Just silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like the room itself is holding its breath.
It stretches. Too long. Too heavy. Until you can’t take it anymore. But when you finally look up, you immediately wished you hadn’t.
Because the look on Jason’s face—
It’s not confusion. Not disbelief.
It’s fury.
Raw. Immediate. Unfiltered in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen directed at you before.
“You think I’d be fucking honoured?” he snaps, voice rising despite the strain in it, something volatile cracking through. “That you’re throwing yourself into Gotham’s gutter and tearing yourself apart in the process?”
Each word hits harder than the last.
“You think that’s what I wanted for you?” he continues, harsher now, like he can’t stop once he’s started. “That I’d be proud of you for that?”
He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“Bullshit,” he bites out. “You know me better than that.”
“Do I?”
The words slip out before you can catch them.
Jason’s glare sharpens instantly, something dangerous settling behind it—but you don’t stop. You can’t.
Because if you do, if you hesitate now, then everything he’s said just… stands. Like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.
“I mean, I thought I knew you,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your chest tightens. “I tried to believe I still did. But seriously—do you expect me to stand here and pretend you’re the same Jason I grew up with?”
Your voice wavers, just slightly.
“After everything?”
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, he says nothing. And somehow, that silence feels worse than anything he’s thrown at you so far. But then, a short, hollow breath leaves him.
“So that’s it, huh?” he mutters, something jagged threading through his voice. “You look at me and all you see is what?”
He lets out a short, humorless breath, shaking his head faintly.
“A monster?” he says flatly, like the word doesn’t even belong to him anymore—like it’s already been decided. “Some fucked-up thing wearing the face of the boy you used to know?”
Your expression twists instantly. Alarm, disbelief, something close to panic flashing across your face as you step forward without thinking.
“What?! No—Jason, that’s not what I—”
“Don’t try to dress it up like it’s anything else. It’s exactly that, isn’t it?” Jason cuts you off, not letting you finish.
You falter. Because he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you the space to correct it. To fix it. To explain what you actually meant.
“Don’t lie about it. Not now.”
His gaze locks onto yours, unyielding.
“Because I get it,” he continues, voice rough, but steady in a way that feels wrong. “I know exactly what I look like from your side.”
There’s no anger in it. No heat. Just something colder. Something resigned.
“You had this version of me in your head,” he goes on. “The one that died. The one worth missing. Grieving.”
Your chest tightens.
“Jason—”
“And then I come back,” he keeps going, like you didn’t speak at all. “And I don’t resemble him. Not even close.”
His lip curls faintly.
“Just this—” he gestures vaguely to himself, like even he doesn’t have the right word for it. “Violent, fucked-up replacement that crawled its way back and decided it still had a place here, right?”
Your breath catches.
“That’s not—”
“And I’m guessing that the person you thought me out to be didn’t last very long, did it?” he cuts in, voice rougher than ever. “The second you found out about the masks. The suits. What we actually do. What everyone kept from you.”
His gaze sharpens, boring into you.
“Bet that shattered real quick.”
You shake your head, already trying to push back. But he doesn’t let you.
“Because it wasn’t some tragic accident anymore, right?” he continues, harsher now. “Not some kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
His jaw tightens so sharply you can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, a faint, restless pulse that betrays everything he’s trying to keep buried.
“Just me. Being reckless. Stupid. Getting myself killed because I thought I could handle shit all on my own.”
Each word lands heavier than the last.
“And that probably made it easier for you,” he adds, quieter—but worse for it. “Easier to let go. Easier to stop caring. Easier to stop missing the kid who wasn’t even worth half of what you made him out to be.”
“I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” he cuts in again, more forceful now. “Didn’t realise you were grieving someone who didn’t even exist the way you thought he did?”
“That’s not true—” you try again, voice breaking through, desperate to cut him off—but he barrels right over you.
“So what did you do?” he presses, relentless. “You moved on. Put on the suit.”
Your stomach drops.
“Tried to prove you’re not like that kid,” he continues, something almost bitter slipping through now. “That you can do it better.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Become something he couldn’t be.”
A beat.
“Mock him for doing something reckless.”
Your hands tremble at your sides.
“And in the process,” he finishes, voice low, cutting, “you turn into someone better than him.”
The words hang there. Heavy. Wrong.
And for a second, you can’t even process it.
Because what the hell is he even saying?
Your mind stumbles over it, trying to make sense of something that feels so completely, fundamentally off.
Mock him?
Become better than him?
Is that seriously what he thinks?
Is that what he’s been thinking this whole time?
Your chest tightens, something sharp and disbelieving clawing its way up. Because that’s not what it was. Not even close.
And the fact that he thinks that—
That he could twist everything you did, everything you went through, into that—
It makes something in you recoil.
Like you’re hearing a version of your own story that doesn’t belong to you. Like he’s taken it, stripped it down, and rebuilt it into something unrecognisable.
Your voice doesn’t come out at first. Because for a moment, you’re just staring at him. Trying to figure out when it got this bad. When he started seeing you like this. When he decided this was all you were.
“…You really believe that?” you manage finally, quieter now—but unsteady in a way that gives you away anyway.
Jason lets out a scoff that almost turns into a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.
“What else is there to believe?” he shoots back, voice roughening again. “Realising I wasn’t the boy you thought I was must’ve made it easier to stop grieving, right?”
“Stop grieving? Jason—”
“Because I lied to you for years,” he cuts you off, each word sharper than the last. “Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Acting like I was—what? A brother you could actually trust? Someone you could stand beside no matter what?”
Your fingers curl into your palms. Hard.
Stop.
That thought hits you like a reflex.
Stop. This is wrong. All of it is wrong.
That’s not what happened.
Not in your head. Not in your memories. Not once did it ever feel like that.
But Jason doesn’t stop long enough for you to say it.
“Well,” he adds, voice dripping with something bitter and deliberate, “sorry to disappoint you, pipsqueak.”
The nickname lands wrong this time. Not soft. Not familiar. Weaponised.
Like he’s trying to remind you exactly where you stand. Like he’s drawing a line—and deciding, all on his own, that you don’t get to cross it.
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“But don’t bother clinging to your little version of me,” he continues, colder now, more controlled in a way that somehow feels worse. “Those pathetic images you built up in your head—don’t try to fix me into them.”
Your face goes still—too still—expression smoothing out into something unreadable, something that gives him nothing to latch onto.
For a second, it almost looks like you’ve shut down. And Jason notices. Of course he does. He always does.
“…What, you suddenly go mute or something?” he presses, pushing again, voice edged with irritation, with something almost restless beneath it. “Say somethi—”
Thwack.
The sound cuts him off clean. Sharp. Immediate.
You don’t even register moving until it’s already done.
Jason’s head snaps to the side, the force of it enough to send him tipping off the makeshift couch entirely, his already weakened body unable to catch himself as he hits the ground with a rough thud.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
“What the fuck, (Name)—??”
His hand comes up to his cheek, pressing against the point of impact, eyes snapping back to you in disbelief.
Your knuckles throb.
A deep, burning ache settling in almost instantly, skin already bruising beneath the surface.
But you don’t care. Not about that. Not right now.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, something sharp and furious threading through every breath as you look down at him.
“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice tight, shaking just enough to betray what’s underneath, “assume shit about what I’ve been through and why I’ve been trying to do what I did all this time.”
Your hands curl tighter at your sides, ignoring the sting.
“You don’t want me clinging onto pathetic images I made up about you?” you say, the words coming out sharper now, steadier the longer you speak. “Fine. Then don’t fucking do the same thing to me. Don’t stand there and act like you know what I’ve been through.”
For once, Jason doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t twist your words before you can finish them. He just… stays quiet. And it throws you off more than anything else he’s said so far. Even so, you take it for what it is.
An opening.
Because if you stop now, if you let that silence swallow this up the way it always has before, then nothing changes, and everything he said about you just lingers there, unchallenged, like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.
“I’m not going to stand here and pretend we’re the same people we were a few years ago,” you continue, your voice quieter now, but far more grounded. “We’re not. Not even close.”
Your arms fold tightly across yourself, not defensive—just… holding something in place, but even that doesn’t last. They fall back to your sides, as if even that small comfort isn’t something you’re allowed to have.
“I know you’re never going to be the Jason I grew up with again,” you admit, the words heavier than you expected them to be. “I’ve known that for a long time now, from the moment you came back and looked at me like I was just another person in your way.”
There’s a pause, brief but enough for the memory to surface, uninvited and unwelcome.
“But don’t you dare think I’m still that same 12 year old girl either,” you add, lifting your gaze to meet his properly this time, something firm settling behind your eyes. “The one who didn’t know anything. The one who just… stood there and believed whatever she was told because she didn’t know any better.”
The room feels too small. Too quiet.
Every shift of movement feels louder than it should—the uneven rhythm of both your breathing, the way your fingers curl and uncurl like you’re grounding yourself in something real.
“We can’t go back to what we were,” you say, more evenly now. “And honestly?”
Your jaw tightens faintly.
“I don’t want to.”
Because wanting that would mean pretending none of it happened. Pretending it didn’t hurt the way it did. Pretending you didn’t have to rebuild your entire understanding of the people you loved from the ground up.
“It messed me up,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. “Realising that everything I thought I knew about my own family was barely even the surface.”
You let out a small, humorless breath, your gaze dropping briefly before you force it back up again.
“And the worst part?” you add, something bitter threading through it. “I didn’t even find out from any of you. I had to find out from Tim—who was practically a stranger back then. Someone who wasn’t even apart of all this.”
You see the shift in Jason then, the way his shoulders tense slightly like he’s about to say something, like he’s ready to cut in and redirect the conversation before it gets any further.
But this time, you don’t let him.
“You were the only one on my side in that house. So what the hell did you think happened when you died?”
Your hands clench.
“You think I just went back to living my life like normal?” you demand. “Like nothing changed? Like I just… moved on?”
A harsh breath leaves you.
“Fuck no.”
Your voice cracks—and you don’t bother fixing it.
“I grieved you. Every single day.”
Your gaze drops for a second, like the memory alone is enough to pull you under.
“I went to your grave,” you say, slower. “I sat there for hours sometimes. Talking. Waiting. Like you’d somehow come back if I stayed long enough. Stupid, right?”
Your throat tightens.
“I mourned you,” you add, more firmly. “So don’t—don’t you dare sit there and tell me I didn’t. That I stopped caring. That I didn’t miss you.”
Silence. This time, it lands differently. You look back up just in time to catch it.
The shift in his expression. Subtle, but there. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something—then closes again. And something about that earns a hollow scoff from you.
“I’ve thought about it so many times,” you go on, quieter now, but no less intense. “What I’d say if I ever got the chance to confront you.”
You let out a quiet sigh, your fingers slowly curling back into fists.
“I wanted to ask you why,” you admit. “Why you—of all people—kept something like that from me.”
Your gaze locks onto his.
“You were the one I trusted the most,” you say. “The one I thought would always be on my side, no matter what.”
Your voice dips.
“And you still chose to keep me in the dark.”
That gets a reaction. A real one.
Jason shifts, something sharp flashing across his face—something defensive, something immediate—like he needs to push back before anything you said has the chance to settle.
“And if I did tell you, what then?” he shoots back, voice rough, strained at the edges. “You think that would’ve changed anything? You’d still have tried to throw yourself into this mess. Into the exact thing that—”
“I never wanted to be Batgirl in the first place, damnit!”
Your voice cuts clean through his, louder than anything you’ve said so far, the force of it catching even you off guard. For a second, the room feels like it stills around it. You don’t stop.
“I didn’t grow up dreaming about putting on a suit or running around Gotham trying to play hero,” you continue, your chest rising and falling unevenly now, the words coming faster, more raw. “I didn’t want any of this.”
Your hands clench at your sides.
“I only took up the mantle because that stupid, naive girl who had no one left to lean on thought it was the only way to hold herself together,” you say, your voice tightening despite your effort to keep it steady. “The only way to make sense of everything that fell apart.”
A breath—shaky, uneven.
“The only way to feel like I still had some control,” you add, quieter now. “Some purpose. Some… connection to something that hadn’t completely disappeared.”
Your gaze lifts back to his, something unguarded flickering through it now.
“It wasn’t about proving anything,” you say. “And it sure as hell wasn’t about replacing you.”
Because that thought—that very idea—still feels wrong even now.
“It was the only thing I had left that felt even remotely close to… you,” you admit, softer this time, like the words cost you something to say out loud.
A beat passes.
“And yeah,” you add, your voice steadier now, even if your chest still feels too tight, “maybe it was stupid.”
Your jaw tightens faintly.
“But don’t stand there and twist it into something it was never meant to be.”
The air between you goes still. Not empty—just heavy, like everything you’ve said has settled into it, pressing down in a way that makes it harder to stay where you are.
And suddenly, you can’t look at him anymore.
You turn on your heel, the movement sharper than intended, more instinct than decision, like distance—any distance at all—might be enough to keep everything from spilling further out of your control.
Because that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.
You hadn’t meant for it to come out so raw, so unguarded, stripped of all the careful restraint you’ve spent years building. It didn’t feel like it was just your 16 year-old self standing there, reacting, struggling to keep up with everything being thrown at her.
No.
It felt like you. The you right now.
And that’s what makes it feel so wrong. Because you weren’t supposed to say that. Not here. Not now.
Your breathing feels uneven as you stare ahead, unfocused, your thoughts still trying to catch up to the weight of everything you just admitted out loud whilst trying to get as far away from the safehouse as you could.
Slowly, your gaze drops.
Your hand comes into view, and only then do you properly register the dull, persistent ache pulsing through your knuckles.
The skin is already bruising, discolored beneath the surface, the impact from the punch earlier settling in now that the rush of adrenaline has started to wear off.
You flex your fingers experimentally, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the soreness.
“…Seriously,” you mutter under your breath, your voice quieter now, edged with something dry and almost disbelieving despite everything. “What the hell is he even made of?”
A tear slips free before you can stop it.
so…. thoughts? lowkenuinely think i yapped too much with this ngl but… 🤕 if i made mistakes in this then ggs 💀 | check out this peak art if you haven’t
You had just—what, snapped at Tim? And not in the normal, passive-aggressive, “I’m going to make this as difficult as possible for you” kind of way.
No. You had gone dramatic.
Full “No, Tim. Don’t. I’m not here to listen to whatever you have to say” levels of dramatic. Like you were starring in some self-indulgent soap opera about betrayal and lost trust.
And then, because that wasn’t enough, you had kept going.
“The least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.”
Like you were some righteous saint, personally assigning him his penance.
And then, to top it all off—
“You don’t have to bother yourself with me anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”
You’ll make sure of that.
You’ll 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 orphanage’s 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 couldn’t 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, that’s what you had overheard from one of the staff members you’d befriended. If there was ever a time to do some snooping, it was now.
You just needed to—
“Wow. You look like you just had the worst conversation of your life.”
Your entire body tensed.
Because of course.
Of course.
Slowly, you turned your head—only 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. “Finally making use of that superhearing of yours, huh?”
Kon’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Only when it’s worth it,” he said, tilting his head slightly, clearly intrigued.
“You looked like you were about to burst into flames back there. Just thought I’d check in on you.”
Of course he noticed that.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, you checked in. You can go now.”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “Not even a ‘thank you’ for my concern? Cold.”
You rolled your eyes and turned away. “Go bother someone else.”
“Nah.” 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. “I’m good, thanks.”
You sighed. Loudly.
Because of course he wasn’t going to leave.
Of all the people to find you, it just had to be him.
You and Kon had never really been close.
You’d only ever known him as Tim’s best friend. Tim’s partner-in-crime. Tim’s “I’m going to try and clone you 99 times because I have attachment issues” best friend. The guy who didn’t 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 you’d 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 Kon—Kon, of all people—had decided to join you for the pity party.
Fantastic.
You exhaled sharply. “If you’re just here to talk, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”
Kon tilted his head. “Not in the mood? Or trying to be sneaky?”
Your fingers twitched.
Because that was dangerously close to being an actual observation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said flatly.
Kon hummed. “Sure you don’t.”
You shot him a warning look. “Are you done?”
“Not really.”
You sighed again. “Then what do you want?”
Kon grinned. “Needed a break. The kids get exhausting after a while.”
That, at least, was something you could understand.
You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah. I don’t know how the others do it.”
“Right?” Kon groaned, dropping down to sit beside you. “One Bart is enough. A whole room of them? No, thanks.”
That caught you off guard. You hadn’t 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. “What?”
Kon blinked, then grinned. “So even you can laugh, huh?”
You deadpanned. “What, am I not allowed to?”
Kon held his hands up. “No, no. Laugh all you want. Just thought you’d be more of a carbon copy of your pops.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. It was like a sharp stab to the gut. You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel something close to irritation.
And without thinking—
“Don’t compare me to him.”
Kon froze.
You weren’t angry, per se.
But there was a sharpness to your voice that hadn’t been there before.
A warning.
Kon, to his credit, immediately backtracked. “Right. My bad.”
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. “Well, I’ve got work to do.”
Kon looked at you, mildly confused. “Work?”
You gave him a pointed look. “Staff needs help around here. I’ve got my hands full.”
Which was true—on 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.
Kon’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ll tag along.”
“No.”
Kon blinked. “No?”
“No.” You said it too quickly, too firmly, and you knew it.
Kon squinted at you, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “Aww, why not? Thought you’d be grateful to get some help around here. After all, isn’t that what you wanted Tim to do?”
Your stomach dropped.
Of course, he’d heard that.
Of course, with his super hearing, he’d caught every single word.
You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced for an out. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
Kon grinned, leaning back against the courtyard railing with all the ease of someone who had all the time in the world. “Nope.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple.
Kon, still lounging like he owned the place, tilted his head at you. “So, are you gonna let me help you out, or—”
“I like to work alone,” 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 didn’t look back.
But you could feel his gaze on you the entire way.
For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to follow. You could feel his gaze on your back, but he didn’t move.
Good. You needed him to leave.
Once inside, you made your way toward the front desk, where one of the orphanage staff members—Miss Jenkins—was standing, sifting through some paperwork. She wasn’t 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. “Miss Jenkins.”
She looked up, offering a polite smile. “Ah, good timing. I was just about to look for someone to help with some tasks.”
Perfect. The more she trusted you, the easier it would be to sneak around later. You forced a pleasant expression, nodding. “I can help.”
Miss Jenkins looked relieved. “Great. There are some supplies that need organising in the storage room—”
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 you’d see, you glanced to the side—only 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.
“So,” he drawled, his arm still slung casually over your shoulder, “what are we helping out with?”
You have got to be kidding me.
You just stared at him.
Flabbergasted.
Because what part of “I like to work alone” 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. “Oh, perfect! That makes things easier.”
No, it does not, you thought, barely restraining the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.
You wanted to strangle him.
But you couldn’t.
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. “Yeah,” you said, voice strained. “Great.”
Miss Jenkins handed you a list of things to check, still clearly pleased by the unexpected extra help. “If I’m not around, just put the list back here when you’re done.”
“Got it.”
If she noticed the way your voice was slightly strained, she didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“What are you doing?” you hissed, voice low but sharp.
“What are you doing?”
You clenched your teeth. “I asked first.”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “Look, I know I might be a hot hunk”—
You rolled your eyes. Seriously.
Kon chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. I know you’re up to something.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes. “So, what if I am? Are you going to snitch?”
Kon pretended to think. But you knew from one look that he was only playing with you.
“No. Never. As long as you let me join in on whatever it is you’re planning to do.”
Damn it, you thought, internally groaning. The last thing you needed was Kon sticking his nose into your business. “Why?” you asked, your voice dripping with exasperation.
Kon shrugged nonchalantly, completely unfazed by your frustration. “Why not?”
You gave him a look. “You’re wasting your time.”
Kon shrugged, his smile still intact. “So? I’ve already given Tim my time and day to spy on you. Might as well use the rest of it on you again.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not funny.”
Kon sighed dramatically. “Right. Got it. I’m just… offering help, like a good citizen, y’know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not a good citizen.”
He gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Rude.”
You weren’t in the mood for this. “Conner.”
“Call me Kon.”
You sighed sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. “Kon, I swear to—”
“So what exactly are you snooping for?” he interrupted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Because let’s be honest, you’re not exactly a volunteer type.”
You glared. “And you are?”
He shrugged. “Nope. But I can recognize a lie when I see one.”
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, he’d definitely tell Tim. If you told him the truth, there was still a chance he’d tell Tim.
Neither outcome was ideal.
Kon, as if sensing your internal battle, grinned wider. “Man, you’re really overthinking this, huh?”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m considering my options.”
“Options?”
“Yeah. Like whether I should knock you out or just leave you here.”
Kon chuckled. “Right. That’s an option.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, after a beat, Kon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, more curious tone. “Seriously though. What’s going on?”
You studied his face. He wasn’t 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 didn’t seem like he had any other agenda.
Then, finally, you quietly mutter, “Something isn’t right about this place.”
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. “Yeah?”
That threw you off. You had expected teasing. Maybe a sarcastic remark. But he wasn’t mocking you. He was listening.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Kon considered that for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Alright. Guess I’m in.”
You stared. “What?”
His smirk returned. “You heard me.”
It made you pause.
“You believe me?” You asked slowly.
Kon blinked. “Yeah?”
You frowned. “Just like that?”
“Just like what?”
“You don’t think I’m being paranoid or overreacting?”
Kon shrugged. “If there’s one thing I learned after working with Tim and you Bats, it’s to trust your instincts. Because somehow, for some godforsaken reason, you guys are always right.”
You froze.
The way he said Bats. Like it still applied to you.
Like you were still one of them.
You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t—one of them anymore.
You swallowed, staring at Kon’s face, but he wasn’t looking at you like he’d said something strange. He wasn’t looking at you with pity either, or like he was trying to backpedal. He’d said it so naturally, so easily, like it was a simple fact.
Your throat felt tight.
You looked away.
“You do know I’m not Batgirl anymore, right?” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, and you hated how it sounded—how it almost wavered.
You saw Kon hesitate, as if trying to find the right words to say.
“Yeah. I heard.”
You waited.
Waited for the inevitable Why? that always followed.
But it never came.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t press.
Just accepted it.
Your brows furrowed slightly, caught off guard.
“You’re not gonna ask why I quit?”
Kon shrugged. “Nope.”
And that… that was surprising.
You blinked. “…Why?”
His smirk softened, losing its usual cockiness. Just a fraction. “Because if you wanted to tell me the reason, you’d do so without any prompting.”
You stared.
Something deep twisted in your chest.
That was—unexpected.
People always asked.
Over and over, like they needed to hear you say it out loud.
But Kon…
He just accepted it.
Like he didn’t 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. “Well. Uh. Thanks, I guess.”
Kon’s grin returned in full force, his usual playful energy slipping back into place. “Anytime.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite shake the feeling in your chest, like something had settled in there, unfamiliar and warm.
Pushing past it, you nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. We have an orphanage to snoop through.”
Kon chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease and falling into step beside you. “Lead the way, not-Batgirl.”
You shot him a look, but he only smirked wider, clearly enjoying himself.
The search was… 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. Cole’s office, lingering outside the door, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Seriously, what are we looking for?” Kon muttered beside you, shifting his weight.
“Anything suspicious,” you whispered back.
Kon snorted. “Right. Because that narrows it down.”
You shot him a look before cracking the door open and slipping inside, Kon following behind you.
Mrs. Cole’s 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. “Alright, detective, what’s the plan?”
You rolled your eyes. “Just—check the drawers.”
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.
“Hey, do you think she’s hiding secret documents under here?” 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.
“You’re terrible at this,” you muttered.
“Excuse you,” Kon shot back. “I am fantastic at this.”
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. “I’m just saying, if I were running a shady operation, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave evidence lying around in a desk.”
“Well, lucky for us, not everyone is as smart as you, Kon-El,” you deadpanned.
“Damn right.”
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. “Oho, what’s this?”
“Locked drawer,” You murmured, studying it.
Kon’s grin widened. “Want me to break it open?”
You stared at him. “And make it painfully obvious that someone was snooping around?”
He shrugged. “I could put it back together. Maybe.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “No. No breaking things.”
Kon sighed dramatically but backed off, leaning against the desk again. “So, what’s the plan, oh wise and paranoid one?”
You pulled a bobby pin from your pocket.
Kon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you seriously about to pick that lock?”
You held up the pin. “Why else would I carry these?”
He looked vaguely impressed. “Okay, I take it back. That’s kinda badass.”
Rolling your eyes, you crouched down and got to work. It wasn’t a particularly difficult lock. You had it undone in less than a minute.
Kon gave a low whistle. “Damn. The big Bat really did teach you guys everything, huh?”
You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you pulled the drawer open, feeling a flicker of anticipation—
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 searching…
Nothing.
No hidden records. No cryptic documents. No damning evidence.
Just… nothing.
You sat back on your heels, frustration clawing at your chest.
Kon, peering over your shoulder, let out a low hum. “Sooo, either Mrs. C is really good at covering her tracks, or—”
“There’s nothing to find,” you finished bitterly.
The words tasted wrong in your mouth. Because that wasn’t possible. You knew something was off about this place. You could feel it.
So why wasn’t there anything here?
Your mind started spiraling. Had you misread the situation? Had you let paranoia cloud your judgment? Were you just wasting your time—wasting Kon’s time—chasing after nothing? Just because of something you conjured up in your mind?
Your fingers curled into a fist.
Then—
A warm hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.
You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts as Kon gave you a small, reassuring squeeze.
“You’re spiraling,” he said simply.
You stared at him, caught off guard.
He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking.
He was just… grounding you.
You swallowed, exhaling slowly. “I just—” You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “I know something’s wrong here, Kon.”
Kon nodded, like he believed you without question. “So, we’ll keep looking.”
You frowned. “Even though we just found nothing?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If you still feel like something’s off, then I’ll help you figure it out.”
You blinked. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
You hesitated.
It was stupid.
This was stupid.
You should refuse. You should just let this go.
You shouldn’t drag him into this.
But…
Maybe—just maybe—it’d be nice to have help.
Without it feeling like you were being dumb. Weak.
Without feeling like someone who wasn’t capable of doing things on her own.
Without the skepticism, the side-eyes, the exasperated sighs.
Kon wasn’t doing that. He might be humoring you, but he wasn’t questioning your decisions, either. He was just… there. Standing beside you, unwavering.
You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to unclench your fists.
“Alright,” you muttered. “Fine.”
You looked up at him. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Kon grinned. “Of course you do. I am pretty great.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up. “Come on. Let’s wrap this up before someone finds us.”
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 didn’t realize you were holding. It was so typical. So stupid. You had thought—no, you had to believe—that something was off about this place. That there was something hiding beneath its surface. But now, after sifting through Mrs. Cole’s meticulous paperwork and pristine office, as well as clean fhe storage rooms and found absolutely nothing, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were just seeing shadows.
Or worse… you were going insane.
It is plausible. After all, you somehow came back to life and you still don’t know how or why—
“Looks like we’re back to square one.”
Kon’s voice was casual, the kind of tone that suggested he wasn’t 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 didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes weren’t teasing. He wasn’t giving you that cocky grin. Instead, there was something else there. Something quieter. Something more… understanding.
You weren’t 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 thing—you rolled your eyes and muttered a half-hearted, “Yeah, no kidding.”
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 wasn’t his job to take away your weight.
“We’ll find something,” Kon said, voice steady, though there was a hint of something that sounded like reassurance. “We just gotta keep looking. No need to make it harder than it is.”
You exhaled slowly, glancing at him. “We, huh? You were really serious about helping me out with this?”
Kon shrugged, his smile returning, albeit a little more teasing. “Of course! What do you take me for?”
You sighed. “Alright, fine, you win this time, Kent.”
His grin returned, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Must’ve been hard admitting that, Wayne.”
You rolled your eyes. “Go back to Tim before I decide knocking you out is a viable option.”
Kon smirked but backed away with his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Don’t miss me too much, partner.”
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 wasn’t as heavy as before.
Maybe because you weren’t 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.
A gut feeling that you knew very well.
Adrien and Caitlyn were already watching you, and it wasn’t a gaze of mere curiosity. No, it was that unmistakable, mischievous glint. The kind that always meant they knew something.
Caitlyn’s grin was practically ear-to-ear. “Don’t think we didn’t notice who you came back with, hun.”
You couldn’t help the sinking feeling that settled into your stomach. God. You hadn’t even said a word and they were already making assumptions. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.
“Oh, shut up,” 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. “What?” He pretended to look innocent. “It’s just funny. You disappearing with Mr Hotshot—and coming back with him. Alone. After what? Hours?”
“We’ve been gone for barely an hour—”
Caitlyn nudged him in the side. “Totally suspicious.”
You tried to hide your irritation. “It’s not like that.” You crossed your arms, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. “Kon just helped out with some of the stuff around the orphanage, which is what we’re supposed to do as volunteers by the way.”
“Already calling him by nicknames, eh?” Caitlyn teased, folding her arms and giving you a look.
Ok, this was too much.
“That—“
Adrien’s grin widened, impossibly smug. “Uh-huh. Sure. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say something’s going on between you two.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you snapped, but your voice came out sharper than you meant.
That only made them more excited.
“Right.” Adrien’s tone was playful, but there was a sharpness to it, as though he knew exactly what buttons to press. “Then why are you getting all defensive, huh?”
“I’m not defensive.”
“Oh, you so are.” Caitlyn insists, raising a finger to tap her chin. “I think she’s hiding something, Adrien.”
“I’m not—”
As you said it, you turned slightly—and 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, Kon’s arms crossed and his posture that of someone who didn’t give a damn, while Tim’s posture was stiff with irritation, his words sharp and fast.
Yikes.
And at that exact moment, as if he felt your stare, Kon glanced up—right at you.
You both froze.
The moment your eyes met, something shifted.
His gaze softened, his expression pulling into a quiet smirk. It wasn’t teasing this time. It was something a little… fonder.
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 wasn’t 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.
“Did you fucking see that?”
You whipped your head back toward your friends, but the smile on your face was gone, replaced with a forced indifference. “What?”
Caitlyn gasped. “Conner just winked at you, didn’t he??”
“No.” You were emphatic, trying to brush it off, but it didn’t feel right. You were lying—to them, and to yourself.
“Uh-huh. You’re smiling way too much by the way.”
“Shut up.”
But they weren’t done. They never were.
Adrien leaned forward. “You totally like him, don’t you?”
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 Damian’s approach.
RIP.
—
A: “I swear I’ve seen that guy somewhere before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
A: “He kind of looks like Lex Luthor if you squint—“
“Nope. Definitely not.”
Tim was not having a good day.
It had been one of those afternoons where the lines between “whatever” and “I’m about to snap” blurred, and now he was pacing the courtyard, trying to ignore the incessant buzz in his mind. He’d been looking for Kon ever since his argument with you. Well, if he can call it that.
Cassie and Bart were just a few paces ahead of him, chatting casually, but Tim couldn’t 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 today—about Kon’s behaviour—had felt off. So, Tim just… asked around.
“Hey, Cassie. Bart. Have either of you seen Kon?” 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 hadn’t been the cause of half of their chaotic antics.
“Nope,” 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.
And—what the hell?
You were with him.
Tim’s 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 hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.
Why were you smiling at him?
Tim’s breath hitched. You looked comfortable—too comfortable. That smile wasn’t something you gave just anyone. It wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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 that’s when it hit Tim—he couldn’t 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, he’d get answers. He had to.
“Kon,” Tim said, his voice edged with irritation, “where the hell did you go? And what were you doing with (Name)?”
Kon’s 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. “Oh, I was just helping her out with some cleaning,” 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.
“Really?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. “Just cleaning? You’re telling me you spent all that time in there just… cleaning?”
Kon shrugged, giving him that easy-going grin that Tim hated so much right now. “Yeah, sure. There was a lot of stuff to organise, so I helped out.”
“Right...”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Well, yeah,” Cassie added, crossing her arms together. “I bet you guys were doing more than just cleaning.”
And Kon—
Kon just shrugged.
And that itself was an answer.
“What the hell.” Tim snaps, but he immediately was about to interrogate the half-kryptonian full on.
But then he saw it.
Kon’s gaze, drifting elsewhere. His attention shifting. Tim frowned.
Kon wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wasn’t focused on Tim’s interrogation or on his friends. His eyes were elsewhere.
And then, like a slow-motion train wreck, Tim’s gaze followed Kon’s, and his breath caught.
Kon’s eyes were on you.
And your eyes were on him too.
Tim couldn’t 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 wasn’t the wink that caught Tim’s attention—it was the damn shush that followed. Kon placed a finger to his lips, and Tim’s world seemed to slow down, his heart beating out of sync with everything else.
What the hell?
And as if that wasn’t bad, you smiled back.
You smiled at Kon. You actually smiled at him, the same smile that you didn’t just give anyone.
Tim’s mind spiraled, crashing into chaos. His thoughts were all over the place, every tiny movement, every subtle glance now magnified in his mind.
First Damian, now Kon.
Why does it feel like everyone else can move forward with you, but when it’s you and him, it’s 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?
“Yeah, okay, I’m done,” Tim muttered, hands clenched into fists. He took a step forward, his voice tight with something he couldn’t quite place, and definitely didn’t want to admit. “You winked at her.”
Kon chuckled. “What? I think you’re seeing things, Timbo.”
“You winked.” Tim repeated, louder this time, his frustration reaching a boiling point. “What are you guys hiding? What did you two do?” He struggled to find the words, his brain running a mile a minute.
Cassie, sensing TIm’s growing frustration, leaned back on her hands. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. Calm down, Tim, I’m sure they didn’t do anything bad.”
“If it’s nothing bad, Cassie, why isn’t he telling us?” Tim shot back, his voice dripping with exasperation, before his eyes darted over to Kon.
Kon, predictably, didn’t back down. Instead, he chuckled, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring up. “Relax, Tim. We can’t keep secrets now? We were just having fun, alright?” He shot a quick look at Tim’s clenched fists, before shooting him a grin. “How about we all take a chill pill?”
Before Tim could snap back, another voice interrupted him.
“Kent.”
“Oh boy, here we go…” Tim heard Cassie’s sigh. He didn’t 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 Tim’s own. The way his eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his sides, told Tim everything he needed to know—Damian was pissed.
“Tell me what you did with (Name). Now.”
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, they’d get the answers they needed.
Kon barely had a chance to react before Damian was on him, arms crossed, gaze murderous.
“You,” Damian seethed, “are going to tell me what exactly you and she were doing.”
Kon blinked, caught off guard for maybe a second—before his trademark smirk slid into place.
“Oh?” he drawled. “Why do you want to know, Damian?”
Damian’s glare sharpened.
Kon grinned. “What? You jealous?”
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 they’d 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 hadn’t said much in the past few minutes, content just to be next to you, but you knew that look on his face—the gears in his little mind were turning, the questions were forming.
And sure enough—
“Hey,” he started, tilting his head. “Who were those people that came today?”
You froze.
You should’ve expected it. Of course he’d ask—he 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 wouldn’t feel like a lie.
“They were… my brother,” you said at last, your voice even, careful. “And his friends.”
Elliot’s eyes widened in excitement. “Oh…! So Tim is your brother too? You have two brothers??”
There was an odd weight to that word—brothers—when spoken so freely by someone else. You hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
“…Yeah, I suppose so.”
You weren’t going to tell him that, technically, you had two other brothers and a sister as well—if 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 wasn’t 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. “That’s so cool!! I wish I have siblings. The other children here are fun, but it’s not the same as having a brother or sister.”
You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself for the wave of questions.
“Is Tim older or younger than you?”
“Older, by a year.” Not really.
“Wow! So you have an older brother and a younger brother. That’s so cool!”
“There are cooler things, Elliot.”
Elliot giggled, his face lighting up with amusement. “Maybe, but siblings are still cool! Do you guys fight a lot?”
You paused, then snorted. “You have no idea.”
Elliot gasped. “Like, actual fights?”
You hesitated again. “…Something like that.”
“Do they ever fight you?”
“Not physically.”
“Then how do you fight?”
“We… argue.”
He made a face at that, as if arguing was a far less exciting concept. “Oh.”
Before he could go down another rabbit hole of questions, you reached out and ruffled his hair. “Alright, buddy, calm down. Having brothers isn’t always fun.”
Elliot looked genuinely confused by that. “Really?”
“Really.”
He furrowed his brows, then shook his head. “But Tim was real fun today!”
That threw you off.
You blinked at him. “…He was?”
“Yeah!” Elliot nodded enthusiastically. “He 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 again—twice! And he did that really cool thing where he guessed all the card matches without looking. How’d he do that? Is he magic?”
You stared at him, your thoughts grinding to a halt.
Tim… did all that?
After everything?
After that whole argument—confrontation you had with him, after storming off on him earlier, after being frustrated, and snappy, and distant—he still… sat with the kids here? He actually did what you told him to do and spent time with them? Helped them?
You weren’t sure why that surprised you. It wasn’t that Tim was heartless or incapable of kindness—but you hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t expected him to listen to you.
Hadn’t 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 Elliot’s hair again. “…I see.”
Elliot grinned, pleased with himself, and you offered him a small, fond smile.
“I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself, kid.”
Elliot’s 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. “Will Tim and his friends come back?”
Your smile faltered slightly.
You didn’t 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 wasn’t something you could explain to Elliot.
So instead, after a beat of hesitation, you simply said, “When they have time, maybe.”
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.
“You two definitely have favorites,” you accused, crossing your arms.
Adrien scoffed. “We have favorites? That’s rich, coming from you.”
Caitlyn smirked. “Yeah, let’s not forget your little moment with Conner earlier.”
Your expression immediately soured. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Oh, I think we are,” Adrien said, grinning.
“You two are the worst.”
“Love you too.”
You groaned, shaking your head, before clearing your throat. “Anyway—same time tomorrow?”
Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances before Caitlyn winced. “Actually… I can’t make it tomorrow. I promised my aunt I’d help out with some stuff in her shop.”
Adrien nodded. “ And I have that to serve detention for that stunt I pulled in Ms H’s class, remember?”
You paused, the answer catching you slightly off guard. “Oh.”
You quickly schooled your expression, nodding in understanding. “Got it.”
A quiet beat passed before Adrien nudged you. “You still gonna come?”
You hesitated. Your eyes flickered back to the orphanage, watching as the kids ran around, playing, laughing—completely oblivious to all the complicated things that sat heavy in your chest.
Your gaze found Elliot again, still smiling, still happy.
“…Yeah,” you said finally, voice softer. “I’ll come.”
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.
“So, let me get this straight,” Roy drawled on the other end, the sounds of clanking metal and some kind of electric buzz filtering through the call. “You just finished dealing with a gang shootout last night, probably haven’t slept, definitely haven’t eaten, and instead of—I don’t know—taking a second to breathe like a normal human being, you’re already running off after another lead?”
Jason exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his gun as he navigated quieter side of Gotham’s industrial district. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for a lecture.”
“Oh, no, you definitely didn’t. That’s just a fun little bonus,” Roy quipped. “Seriously, Jaybird, do you even know what the word ‘break’ means?”
Jason’s expression remained flat. “Sure. It’s what your bowstring does when you don’t maintain it properly.”
There was a loud clang from Roy’s end. “First of all, rude. Second of all, false. I take excellent care of my bow, thank you very much.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do!”
Jason chuckled, stepping off the curb and weaving through the alleyways.
“I just don’t get it,” Roy continued. “You could’ve taken a day off—gone to a bar, watched a movie, literally anything else—but no, here you are, chasing down some random lead for God knows what.”
“It’s not random,” Jason corrected, rounding a corner. “Weapons smuggling. Shipment came in last week, no record of it anywhere. Thought I’d check it out.”
Roy sighed. “And who told you about this?”
“…I have my sources.”
“That’s code for ‘I found it in a back alley conversation, and now I’m running with it,’ isn’t it?”
Jason smirked faintly but didn’t argue. He had more important things to focus on—like the unmarked warehouse he was now approaching.
“I gotta go,” he said, tone shifting back to business. “I’ll check in later.”
Roy groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Try not to get shot, explode, or mysteriously disappear, alright?”
“No promises.”
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.
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 contents—stolen tech, modified weapons, and—
Jason frowned.
There was something off about these. They weren’t standard black-market stock. They looked… almost gimmicky. Like they weren’t meant for your average arms dealer.
His fingers barely brushed against one of the devices when—
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 wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. If he could just—
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 wasn’t 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 comm—
And then—
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 wasn’t a noise, not anything obvious. Just an instinct, a quiet pull at the edges of your awareness. A feeling you couldn’t 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.
…And yet.
Your feet had already shifted before you made the decision. You veered left, cutting through an alley that wasn’t 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 didn’t know what you were expecting.
But it wasn’t—
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 helmet—
No.
Not his helmet.
His head was tilted to the side, eyes barely open, unfocused.
Jason.
lololol finally part 3 and end of chapter 7 🤗 (don’t 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) someone made art for this chapter go check it out
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 couldn’t bear to let go. You chuckled softly, ruffling his hair in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Hey, hey, Elliot. What’s all this? I’ll be back tomorrow, just like always.”
His eyes, wide and full of sincerity, didn’t quite lose their worry. “I know you will… I know you’ll always come back, but I just—what if one day, you don’t come back?” He bit his lip, a deep uncertainty coloring his voice.
You couldn’t 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.
“Aww, Elliot. Don’t worry. I promise, I’ll always come back for you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Your voice was soft, but firm, trying to reassure him as best as you could.
The tiny boy’s 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.
“Pinky promise?” 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. “Pinky promise. I’ll always be here for you, I swear.”
Elliot’s face lit up, and for a moment, all his worry seemed to melt away. He grinned widely, “Pinky promise!”
You stood back up, brushing off your pants, feeling a lightness in your chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elliot. Don’t cause too much trouble while I’m gone, okay?”
“I won’t! I promise!” 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 couldn’t.
You walked over to Caitlyn and Adrien, who were standing nearby, clearly enjoying the sight of the exchange.
“Well, well,” Adrien teased with a raised brow, smirking. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a little sidekick now.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing it off. “Please, he’s just clingy. He’ll be fine tomorrow, just like always.”
“You know,” Caitlyn spoke, her voice light but full of amusement, “I think I’m starting to get jealous. Elliot’s got a special bond with you.”
“He’s just a good kid.”
Adrien snickered, poking fun at you. “Good kid? He’s like your shadow. He’s probably got you wrapped around his finger.”
You chuckled, shaking your head as you glanced back at Elliot, who was still watching you with a hopeful look. “Please, you two. I’m just doing my part to make sure he’s doing alright,” you said, playing along with their banter. “And anyways, it’s not like you two are much better. Who’s the one with all the girls looking up to her like she’s a disney princess that came to life? And who’s the one who has most of the boys treating him like the older brother they never had?”
“Oh, stop it, you’re going to make me blush (Name)…!” Caitlyn squeals, and you just rolled your eyes at that.
Adrien scoffed, nudging Caitlyn. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re Gotham’s sweetheart. Meanwhile, I’m just out here doing my best.”
“Doing your best? Please. Half the time, you’re just running damage control from whatever chaos you start with the boys.”
Adrien gasped dramatically. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent role model.”
You snorted. “For what? How to almost get into trouble but charm your way out of it?”
“Exactly.” Adrien winked. “It’s an art, really.”
You gave him a playful shove, laughing again. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, it’s all fun and games now. But don’t let this get in over your head.”
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.
“Fine, fine, you should get going,” Adrien said, voice filled with tease. “Wouldn’t want to keep your little brother waiting, would you?”
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 couldn’t help but sigh, the weight of his stare pressing on you.
“Right, I should go,” 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.
“So, when is Pennyworth coming?”
You didn’t even look up as you started walking, already preparing for his usual directness. “Alfred’s not coming.”
You felt the weight of his gaze on you, the confusion crossing his features despite his best attempt to mask it. “He doesn’t know you’re here?”
You shook your head, keeping your eyes ahead. “I didn’t exactly tell him I’ve been volunteering at an orphanage the past few days,” you said, keeping your voice light, dismissive, like it was nothing. “But knowing him, he probably already knows.”
Damian scoffed under his breath, clearly not convinced by your attempt at nonchalance.
“So, father doesn’t know about your… charity work?” 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. “Yes.” The words came out quiet, but firm. You couldn’t afford to let him see how much it bothered you. “And I’d appreciate it if it remains that way.”
Damian’s eyes flickered to yours, suspicion there for a moment.
“Why?”
You had to stop yourself from grimacing. It was a simple question, but the answer was anything but. You couldn’t just blurt out that you were volunteering because of a strange vision, because of Elliot, because you didn’t trust the orphanage’s 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.
“Because I don’t want to.”
The words felt hollow the moment they left your mouth. You wanted to add more, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t 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.
“And what about the warden?”
You stopped in your tracks, a chill creeping up your spine at the question. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so bluntly. You tried to mask your surprise, forcing a calm tone as you turned to face him. “What about her?”
Damian didn’t even flinch at your tone. “Don’t be stupid. The warden. I saw you freeze up the moment she walked in. So, what of her?”
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.
“I just don’t like her that much.” It wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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, though—grateful that he didn’t push you any further. You didn’t want to drag him into something you couldn’t even explain to yourself.
And after a long pause, you spoke up, your voice quieter this time. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about today? About me volunteering with my friends?”
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. “Hmph, whatever. But I’m coming with you from now on.”
Your head snapped toward him, baffled. “What?”
Damian glanced over at you, unfazed by your surprise. “Who knows what kind of nonsense you’re getting yourself into. I’ll see how much more foolery you can get away with. I’m coming with you next time.”
You stared at him for a moment, speechless, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re just gonna follow me now?”
Damian just shrugged, the smallest hint of amusement flickering in his gaze, though his expression remained guarded. “Seems like it.”
You shook your head, still processing his words. “You’re serious about this?”
Damian gave you a flat look. “Do I seem like the type to joke?”
Fair point.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “You do realize this is just volunteering, right? It’s not some covert mission. We play with kids, help out whenever we can, and make sure they don’t cause too much chaos.”
Damian crossed his arms. “And yet, you still managed to get into an argument about heroes.”
You groaned. “That wasn’t my fault! Caitlyn started it, Adrien made it worse, and you—” You jabbed a finger at him, narrowing your eyes. “You absolutely made it worse.”
Damian smirked slightly. “Tt. If you were capable of defending yourself properly, I wouldn’t have had to step in.”
You scoffed. “Oh, please. You didn’t have to say anything. You just wanted to start something.”
He didn’t deny it, which only confirmed your suspicions.
After a beat of silence, Damian glanced at you again, his expression more neutral. “Regardless, I’m coming with you from now on.”
You sighed, watching him for a moment before shaking your head. “Fine. But no scaring the kids.”
“I don’t scare them.”
You shot him a deadpan look. “You glared at Elliot earlier just because he hugged me.”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…He was being excessive.”
You stared at him, then just snorted, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m being real,” he corrected. Then, after a pause, he added, “Besides… it’s not terrible.”
You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “What’s not terrible?”
Damian averted his gaze slightly, as if the words were difficult to say. “This. What you’re doing. It’s… a respectable use of your time.”
For a moment, you just stared at him.
He wasn’t mocking you.
He wasn’t teasing.
He was being genuine, in his own roundabout way.
A small, warm feeling settled in your chest.
You bumped your shoulder against his. “Careful, Damian. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He rolled his eyes, stepping away from you. “Tt. Don’t get used to it.”
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 morning’s 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 vast—an entire block had been decimated. Asphalt was cracked, streetlights bent and twisted like they’d 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 didn’t waste time.
“Allen. Thanks for coming,” Singh said, nodding at him.
“Of course,” Barry replied. “What do we have?”
Singh glanced over at the wreckage, his hands pressed against his hips. “We’ve got a mess on our hands. No eyewitnesses. Whoever did this didn’t leave any obvious traces of themselves—no sign of forced entry, no clear motive, nothing. Just destruction.” He gestured to the carnage around them. “Looks like a metahuman attack. Something… explosive, but we can’t find anything that matches the signature of any known metas.”
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.
“This wasn’t a metahuman attack,” Barry said, more to himself than to Singh, but loud enough for the captain to hear.
Singh looked at him, brows furrowing. “What do you mean? This definitely feels like one.”
Barry stood, wiping his gloves on his pants, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not the kind of destruction we usually see from metas. Look at the placement of the damage—it’s deliberate, almost… artistic in a way.” He pointed to a section of the street where the cracks in the pavement were symmetrical, almost as if they’d been formed by a series of timed explosions, not some random burst of power.
Singh followed his line of sight. “So you’re saying this was someone else? Someone who isn’t a meta?”
Barry nodded slowly, stepping further into the scene, his eyes scanning every detail. “Exactly. And I think I know who.” He crouched next to a nearby overturned dumpster, carefully lifting the edge to reveal some scattered debris. “This looks familiar.”
Singh crossed his arms. “You’ve seen something like this before?”
Barry straightened, turning to Singh. “Yeah. We’ve seen this before. Trickster.” He didn’t need to elaborate much further—the name was enough.
Singh’s expression dropped slightly, his brows furrowed. “Trickster? I thought we had that guy locked up in Iron Heights?”
Before Barry could reply, another officer jogged up, his face tense. “I’m afraid not, Captain. Word just got out—Trickster was broken out of Iron Heights a few hours ago.”
Singh let out a groan, rubbing his temples. “Great. Literally what we need. Who knows where the hell he is now?”
Barry exchanged a glance with Singh before turning back to the scene. The Trickster’s style was all over this—chaotic but calculated, destruction meant to entertain him just as much as it terrorized the city. But something wasn’t sitting right.
“If he was broken out just a few hours ago,” Barry mused, “this means he didn’t have much time to plan. Which means either he had help, or this was meant to be a distraction.”
Singh exhaled sharply. “You’re telling me this might not even be his endgame?”
Barry stood up, glancing around once more. “Trickster never does anything small. If he’s free, he’s got something bigger in mind.” He turned to the officer. “Do we have any leads on how he got out?”
The officer shook his head. “Not yet. Prison security’s still trying to figure that out, but from what little info we’ve got, it wasn’t your usual smash-and-grab breakout. No external breaches, no power failures—nothing. It’s like he just walked out.”
Barry frowned. That only raised more questions. Trickster was smart, but he wasn’t exactly the subtle type. If someone had broken him out without setting off alarms, then it meant one of two things—someone with serious inside knowledge helped him, or Trickster had a new trick up his sleeve.
Singh sighed. “Alright, Allen. If this is Trickster, where does that leave us? What’s his next move?”
Barry scanned the destruction again, his mind racing. Trickster didn’t just cause chaos—he thrived on attention. If he was back in play, it wouldn’t be long before he made his presence known in a much bigger way.
“He’s not going to stay quiet,” Barry said, his voice firm. “This? This was just the opening act.” He turned back to Singh. “We need to find him before he takes things to the next level.”
Singh nodded. “Then let’s get to work.”
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 didn’t just cause chaos—he always had a purpose buried beneath the spectacle. Barry’s 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 precision—not by the explosion, but manually. Someone had pried them open, targeting their contents specifically. Trickster wasn’t 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. “Do we know what was stolen?”
Singh exhaled, shaking his head. “Not exactly. Just some high-tech stuff. We’re waiting on Wayne Industries to send over an inventory list.”
Barry frowned, stepping closer to the remains of the crate. He traced the edge of a deep gouge in the wood—clean, deliberate. Not random destruction. Trickster wasn’t just playing around this time.
“His MO might be leading him to Gotham,” Barry muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Singh shot him a glance. “Gotham, huh? Makes sense. If he stole something from Wayne Industries, he’ll probably need more from them. I’ll contact the GCPD, let the precinct know to keep an eye out for Jesse.”
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 he’ll have to pay a friend a visit.
“So… You’re telling me,” Kon said, leaning forward, “you’re avoiding talking to her, but you can’t stop thinking about her?”
Tim shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the window as he glanced at Kon. “It’s not that simple, Kon,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s… complicated.”
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 Kon’s frustration was palpable as he watched his best friend overanalyze everything, as he usually did.
“How complicated can it be? Just talk to her, Tim. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to bite your head off.”
“She might as well.” Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t help it—Kon was so simplistic, so carefree. “You don’t get it,” Tim said, his voice sharp, the frustration rising in his chest. “It’s not that easy. It’s not just about talking, okay? You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know her.”
Kon frowned, clearly not understanding. He was the type of person who didn’t dwell on things, someone who made decisions on impulse. Talking to someone was easy for him. He couldn’t comprehend the way Tim’s brain worked—how each decision was weighed, every word analyzed, every gesture broken down into a thousand potential meanings.
“Yeah, maybe I don’t know her. But you’re definitely overthinking this, Tim. Just… just go talk to her. It’s not that difficult.”
Tim shot him a pointed look, not realizing how much tension had built in his chest. “It’s everything, Kon,” he said, voice barely controlled. “It’s the way we’ve never ever talked outside of missions or patrols. It’s the way we never have a simple conversation. It’s a thousand unsaid things, a thousand missteps. Every time we’ve been in the same room, I’ve been trying to find a way fix it, and it’s never as simple as just saying ‘hey, we need to talk.’ I don’t know how to fix it. Fix this.”
Kon’s expression softened, but his response was only more frustration. “But it’s (Name), Tim. You’ve known her for years now. She’s not someone you just ignore. I saw the way you looked at her that day at the cafe. It’s obvious you care. So why are you making it harder than it needs to be?”
Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Because it’s not that simple. ” he muttered, voice tinged with frustration. “I just can’t mess this up—”
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.
Kon’s curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward in his chair, the grin returning to his face. “Hey, Damian, where’re you off to?”
Damian shot Kon a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. “Wouldn’t you like to know, fool?” he snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. He made no effort to slow his pace as he reached the door.
“Don’t bother with him,” Tim said, waving it off. “He’s just an asshole.”
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. “Well,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “if you’re so curious, Timothy, why don’t you go ask (Name) then? Maybe she’ll be willing to tell you where we’re going.” He emphasized we, letting it linger in the air like a challenge.
Tim froze.
His entire body went rigid, his mind stumbling over Damian’s words as they processed.
Wait… what?
Damian was going to where you were?
Tim’s heart skipped a beat as his mind raced.
You weren’t at the manor?
Where were you?
And why hadn’t 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 Tim’s demeanor. The subtle change in posture, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way Tim’s eyes narrowed in thought. It was all too familiar—the way his mind was racing, overanalyzing every word Damian had just spoken. Tim was caught in that moment where the world could’ve 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.
“Do I need to—” Kon started, but Tim cut him off with a sharp, urgent tone.
“I already sent them the message,” Tim said, his words almost automatic, his brain already halfway to the next step. His fingers twitched at his side. “Let’s go.”
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?
“Tim, wait up,” Kon called, trying to catch up, but Tim’s pace never slowed. His thoughts were a whirlwind, and he couldn’t let Damian get ahead of him—not 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 wasn’t sure how they got here—crouched 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 hadn’t 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 person—any rational person—would probably question why he had felt the need to drag his team into this.
Luckily, Tim didn’t keep normal friends.
Unfortunately, he did keep nosy ones.
“You know,” Bart whispered, shifting beside him, “normal people just say ‘hi’ to their siblings instead of full-on stalking them.”
“I am saying hi,” Tim muttered, adjusting his binoculars.
“This is not saying hi, dude,” Kon chimed in, his arms crossed as he hovered slightly above them. “This is ‘weird obsessive surveillance.’ Big difference.”
Cassie arched a brow. “Yeah, Tim. Not that I’m judging your methods, but why are we spying on your siblings?”
Kon leaned back on his hands. “She looks fine to me. Volunteering, playing with kids—kind of the opposite of suspicious, dude.”
Tim’s brows furrowed as he watched you kneel next to a child, helping them with something on the floor. You looked so at ease—comfortable—in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. His grip tightened. “That’s the thing. She’s never done this before.”
Bart blinked. “What, helping kids?”
“No, volunteering,” Tim clarified. “She never mentioned it. Never showed interest in it before. No mention of it. No hints. No reason to be here.” His grip on the binoculars tightened. “And now, suddenly, she’s here? With him?” 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. “Man, I know you have trust issues, but is her doing something like this without you knowing really that shocking?”
Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to bristle. They didn’t get it. It wasn’t just that you were here—it 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 he’d 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?
“Maybe she just wants to do something good other than just being Batgirl, like Cissie.” Cassie suggested. “Not everything’s a mystery that needs solving, Tim.”
Bart hummed in agreement. “Yeah, man. Maybe you’re just looking for problems where there aren’t any.”
Tim shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. There’s something here.”
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 wasn’t 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 hadn’t 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 of—
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 wasn’t just some impossible force you had to brace yourself against? Like he was just your little brother?
Because you didn’t look at Tim like that. Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
“Oh, wow, he’s spiraling,” Bart whispered.
Kon smirked. “Yup. Called it.”
“Shut up,” Tim snapped.
Kon grinned. “C’mon, man, what’s actually bothering you? That she’s volunteering? Or that she’s with Damian?”
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s not—”
Bart gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, is Tim jealous of Damian?”
“Excuse me?”
Kon’s grin widened. “Oh yeah, no, I see it now. You’re totally jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” Tim gritted out. “I’m just—concerned. This isn’t normal behavior for her. Something’s going on.”
Cassie hummed, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. And that ‘something’ is…?”
Tim didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.
But he was going to find out.
Unfortunately, he didn’t 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.
“Uh, (Name)?” Elliot whispered, pointing toward the bushes. “There are four weird people staring at us.”
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, “Ignore them. They’re just weirdos.”
“Hey, wait a damn minute,” Adrien said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Isn’t that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne?”
Damian barely spared a glance toward the bushes. “That imbecile and his friends have been watching us for the past twenty minutes now.”
You turned toward Damian so fast Tim swore he could feel the irritation radiating off you. “You noticed them and you didn’t say anything til now?”
Damian arched an unimpressed brow. “You didn’t notice them?” He tilted his head slightly. “How perceptive of you.”
Your eye twitched. “I hate you.”
Caitlyn, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat. “Sooo, are we just gonna sit here and let them keep spying on us, or…?”
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.
“Busted…” Kon muttered, before Cassie shoved him in the shoulder, shutting him up. “Ow!”
The sound of laughter filled the air. Children ran past, their small, eager feet kicking up loose gravel as they shrieked in delight. Conversations overlapped—voices 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 Damian—who had initially scowled at their presence—had begrudgingly been roped into Adrien’s 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 hadn’t expected him to be here. You hadn’t 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 someone’s shoulders, the weight behind a hesitation—he 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 didn’t even realise you were giving away. And right now, you could feel his stare burrowing into you, scrutinizing, analyzing—
And you knew what that meant.
It meant that you had slipped. That somehow, in some way, you had left something exposed—some stray emotion, some unguarded expression—something 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 weren’t sure what you hated more—the fact that he was here at all, or the fact that you couldn’t 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 something—something simmering just beneath the surface of his carefully controlled expression. And you hated that you couldn’t tell what it was.
What the hell was he thinking?
Then again—what 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 didn’t talk to him now, he would find another time, another place. It didn’t matter when. It didn’t 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 face—something you couldn’t quite place—but then it was gone, buried beneath that infuriatingly unreadable mask.
Because he was looking at you now, now, after everything, after all this time—
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.
“So. Why are you here?”
It came out flat. Cold. No anger, no warmth—just… nothing.
Tim blinked, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to address him first.
For a brief moment, you thought—hoped, even—that he wouldn’t answer. That he would realize this wasn’t 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 didn’t.
“…Just wanted to know what you’ve been doing.”
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 wasn’t quite a smile.
“Wow.”
Tim didn’t react. He just stood there, waiting.
Waiting for you to say something else.
So you did.
“Why?”
Your voice carried a weight to it now. Heavier.
Tim’s brows knit together slightly, as if confused by your reaction. “Is it wrong for me to be curious?”
You let out a dry laugh. “No. But it is unlike you to want to know what I’ve been doing.”
And there it was.
The first visible crack in his carefully controlled expression.
It was subtle—the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides—but you saw it.
You saw all of it.
And it made something bitter rise in your throat.
“Why is it unlike me?” 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. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
Silence.
Tim didn’t say anything.
Didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it.
And that was answer enough.
Something in you cracked.
It shouldn’t have bothered you this much. It shouldn’t have.
But it did.
Because the way he was looking at you now—like you were some unsolved puzzle, like you were some missing piece he was only now realising wasn’t where it should be—
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.
“You didn’t seem to care before.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Tim visibly flinched.
It was small—barely noticeable—but you saw it.
You felt it.
And for some reason, that only made the frustration burn hotter.
Tim’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—like he needed to say something—but nothing came out.
Nothing.
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”
Tim’s 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, analyzing—
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 hadn’t 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 happy—relieved, that he was finally given the opportunity to talk to you.
Alone.
Without anyone interrupting you both.
So why—
Why was this so awkward?
Why was this so painful?
Why were you being so… cold?
So unlike how he’d 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 you’re talking to him like he’s a stranger.
He wasn’t.
He definitely wasn’t.
Was he?
Your words echoed in his head.
Over and over and over again.
“You didn’t seem to care before.”
He should say something.
He should say something.
But the words wouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 words—he 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 again—
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 wasn’t—
That couldn’t be the only reason.
That wasn’t the only reason.
So why the hell was that the first thing he thought of?
That wasn’t the reason he had done those things, was it?
No. No, that couldn’t be it. That wasn’t 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.
Hadn’t he?
He did care.
Didn’t he?
He still cares.
Doesn’t he?
His fingers clenched tighter.
Why couldn’t he find the answer?
Why couldn’t he prove it?
Why couldn’t he just—
“You didn’t seem to care before.”
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 hadn’t cared? That you were—what?—nothing more than some afterthought to him? That you’re 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 didn’t even know where to start?
His breath was uneven now, his chest tightening—
“…I always cared.”
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 didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. He just looked at you—his 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 didn’t.
And then—
You saw it.
You saw the desperation in his eyes.
And for a moment, you almost believed him.
Almost.
“Bullshit.”
And there it was.
The first crack in his carefully composed mask.
It was small—subtle—but you saw it.
And it made something sharp twist in your chest.
Tim blinked, actually taken aback by that.
“What do you mean ‘bullshit’?” he said, frustration creeping into his tone, a slight undertone of… hurt?
You shook your head. “I mean that’s bullshit, Tim. You didn’t care.”
“I did, (Name). I still do—”
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 you’d just—what?—drop everything, smile, and act like nothing had changed? Like the years hadn’t happened? Like the distance between you both hadn’t grown into something wide and impassable?
That wasn’t 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 didn’t realize that this wasn’t something he could fix.
That there wasn’t some logical answer to find.
That this wasn’t about some mystery.
That this was about you.
About him.
About you both.
About what you did and didn’t do.
About what he did and didn’t do.
About what was there and what wasn’t.
And suddenly, you were tired.
So, so tired.
“No, Tim.” You inhaled sharply. “Don’t. I’m 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.”
Tim’s lips parted slightly, his expression shifting.
But you weren’t going to let him get another word in.
“You don’t have to bother yourself with me anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”
And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there.
Alone.
Tim’s breath hitched.
Because that—that 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?
And—fuck—had 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 didn’t know what to say.
And that realization was a punch to the gut.
It shouldn’t 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 yet—
Yet, when it came to you—
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 he’s never seen before.
lol second part of chapter 7 🫣 this is definitely way shorter than part 1 but part 3 will kind of make up for it (hopefully 🥲) and also guys tim is one of my favs pls don’t be too harsh on him in the comments (even though he kind of deserves it in this series, but hopefully yall can see that it’s kind of reader and tim’s 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
“I can’t believe you’ve actually roped us into this.”
Caitlyn’s voice cut through the soft hum of chatter filling the orphanage’s main hall, carrying that distinct tone of exasperation she reserved for situations she swore she wouldn’t get involved in—but 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 name—it told a different story.
Adrien snorted beside her, nudging her side. “Oh, please. You say that like you’re not already attached to half these kids.”
Caitlyn scoffed, glancing away as if that would somehow disprove his statement. It didn’t.
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 skin—something quiet, something wrong.
And yet—
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 Batcomputer—timing 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 wasn’t what it seemed—nothing. 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 wasn’t.
Because you still couldn’t 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 knew—you knew—you 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 Tim’s smartness right now—
The thought barely formed before you crushed it.
No.
You weren’t 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 weren’t ready to deal with.
Maybe—maybe this really was just you overreacting.
Maybe you were seeing ghosts where there weren’t any.
Maybe that “vision” you saw was something made up in your head.
But that doesn’t explain why it was so vivid. Why it felt so raw, so real—
“You’re doing that thing again.”
Caitlyn’s voice pulled you back, and you blinked, finding both her and Adrien watching you with unreadable expressions.
“What thing?”
“You always get that look,” Adrien added, arms still crossed but his smirk growing. “Like you’re five seconds away from spiraling into an existential crisis.”
“I do not—”
“You do,” Caitlyn confirmed immediately. “You get all quiet, and your face does this thing where you look like you’re trying to solve the world’s biggest mystery when, in reality, you’re probably just making stuff up in your head.”
“I do not.”
Adrien huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Then what were you just thinking about?”
You opened your mouth, then promptly shut it, refusing to dignify that with an answer.
Caitlyn gave you a knowing look. “That’s what I thought.”
“Can we focus on something else?” You huffed, shifting your weight to one side. “Like the fact that you two are terrible influences?”
Adrien snorted. “You’re the one who dragged us into this.”
“You didn’t have to come,” you pointed out.
“You think we’d actually let you volunteer at an orphanage alone?” Caitlyn raised a brow. “Be real.”
You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
“You should be thanking us,” Adrien added smugly. “Especially since we’re the ones keeping you sane.”
“You call this sane?”
“Well,” Caitlyn starts, “you haven’t completely lost your mind yet, so I’d say we’re doing a decent job.”
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 boy’s 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 told—you weren’t used to this.
This kind of closeness.
Not really.
Of course, you had experience closeness with Caitlyn and Adrien.
But Elliot—
Elliot was different.
Elliot didn’t hesitate.
Elliot didn’t keep his distance.
Elliot clung to you like you were something safe.
And you didn’t know how to handle that.
Not when you didn’t even feel safe with yourself.
“Aren’t you gonna play with us today, (Name)?” His voice was soft, hopeful, like he had already decided that whatever you answered, he wasn’t going to accept a no.
You hesitated, opening your mouth—only 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.
“…Yeah,” you found yourself saying before you could even think about it. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute, okay?”
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.
“Oh my god,” Caitlyn whispered dramatically.
“Precious,” Adrien added, looking between the two of you like he had just discovered his new favorite thing in the world.
“You two need to get a grip.”
“It’s cute,” Caitlyn commented. “You’ve basically adopted him at this point.”
“I have not.”
“You so have,” Adrien smirked. “It’s adorable.”
“You two seriously need hobbies.”
Caitlyn just grinned. “Says the person who dragged us here for no apparent reason.”
You opened your mouth to argue, to tell them it wasn’t for no reason, that there was something wrong with this place—
But then the air shifted.
The room didn’t 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 yet—
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 discomfort—the kind you couldn’t 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 children—they all liked her.
But you—
You just stood there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And that gnawing feeling of unease only grew stronger.
Because something was wrong.
But you just couldn’t see it.
Mrs. Cole approached with the same composed, effortless grace she always carried—her 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 didn’t lean in.
You were staring.
“Ah, there you all are.” Her voice was warm, measured, like honey drizzling over words that had been carefully chosen before she even spoke them. “I was just telling the staff how lucky we are to have such dedicated volunteers.”
Caitlyn beamed. “Well, it’s been great so far! The kids are all super sweet.”
You were watching.
Mrs. Cole’s reaction came exactly when it should. A gentle smile, an approving nod—textbook-perfect in a way that sent something unpleasant curling in your stomach.
“You’ve been wonderful with them,” she said smoothly. “They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.”
A normal thing to say. A reasonable thing to say. And yet—
Something about it snagged in your brain, like a thread pulled too tight.
They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.
Not “you’ve made a great impact on them.”
Not “they enjoy having you around.”
The wording was… off.
Why was it off?
You barely noticed Adrien chuckling beside you. “Well, Caitlyn’s the favorite, obviously. The girls follow her around like ducklings.”
Caitlyn nudged him. “Please. You’re the one they treat like a jungle gym.”
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 conversation—everything was too smooth, too well-placed.
You noticed that.
And then—her 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 couldn’t let her see that you were suspicious of her.
“And you,” she said, the warmth in her tone undisturbed, like she hadn’t just caught you in the act of scrutinizing her. “Elliot seems especially fond of you. It’s lovely to see how much he trusts you already.”
You ignored the way Caitlyn and Adrien both smiled knowingly at the mention of Elliot’s 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.
“Yeah. He’s a good kid.”
An awkward pause.
Too short to be obvious, too long to go completely unnoticed.
Caitlyn’s smile faltered slightly. Adrien shifted beside you, like he could feel the weird tension in the air but wasn’t sure if he should acknowledge it.
And Mrs. Cole?
She didn’t even blink.
She absorbed the bluntness of your answer like it didn’t affect her at all, her expression remaining perfectly composed, perfectly pleasant, as if she hadn’t just been met with a wall.
“That he is,” she agreed, gracefully moving past it, as though she hadn’t just walked into a conversational dead end. “Well, I won’t keep you from the children. Thank you again for all your help.”
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 earshot—
Adrien whirled on you. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
Caitlyn groaned. “God, could you have been any drier? That was painful.”
You exhaled sharply. “I answered her, didn’t I?”
“You barely did,” Adrien shot back. “You sounded like someone forced you to acknowledge Elliot at gunpoint.”
Caitlyn smacked your arm lightly. “Dude, what’s your deal with her?”
You crossed your arms. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s definitely not nothing,” Adrien shot back. “You’ve been like this since day one. What is your deal with her?”
You opened your mouth—then closed it.
How were you supposed to explain this?
What were you supposed to say?
That something about her felt wrong, but you couldn’t 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 couldn’t rationalize?
That no matter how hard you looked, you still couldn’t find anything to justify it?
“…I just don’t like her,” you muttered.
Adrien scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”
Caitlyn and Adrien weren’t 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 off—when she knew someone wasn’t 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 wasn’t impatient—not yet—but he was watching you, like he was giving you the chance to explain yourself before he dragged it out of you.
You didn’t give them anything.
Adrien broke the silence first. “Okay, seriously. What is your problem with her?”
“I don’t have a problem with her,” you replied immediately.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Adrien scoffed. “Right. You just happen to tense up like a goddamn statue every time she’s around.”
Caitlyn gave a dramatic huff. “You act like she personally wronged you in another life. Or murdered your dogs or something.”
“Titus and Ace are fine…” you muttered.
“Exactly!” she said, exasperated. “That’s what makes this so weird! There’s no reason for you to act like this!”
You didn’t respond.
But Adrien wasn’t done. “Look, if she said something to you, if she did something—”
“She didn’t.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
Another lie.
But you said it so smoothly, so effortlessly, that it almost sounded convincing.
Almost.
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked over your face, sharp and discerning, scanning every microexpression, every flicker of something that might betray you. Adrien wasn’t even trying to be subtle about his suspicion anymore.
Yet, you still didn’t give them anything.
You were stubborn. Tight-lipped. Unyielding.
Because you couldn’t tell them.
Not yet.
Not when you still didn’t know what was wrong.
So instead, you acted.
Acted like everything was fine.
Like you weren’t uneasy.
Like you weren’t drowning in the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers.
Your gaze drifted past them—toward 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 child’s shirt. She was warm, present, soft-spoken—exactly what a warden of an orphanage should be.
And yet—
You couldn’t 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 child’s 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 reason—any reason at all—to 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 couldn’t see it.
Gotham was shifting.
Bruce could feel it.
It wasn’t something obvious—no, 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 slashes—those markings—they were unmistakable.
They all had markings from a Talon. Meaning—
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 wasn’t paranoia. It was an instinct.
An instinct he’d developed after all these years, after all the lies and manipulation, after the near-destruction of Gotham.
He couldn’t 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 worked—silent, methodical, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And now, with another death on his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Court was making its move again.
And then, as if Gotham’s problems weren’t enough, another report came through. The Riddler had escaped Arkham. Again.
It had barely been two weeks since Riddler’s 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 doubt—Nygma 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 couldn’t 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 screen—patterns, reports, whispers of activity. Pieces that didn’t 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 posture—not the kind that came from exhaustion, but from something else.
Bruce had seen it before.
But this time, he didn’t know what was causing it.
Not exactly.
He’d been watching him for days now, and every time they spoke, it felt like Dick wasn’t really there. His focus was on the case, sure, but it wasn’t complete. There was something else pulling at him. Bruce had tried to push it aside—he couldn’t afford to get distracted by personal issues, not with Gotham at risk—but it was hard to ignore. Dick wasn’t 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 Bruce’s. It was the way he moved through the cave like he was running on autopilot. Like he wasn’t 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 couldn’t let it fester.
Not now.
“What’s on your mind?”
Dick blinked, looking up from where he had been staring at the ground. “What?”
Bruce glanced at him. “You’re distracted.”
Dick huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not distracted.”
Bruce didn’t say anything. Just watched him.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little distracted.”
Bruce didn’t push. He just waited.
For a second, it seemed like Dick wasn’t 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 look—the 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, finally—
“It’s (Name).”
Bruce’s 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 hadn’t been talking to Dick the way you used to.
Bruce could feel it too.
Alfred had asked him to check on you. It shouldn’t 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 wasn’t right. He would’ve noticed if it had been.
Wouldn’t 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 suggested—more than once—that he should talk to you. The way you never seemed to be in the same room as him anymore.
The way he couldn’t 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 did—he 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 hadn’t wanted to think about it before. Hadn’t wanted to believe it. Because the idea of you avoiding him—
It wasn’t possible.
Was it?
Bruce’s throat felt tight, and he didn’t understand why.
Dick exhaled sharply beside him, running a hand through his hair. “She barely looks at me anymore.” His voice was quiet, resigned. “But you already knew that.”
Bruce swallowed.
No. He hadn’t. Not really.
But if he admitted that you were avoiding Dick, then he’d have to admit that you were avoiding him too.
And he couldn’t accept that.
He wouldn’t.
He wasn’t sure why the thought unsettled him as much as it did. People had walked away from him before—people 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 didn’t hold onto things that weren’t 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 ask—wanted to know just how far this distance had spread—but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.
Dick, however, wasn’t finished.
“I don’t even blame her,” he admitted, his voice quiet, restrained, like he had already gone over this a thousand times in his head. Maybe he had. “She has every right to be pissed at me. I just—” His voice faltered for a second before he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s different now. She doesn’t look at me the same way. I don’t think she ever will again.”
Bruce studied him carefully. He could see it—the guilt, the regret that had been eating at him.
But what unsettled Bruce the most wasn’t Dick’s 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 couldn’t pull free.
No. That wasn’t—
You weren’t avoiding him.
You wouldn’t.
Would you?
If it was true, if you were avoiding him, it was just—just a misunderstanding. Just—
His jaw tightened.
This wasn’t 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 hadn’t noticed?
Bruce didn’t react. Not immediately, at least.
But Dick saw it.
The shift. The way Bruce’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the tightening of his grip against the edge of the console, the way his jaw locked. To most people, it would’ve looked like nothing. Just another one of Bruce Wayne’s unreadable silences. But Dick had spent too many years watching, reading between the lines, noticing the things that no one else did.
Bruce’s silence was never empty. It was full. Full of things he didn’t say, things he wouldn’t say.
And right now?
Right now, Bruce wasn’t just listening. He was realising something.
Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”
He hadn’t meant to bring you up—not like this, not here. But Bruce had called him distracted, and, well… he wasn’t 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 ago—he 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 wouldn’t keep him at arm’s 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 didn’t exist.
He deserved it.
Especially after what he did.
Especially after what he’s been doing for years now.
It’s not like he didn’t 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 it’d feel like to you.
He should have handled it better. Especially since he knew at the time, you were still grieving.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That this didn’t hurt.
But… this wasn’t just about him benching you, was it?
No.
This wasn’t the first time he made you feel like this, was it?
This wasn’t the first time he’s made you feel like you didn’t belong.
Like you were something temporary—something 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 hadn’t even really processed it at the time.
Everything had been a blur—his 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 didn’t know how to handle.
And then there was you.
You’d 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 hadn’t thought much about you at first.
He hadn’t 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 didn’t ignore him.
It didn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
But time had a way of changing things.
Little by little, your presence became something else.
He didn’t know when it started. When you stopped being a stranger and started being—
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 hadn’t known how to deal with you.
You weren’t annoying, exactly.
You were just—
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 didn’t know what to do with that.
Because somewhere along the way, things changed.
He wasn’t 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 didn’t know how much of who he is today had been shaped by you, but it was more than he’d 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 didn’t want to ruin that part of you.
Didn’t want you to know about the things he did at night. Didn’t 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 didn’t need to know.
You weren’t supposed to know.
You were supposed to have a normal life. A safe life. One that wasn’t 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 hadn’t told you.
And maybe—maybe, that had been a mistake.
Because when you had found out that day—
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 Jason’s death had fractured something irreparably in Bruce, in Alfed, in you, in him—
God, Jason’s 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 hadn’t even been there.
Not for Bruce, not for Alfred, and not for you.
Dick hadn’t been there to stop him from taking on the job, he had not been there to stop him from going to Ethiopia, hadn’t been there to—
He just wasn’t there.
And you—
You didn’t even know the true cause of Jason’s death.
You had to find out the truth about Jason’s death—
The truth about the lives he and Bruce led—
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 unreadable—except 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 wasn’t saying anything—wasn’t even moving—but 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 wasn’t apart of unravel before him. But then again, he walked himself into this the moment he went to find him.
“…How long?”
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 it’s all his fault.
“…How long have you been lying to me?”
He didn’t know how to answer that.
Didn’t know how to explain that he had never wanted you to find out like this.
Didn’t 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 Wayne’s ward.
The years of letting you believe that he didn’t hide anything from you.
But the silence stretched too long.
And that was an answer itself.
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head.
“You were Robin.” you said, and it wasn’t 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.
“…Yeah.”
You blinked, staring at him like you didn’t recognize him.
Like you weren’t sure if you ever had.
“Our father is Batman.”
“Yes… he is.”
“And Jason?”
Dick’s breath caught.
He looked away.
But that was answer enough, too.
Your expression twisted, something like realization dawning on your face.
“That’s why—”
You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply.
“That’s why he died? He died because he was Robin too..?”
The words hit him like a gut punch.
Dick could barely breathe.
You were staring at him, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t have one that wouldn’t 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.
“I—” His throat was tight. Dry. He forced himself to swallow. “It wasn’t—”
But you had already taken a step back.
Away from him. And for some reason, that single step had hurt more than any punch he’d ever taken.
“How could you not tell me?” you asked, voice sharp with something between betrayal and disbelief. “How could you just—just let me think—” You exhaled, shaking your head, hands clenched into fists. “I grieved him, Dick. I stood at his grave, wondering how he could just die like that, and you—” Your voice broke. “You knew. You knew the whole time.”
Dick winced. He wanted to reach for you. To fix this. To explain.
But what was there to explain?
That he hadn’t wanted you to know? That he had convinced himself that if you never found out, you’d be safe?
That it hadn’t mattered, because Jason was dead either way?
That was worse, wasn’t it?
So he stayed quiet.
And that silence was answer enough.
You let out a shaky breath, your expression twisting. “So that’s why you were always busy, huh? Because you were Robin. Because you’re Nightwing now. You always had something to do. Something more important.”
Dick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was—”
“You were lying,” you cut him off, and Tim could see the way that made Dick flinch. “You were always lying, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t want you to get involved in this life,” Dick forced out, his voice tight, defensive in a way he hated. “I couldn’t let you—”
“Oh, right, because lying to me was so much better,” you snapped. “Keeping me in the dark was so much better—”
“I was protecting you!” 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 didn’t move.
You let out a bitter laugh, something short and humorless. “Protecting me?” you echoed. “Jason is dead, Dick. And you want to talk about protection?”
Dick clenched his jaw.
You weren’t wrong.
And maybe that was the worst part.
“Why?” You took a step forward. “Why, Dick? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I thought—I thought maybe, maybe, if you didn’t have time for me anymore, the least you would do is not lie to me. That you wouldn’t keep something this huge from me.”
Dick’s 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.
“I just wanted to protect you,” Dick finally said, and it was almost desperate, like he was trying to hold together something that had already cracked beyond repair.
“And you thought lying was the way to do that?” Your voice was shaking now. “You—you let me believe you just didn’t care anymore. I was so naive that you could just continue to lie to me for years, isn’t that why?”
“That’s not true,” Dick said quickly, stepping forward, but you stepped back just as fast.
You inhaled sharply. “I just want to hear you say it.”
Dick stilled.
You swallowed. “Tell me that you didn’t want to keep it from me. Tell me that it was Dad. Tell me this wasn’t your choice.”
Dick clenched his jaw.
And for a second—a brief, terrible second—you saw it.
The truth.
The answer before he even said it.
His shoulders squared, his expression unreadable, and then—
“I didn’t want you to know.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
You took a step back, blinking.
“What?”
Dick’s face was set, his voice firm. “Bruce told me not to tell you, but I didn’t want you to know either.”
You stared at him, uncomprehending.
“You—” You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “You didn’t want me to know?”
The betrayal was sharp, almost dizzying.
Dick flinched.
“I had to find out from him,” you suddenly snapped, pointing directly at Tim, who stiffened, eyes going wide.
“I had to find out from some random kid that has nothing to do with this—”
Tim opened his mouth. “Uh—”
“And not from you—my brother..!”
“This isn’t how you were supposed to find out,” Dick said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, then how exactly was I supposed to find out then? Were you even planning on telling me the truth?”
“(Name)—”
“Or were you going to keep this from me ‘til the day I die?”
Dick took a step closer. “Please, just listen—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”
Dick froze.
You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.
“Wait—”
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.
“Master Bruce is still pursuing Two-Face,” he said evenly. “I will go check on Ms (Name).”
Dick exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.
Right.
There were more pressing matters.
And they weren’t going to wait.
Dick doesn’t even know what happened after that. You two just… avoided each other.
Avoidance wasn’t new between you two, but that time, it felt different. Alfred had told him you weren’t just avoiding him—you were avoiding everyone. That should’ve made him feel better, knowing he wasn’t the only one left out in the cold. Instead, it only made the weight in his chest heavier.
For a while, he didn’t know how to fix things. Didn’t 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 first—apologizing for your outburst, telling him you wanted to be Batgirl.
He hadn’t been happy about it.
Of course, he hadn’t.
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 didn’t want you to think he didn’t trust you. Because he did.
Didn’t he?
Maybe he should’ve helped more. Trained you. Guided you the way Bruce had done for him, the way he had done for Tim. But things had been complicated—Bludhaven 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 hadn’t been there for you—not the way he had been for Tim, who had started out at the same time you did. And now, he couldn’t 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 you—you are one of them.
Not because of who you are, but because of how he handled you.
Or rather, how he didn’t.
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 doesn’t excuse him from not being there when you needed him most.
And now, for the first time, you aren’t the one bridging the gap between you.
And he hates that he’s only realising this now.
He could have fixed this—maybe. If only he’d made the effort sooner. If only he’d 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 that’s what hurts the most.
The fact that you don’t seem to need him the way you once did. That maybe, just maybe, you’ve 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 he’s frozen. Because what if it’s too late? What if you’re done with him? What if you’ve already written him off, already decided you don’t need him in your life anymore?
The overwhelming guilt twists tighter, leaving him suffocated, alone in his own mind.
You’ve stopped waiting for him.
And it kills him.
Dick knows he’s running out of time. And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix it.
Not when you were avoiding him. Not when everyone he’s 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 it’s too late. That if he waits too long, if he doesn’t move now, this—this—will be the end of whatever was left of your connection.
And the thought terrifies him.
He’s not sure if it’s pride or fear that holds him back now. Maybe a mix of both. Because even if he did try, what if you didn’t want him as your brother anymore? What if you didn’t 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 it’s too late?
The coldness in the way you’ve pulled away, the way you’ve stopped needing him… he’s afraid that’s the reality.
And maybe that’s the hardest pill to swallow: that he’s powerless here. That even with all the skills, all the experience he’s had, this is one thing he can’t control.
This feels wrong. It feels so wrong, and he can’t shake the feeling that something is slipping through his fingers, something irreplaceable. You’re not just anyone. You’re his sister.
You are his little sister. And that’s why this hurts so much more.
The space between you isn’t just the distance of an argument, or a fight that can be fixed with a few words. It’s a gap between family—between 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 can’t reach you.
He hates this.
He hates feeling lost, unsure of how to fix something that should be simple. He’s always known what to do, always known how to make things right with his team, with anyone—everyone—but not with you.
Not now.
The years of you looking up to him, trusting him, believing in him… and now, you’re turning away. And it’s because of him. Because he wasn’t there when you needed him, and because now, when everything has broken, he’s just letting you walk away.
His thoughts spiral, each one heavier than the last. He should’ve done better. He should’ve noticed the small things—the moments where you tried, where you reached out, when you needed him to show up. He should’ve noticed everything.
But he didn’t.
It feels like too much to fix now. How can he bridge this gap? How can he even begin to make things right when you’re 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 can’t. He just can’t.
Because you’re his sister. And no matter what’s happened, no matter how much space you need, he can’t just let this be. He can’t let you slip away from him, not when he still loves you so damn much, not when he’s still your brother.
Dick hates that even now, it feels like he’s 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 him—Gotham 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 what’s happening with you. He hates that he can’t just put his focus on you without it feeling like he’s failing the entire city.
Not when the Court of Owls is seemingly starting to creep back into the shadows, when they’re pulling strings from behind the scenes. Not when Riddler is out again after his bombing less than two weeks ago. The city feels like it’s shifting into new, terrifying territories, with danger lurking in every corner.
It’s easy to justify the exhaustion, the endless grind, when the city’s on the line. But it doesn’t make the guilt disappear.
The guilt that he still hasn’t gone after you. That he still hasn’t 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 down—tried to bury the guilt—and just focus. Focus on the bigger picture.
But it’s hard.
It’s so hard.
Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind inevitably goes back to you. He hates it.
Bruce’s brooding presence is a constant reminder that there’s always something more pressing—always a new threat looming. And yet, Dick can’t seem to escape the nagging pull of you.
“Bruce,” Dick snaps suddenly, his frustration slipping through. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to bring you up again, but he needs something to clear his head. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to bring her up. Let’s get back on track.”
He barely registers the way Bruce’s gaze sharpens, the way his lips tighten in a fleeting moment of something—concern? Worry?
No, it looked more like… guilt.
But Bruce doesn’t voice it. Instead, there’s 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, “Alright.”
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 nothing’s changed, as if everything’s fine.
But things definitely weren’t fine.
And it wouldn’t be for a long time.
Damian wasn’t one to get caught up in things that didn’t concern him. That’s what he told himself. But when it came to you, he doesn’t know why things are different now.
It wasn’t 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 you’d been waking up earlier and earlier to bake things—treats, he noted with growing curiosity—and then leaving for school with them in tow, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
You weren’t just baking for no reason. You weren’t baking for yourself, like he had first assumed. No, you’d been bringing them to school, and that… that didn’t make sense. You weren’t 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 wouldn’t call it stalking, no. Stalking was a bit too… intrusive, in his opinion. He preferred to call it a ‘careful examination of your recent activities.’ 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 wasn’t as if he cared. He didn’t care at all. Obviously.
But he was curious, and he wasn’t about to admit to himself that he was starting to care a little more than he should.
And that’s when he saw it.
You and two other people—a blond guy and a brunette girl—heading towards an…. orphanage?
Damian’s sworn he’s seen the blond guy somewhere, but he can’t place a finger on it.
The place wasn’t far from the manor, but it wasn’t somewhere he expected you to be.
He kept his distance, blending into the shadows as he watched you hand out the treats you’d baked to the children there. So that’s 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 couldn’t recall a time where you’d 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.
Damian’s 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 didn’t seem to mind. No, you were indulging him—letting him climb all over you, laughing at whatever he said.
Damian hated it.
He didn’t understand it. He didn’t 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 you—you—were playing along, mimicking the voice and laughing as if it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard. Damian’s gaze never wavered. He could see it—the way you were smiling at him. At him, not at anyone else.
Damian didn’t 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 he’s feeling like this, that he’s 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?
“Hey, (Name),” Elliot asked in his little voice, “why’s that kid just standing over there, staring at us?”
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.
Damian’s 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 didn’t say anything, but he could tell. And the worst part? He didn’t even care that you caught him. He didn’t care that you’d seen him there. What bothered him was the way you’d stopped laughing, the way you’d 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 wasn’t like you hadn’t expected him to follow you; it was just… typical. Rolling your eyes, you’d 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 didn’t 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. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone casual, though there was a sharpness beneath it.
Damian’s response was as expected. “Just passing by,” 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. “Really? You’re just ‘passing by’ on this side of town? When’s the last time you took a stroll over here, hmm?” 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 weren’t buying it for a second. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
You sighed, rolling your eyes. “You’re so stubborn, it’s exhausting,” you muttered, turning to walk towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder, your voice softer but more commanding now. “Come inside. Stop standing out here like a loner. It’s an orphanage, not some shady alley.”
Damian shot you a look of annoyance, but instead of refusing, he followed you, clearly annoyed by your comment. “I’m not a loner,” he muttered under his breath, but you could hear the bitterness in his tone.
You smirked, knowing you had won this one. He didn’t even try to argue as you dragged him inside, making sure to ignore his huffing and groaning. Once inside, you immediately caught Caitlyn and Adrien’s surprised expressions when they saw Damian lagging behind you.
Adrien was the first to speak, his jaw nearly dropping. “Is that Damian freaking Wayne I see?” 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. “Is he an idiot or just plain stupid..” he muttered, not in the mood for any more attention.
Caitlyn turned to you, a hint of confusion in her voice. “You invited your brother?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“More like he invited himself,” you replied, giving him a side-eye.
Damian just scoffed, his expression unreadable. “I’m just making sure she’s not getting herself involved in some shady business,” 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. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”
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 Damian’s discomfort more apparent. “So, Damian, heard you were homeschooled before? How’s it like going from staying in the comforts of your home to having to mingle with us commoners?” Adrien asked, his voice full of that teasing nature you were used.
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he gave nothing away. “Tt. None of your business,” he muttered, though his tone was less sharp than usual.
You couldn’t 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 was…endearing in a strange way. You had always known that Damian wasn’t 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 Adrien’s constant energy. You knew that Adrien probably reminded him a bit of Jon—always 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, he’ll get used to him, you thought, enjoying the rare moment where your brother was forced to interact with one of your dear friends. It wasn’t 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 point—towards superheroes. One of the younger boys, Marcus, piped up with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “Who’s your favorite hero?”
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.
“Don’t say Batman,” you interjected quickly before either could open their mouths. “That’s such a cop-out answer. Everyone knows Batman’s the go-to.”
Caitlyn looked at you with a mischievous grin. “Well, I wasn’t even going to say Batman anyways,” she huffed out. “Mine’s definitely Nightwing.” She leaned back, resting her arm on the back of her chair, eyes gleaming with a grin. “I mean, come on. He’s hot as hell. And have you seen that ass? Dude’s got the whole bakery goddamn!!”
You froze, your eyes wide for a split second, doing everything in your power to avoid crashing out at that. Did she really just—?
Oh god.
Damian’s gruff voice came from beside you. “Tch.”
You nudged him sharply, hoping he’d keep quiet. “Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, trying to maintain some composure, but you could feel Damian’s growing annoyance from the side of your vision. He didn’t even bother looking at you when he responded.
“What.”
“Don’t react.” You said, your voice quiet but firm.
“Richard wouldn’t like what your friend is saying.”
“Hah, if anything, he’d be honoured.”
“No he wouldn’t.”
Your friends glanced at each other, confused by your hushed but tensed conversation with your brother.
And you didn’t blame them.
After all, Caitlyn had no clue that Nightwing was your older brother, Dick Grayson, and that’s exactly why you were doing your best not to let it show. You weren’t about to explain that you didn’t 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. “Well, I didn’t 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.”
Damian’s posture straightened a little at that, clearly pleased by the compliment. However, he scowled the moment Adrien added, “the lil guy.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, and he muttered under his breath, “Robin’s not little.”
Adrien raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Oh really? Well, he’s about…” He trailed off, glancing from Damian to you before continuing, “…about your height, actually.”
You almost choked on your drink, your eyes going wide.
Oh no.
Was he literally about to connect the dots—
“What a coincidence. Maybe you should cosplay as him sometime.”
Oh.
At least Adrien’s blondness is still going strong.
Damian’s answer came with no hesitation, voice completely unbothered. “Sure.”
You sighed with relief, though internally, you were in full panic mode.
Thank god that’s over.
One of the little girls, Emma, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, raised her hand excitedly. “I like Batgirl a lot!” she said with a beaming smile.
Or not.
Caitlyn turned to her, a playful glint in her eye. “Oh, really? Which one?”
Emma blinked, confused. “There’s more than one?”
Caitlyn laughed, shaking her head. “Of course! There’s the original Batgirl, then there’s… the replacement, then the ninja one that came out of nowhere, and now the really nice and friendly one.”
You frowned slightly when Caitlyn called you—or well— the former second batgirl, the replacement. But she wasn’t wrong. You had been a replacement. But you had tried making it your own, hadn’t 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 couldn’t help but shake your head, muttering under your breath, “There’s only one right answer.”
Caitlyn, not missing a beat, grinned. “Yes, and that’s obviously the OG!!! I miss her. I wonder what happened to her. She just stopped showing up for years now.”
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. But…come on, you had to back yourself up here.
Adrien piped up, “Nah, the blonde one’s the best. She’s cool and real fun.”
You deadpanned at him. “You’re kidding, right? That’s your pick?”
“What? Am I wrong?” Adrien asked, genuinely confused.
You huffed, leaning back in your chair. “Very.”
“You’re both wrong.”
At that moment, Damian’s voice broke through, and everyone turned to look at him.
You glanced at him, not sure if you had heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
Adrien looked at Damian, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Who is it, lil guy?”
Damian’s gaze shifted to the table, his voice as steady as ever. “The best Batgirl is obviously the third. She’s the most proficient and the best fighter.”
You stared at Damian, deadpan.
Of course he picked her.
Of course, he’d back the best fighter—always.
For one fleeting second, you actually thought he was talking about you.
But of course he wasn’t.
You didn’t know why you even entertained the possibility of him choosing you. For half a second, you thought—just thought—that maybe, just maybe, he’d acknowledge you. But no. Obviously not.
You should’ve known better.
“What?” Damian asked, noticing your stare.
“Nothing,” you muttered, though the way you immediately crossed your arms said otherwise.
But it wasn’t nothing. It was mild irritation mixed with some very well-earned pettiness. It wasn’t like you expected him to say you were the best Batgirl, but still! You’d 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 didn’t. You weren’t even in the running.
Fine. Fine.
If Damian was going to be like that, you weren’t going to let him off easy.
“You know who’s not the best?” You paused for effect. “The current Robin.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Adrien and Caitlyn both turned to you, looking confused. Meanwhile, Damian—oh, Damian froze. His head snapped toward you, expression shifting in real time, his usual blank stare morphing into something far more hostile.
“What did you just say?” His voice was calm. Too calm.
You leaned back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “I said the current Robin is overrated. He’s fine, I guess. But people act like he’s some unstoppable force of nature, and honestly? I don’t see it.”
Damian’s eye twitched.
Adrien let out a short laugh, glancing between you two. “Wait, why does it sound like you personally hate him?”
“I don’t,” you said. “I just think he’s 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.”
Damian scoffed. “Tt. You mean like how the second Batgirl worked with her team? Oh, wait. She didn’t even have one.”
You stiffened slightly. “Excuse me?”
“She was reckless,” Damian continued, now fully engaging in the argument. “Unrefined. She relied on brute force and emotion instead of strategy, which is exactly why she never measured up to her predecessor.”
Your eye twitched.
Oh. It’s on.
“Well, the current Robin acts like he’s the smartest person in the room,” you shot back. “Always belittling everyone he works with, always convinced he knows best—”
“Because he does,” Damian cut in smoothly, sharp.
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. Batgirl was just as skilled—”
“Skilled?” Damian repeated, looking almost offended. “She was a brute. She had no tactical foresight, no patience, no discipline—”
“She gets the job done,” you interrupted.
“And leaves chaos in her wake,” Damian countered.
“Oh, because Robin doesn’t leave a mess?”
“At least his messes serve a purpose.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “And at least she wasn’t a condescending little—”
“Okay, wait, wait, wait, pause,” Caitlyn suddenly cut in, raising her hands. She and Adrien were staring at you two, completely baffled. “What is happening right now?”
Adrien tilted his head, looking between you and Damian. “Yeah, why do you two sound like you’ve got some kind of personal vendetta against Robin and Batgirl?”
You and Damian both froze slightly, suddenly realizing just how heated this was getting.
You coughed, quickly forcing a neutral expression. “No, definitely not.”
Damian straightened his posture, clearing his throat. “Tt. Of course not.”
Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a look.
“…Right.” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You sure you guys don’t secretly have some grudge against them?”
Adrien hummed in thought. “Or maybe they just don’t like heroes who remind them of themselves?”
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. “Whatever. The current Robin’s still annoying.”
“And the second Batgirl is too stubborn.”
Caitlyn frowned, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know…I 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 other’s back, you know? At least, from what I’ve seen.”
Your jaw tensed. You pointedly avoided looking at Damian, and you knew he was doing the same.
Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, looping over and over again like an intrusive thought you couldn’t shake.
“I 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 other’s, you know?”
No. No, you didn’t know.
Because that wasn’t true.
It couldn’t be true.
Because if it was true, then—
Then what did that mean?
If you and Damian worked well together—if your fighting styles “fit”—if you “just got each other”—then why hadn’t it been enough?
Why hadn’t it felt enough?
Why hadn’t 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 hadn’t he said anything back then? Why hadn’t he—
You exhaled sharply, shoving the thoughts away.
No.
Caitlyn was wrong. She had no idea what she was talking about.
“You’re giving them too much credit,” you said, shaking your head. “They didn’t work well together.”
Caitlyn blinked. “What? No, they totally did.”
You scoffed. “They barely tolerated each other.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, tilting her head. “They 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. It’s like they were in sync without even needing to say anything.”
Your fingers curled slightly.
No. That wasn’t—
That wasn’t—
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 didn’t mean you worked well together.
It didn’t mean Damian saw you as an equal.
It didn’t mean—
“I suppose the second Batgirl is not… entirely incompetent.”
It was barely more than a murmur, but it was enough.
Enough to make the conversation still. Enough to make all of you turn.
Damian’s 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 things—that was what he said?
Damian Wayne—the boy who had no patience for weakness, who barely tolerated most people, who was damn near incapable of giving credit where credit was due—just admitted that?
And then—
Then he kept going.
“She’s… effective,” he admitted, as if the words physically hurt. “Her combat style is instinct-driven, but adaptable. It lacks structure, but it’s—tt—unpredictable. It forces opponents into a rhythm they’re unfamiliar with. It’s inefficient, but it works. Works for herself. And works for Robin too.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t just some throwaway comment. That wasn’t 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, Barbara—hell, even Jason. But you’d never expected him to see it. To notice.
Much less appreciate it.
And yet, here he was, admitting that you were—what? Unpredictable? Capable?
Your mouth opened slightly, but the words never came. You just stared, feeling something unfamiliar twist in your stomach.
You weren’t used to this.
Weren’t used to this at all.
Definitely not from Damian. After everything—
Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. “Yeah, I suppose so. A lot of people in the East End like her, from what I’ve heard.”
The weight of Damian’s words still lingered, but Caitlyn’s casual addition made something inside you shift again.
“But I haven’t exactly seen her in the past few weeks. Wonder what happened?”
And just like that—
That fleeting warmth vanished.
Your body tensed, fingers curling into your palm so tightly that your nails dug into your skin.
“She quit,” 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 weren’t 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. “I mean, I heard she quit. I guess.”
There was a beat of silence.
Caitlyn hummed thoughtfully. “Oh. What a shame.”
And then—
“It’s a load of bullshit.”
Damian’s voice was edged with something sharp.
You turned to him, frowning. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Damian exhaled sharply, arms still crossed. “That Batgirl—assuming she really did quit—is an idiot.”
Your jaw clenched.
“She wouldn’t have quit if she didn’t think she was making an impact.”
“But she did,” Damian said, tone clipped, like it was obvious.
Your breath caught.
“She made an impact. Gotham is worse with one less hero. But she’s too dumb and socially inept to realize that.”
The words slammed into you like a brick wall.
It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t insulting for the sake of it.
It was genuine frustration.
Damian was angry—not because he didn’t like her—but because she left.
You left.
Because you gave up.
As if you didn’t see what you were to Gotham.
But did you even mean something to Gotham?
Your lips parted slightly, but the words wouldn’t 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 her—for you—when 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 you—
You didn’t 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.
“I like whoever (Name) likes.”
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 Elliot’s hair gently, watching as he beamed under your touch, his loyalty so simple, so unquestioning.
“At least someone knows who truly is the best,” you said, your voice soft but amused.
Adrien, clearly irked by the favoritism, complained, “Hey, no fair! That lil guy just goes along with whatever you say. That’s not counted.”
The words were playful, but they settled something in you—if 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 you’d built with him over the last few weeks?
You opened your mouth to say something but—
“Oh! Looks like you’ve brought along another person.”
And just like that—
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 didn’t reach her eyes. The perfection was too smooth, too calculated.
And yet, your friends didn’t see it.
They didn’t feel it.
They didn’t 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 didn’t move to introduce Damian, Caitlyn, ever polite, started to do it for you.
“Oh, this is—”
“Damian Wayne,” Mrs. Cole interrupted smoothly, smiling. “Son of Bruce Wayne. Of course, I know him.”
Then, with a turn of her head, her gaze landed on you.
And despite the kindness in her expression—
Something inside you shrank.
“I apologise,” she said gently. “I should have realised earlier that you were, in fact, (Name) Wayne. I hope you weren’t too offended.”
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 couldn’t 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 slip—anything.
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 paranoia—
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, anything—
“It’s fine.”
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 immediately—the 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.
“I hope everything here has been to your liking.”
Damian regarded her for a moment before giving a clipped, formal response. “The conditions appear satisfactory.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she replied easily. “We do our best to provide a safe environment for all the children under our care.”
You didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t 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.
But—
Nothing.
Damian’s expression was unreadable, sure. But that wasn’t new.
What was new was that he didn’t seem to think anything of her at all.
“Well,” Mrs. Cole finally said, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve. “I have other matters to attend to. It was lovely meeting you, Damian.”
She smiled, nodding at Caitlyn and Adrien before turning back to you.
“And you, of course, (Name).”
Then—
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 yet—nothing.
No proof. No reason for this unease gnawing at your ribs.
And yet, it didn’t 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 silent—
You failed to notice the way Damian was watching you.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes sharp.
Like he had seen something.
Something off.
Something he couldn’t quite place.
long awaited chapter 7 lol… did you guys miss me 🥰🤗 also ramadan mubarak to all my muslim homies and girlies 🫶🫶part 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 didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t 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 fresh—too fresh.
It was a beautiful day.
And Cassandra hated it.
It wasn’t right.
Why wasn’t the sky dark? Why weren’t the clouds swollen with grief, heavy and suffocating? Why wasn’t 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 wasn’t the world mourning with her?
It should be.
Because this—this wasn’t 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 shouldn’t be here—not 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 that’s what Cassandra was.
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“You can’t stay here forever,” he murmured, his voice quiet, gentle.
Cassandra didn’t 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 didn’t feel real.
Duke ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes. He didn’t 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 didn’t.
It wouldn’t.
Your death—
God.
It wasn’t just tragic. It wasn’t just painful.
It was sudden.
It didn’t feel possible.
One day, you were here. And then you weren’t.
And Duke didn’t know how to process that.
He kept thinking—kept 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 didn’t you call him?
You knew he would have helped you. You knew that.
Right?
You knew he wouldn’t have thought twice.
Right?
Would he have thought twice…?
No, surely not.
Right?
You should have known that.
So why didn’t you?
Why didn’t you tell him what you were doing? Why didn’t you let him back you up? Why did you go after that drug ring alone?
You should have called.
You should have known he wouldn’t hesitate. That he wouldn’t 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 wasn’t fair.
None of this was fair.
And the worst part? The part that made him feel sick?
Losing people—he knew what that was like.
He lost his parents.
And now—
Now he had lost you.
And you weren’t just anyone.
You were—
God, you were you.
You weren’t 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 weren’t 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 didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make sense that you—the person who had somehow become his sister—was just gone.
And he—
He hated this.
He hated this so much.
“What…. do you think her last words were…?”
Cassandra’s voice broke through the silence, small but steady.
Duke’s throat tightened. He barely held back a flinch.
“I… don’t know,” he admitted.
And he didn’t want to know.
Because the moment he let himself think about it.
The moment he let himself wonder what your last moments were like—
He wouldn’t 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 weren’t going to make it?
Had you realized that help wasn’t coming?
Had you been scared?
Duke clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.
He didn’t want to think about that.
He couldn’t—
He couldn’t think about that.
Cassandra didn’t 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 shouldn’t.
She wasn’t even in Gotham when it happened. There was nothing she could have done.
But logic didn’t matter.
Because you were dead.
And she hadn’t 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 question—like 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 now—
Now you were gone.
And Cassandra was still here.
And she didn’t know how.
Cassandra didn’t know how to fight that.
Didn’t 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 should’ve 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 wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.
So why hadn’t that been you?
Why had she gotten to wake up, gasping, with another chance at life—while you had been left to rot in the ground? Why had she been spared while you had been taken?
Cassandra’s hands curled into fists on her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to breathe.
It didn’t help.
Her eyes flickered to your name on the gravestone. The letters carved into the stone were so sharp, so permanent. You weren’t 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 couldn’t remember what kind of flowers you liked.
What flowers did you like?
Did you like lilies—soft, gentle, but heavy with the scent of mourning?
Did you like daisies—bright and stubborn, growing even in the cracks of concrete?
Did you like marigolds—bold, striking, impossible to ignore?
She hated that she didn’t know. Hated that she had spent years at your side and still, she didn’t know what flowers to bring you.
It was ridiculous, how something so small—so insignificant in the grand scheme of things—felt like another knife to the ribs.
Cassandra had always been good at reading people. She had always been good at reading you.
And yet—she didn’t know this.
Didn’t 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 yet—she didn’t 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 know—she didn’t.
And now, she never would.
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants.
To think—to think—of all the times you had tried to stay by her side.
Of all the times you had tried—tried to connect with her, tried to understand her, tried to make her feel like she belonged in this family—and she hadn’t let you.
She had been distant. Subconsciously pushing you aside. Not because she hated you—no, never because of that.
But because you two were so vastly different.
Because she saw you and thought—you weren’t built for this life.
Because she looked at you and thought—you shouldn’t be here.
You weren’t a killer. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t 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, maybe—if she had pushed harder, if she had done more, if she had made you see what she saw—maybe you would have left this life.
Maybe if she had pushed harder, you wouldn’t have ended up like this.
You wouldn’t 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 wasn’t even it.
That wasn’t even the truth.
It wasn’t about whether you should have been a vigilante. It wasn’t about whether or not you belonged in this life.
It was about her.
It was about the choices she had made.
If she hadn’t thought she knew what was best for you—if she hadn’t dismissed you before even giving you a chance—maybe things would have been different.
If she had helped you instead of discouraging you—if she had guided you instead of pushing you away—maybe you wouldn’t have felt so alone in this.
Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to prove yourself at every turn.
Maybe you wouldn’t have pushed yourself so far—so recklessly, so relentlessly—that 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 weren’t enough.
Like you weren’t competent enough, weren’t worthy enough, to stand beside them.
Like you had to earn your place in a way that no one else had to.
And that—
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 there—if she had helped you, taught you, stayed by your side as a sister should, instead of leaving you to figure everything out on your own—maybe you wouldn’t have needed to push yourself to the brink just to keep up.
Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to bleed just to prove you deserved to be by their side. By her side.
Maybe—just maybe—
You would still be here.
She didn’t 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 didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t have you in it.
Why?
Because your presence had been undeniable.
Not in the way that others were loud—not 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 thinking—not 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 atmosphere—like 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 wasn’t 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 yourself—quiet, 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 around—charged, like something unspoken was always hanging in the space between you and everyone else.
And now—
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 hated—hated—how 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 wasn’t that.
It wasn’t about making herself feel better.
But to anyone else, it might seem shallow, like she was just trying to justify her regrets.
And that—
That was when she exhaled sharply, her voice quiet, raw, and firm.
“I failed her.”
Duke stiffened beside her.
“Cass…”
“No.”
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 grave—at your name, your absence, the proof that you were really, truly, gone.
“There’s a lot of things I regret,” she admitted, her voice steady. “A lot of things I should have done. A lot of things I shouldn’t have done.”
She exhaled.
“But there is no use feeling this way when—”
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 finally—she finished.
“There is no use feeling this way when the only person who could have forgiven me isn’t here anymore.”
Duke inhaled sharply. His lips parted—ready to argue, ready to refute, ready to tell her that it wasn’t her fault.
But he didn’t.
Because she was right.
And they both knew it.
There was nothing either of them—or anyone else—could 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 moment—
He moved first.
Slowly, carefully, as if giving her the chance to pull away, to reject the gesture before it even landed. But she didn’t.
So he pulled her into a hug—strong, firm, grounding.
A weight. A warmth. A presence she didn’t realize she needed until she was sinking into it.
Cassandra didn’t resist.
Didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t go rigid, didn’t pull away out of habit, didn’t keep that careful distance she always did when she wasn’t 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 forever—she let herself be held.
Let herself be comforted.
Even though she didn’t feel like she deserved it.
Because what right did she have to be comforted when you weren’t here?
What right did she have to grieve you when she had been part of the reason you were gone?
But Duke didn’t 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 now—
For now, that would have to be enough.
128 hours, 13 minutes, and 27 seconds.
That’s how long it’s been since Gotham fell into chaos. Since the family fell into shambles.
Since you took your last breath.
Tim’s 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 hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed.
Because he couldn’t stop watching.
The footage looped again. And again. And again.
Warehouse. Low light. South Gotham docks. Camera angle, elevated—one of Batman’s 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 couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away, even though he knew it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe this time, there’ll be something he missed.
That’s what he told himself.
It was a sickening kind of hope, one born from desperation. He needed something—anything—that would prove this wasn’t just another casualty of the mess they lived in. This wasn’t an accident. He couldn’t 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 couldn’t accept it.
His heart hammered in his chest as he hit replay again. He didn’t 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 wasn’t there. There’s 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 couldn’t 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 hadn’t anyone been there for you?
Why hadn’t 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 you’d infiltrated. The criminals, the ones you’d exposed, some of them were caught, while others were already on the run, their operations disrupted in ways they hadn’t 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t them. He couldn’t make himself believe that. No. It wasn’t their fault. Not exactly.
It was yours. It was yours and no one else’s.
It’s all because of you.
That thought stung, burned in the pit of his stomach, and yet it lingered, demanding to be acknowledged. Tim didn’t want to think that way—he didn’t want to blame you. But how could he ignore it? You had done your job, you’d exposed something they couldn’t 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 wasn’t your fault. It couldn’t 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 that’s where it went wrong, wasn’t it? You hadn’t called for backup. You hadn’t reached out. If you had—if you had just asked for someone, anything, anyone—maybe you would still be here.
Tim couldn’t stop the wave of anger that crashed over him. But it wasn’t at the criminals who had shot you, it wasn’t 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 time—
This time, you weren’t 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?
Tim’s 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 wasn’t used to it. No matter how many times he told himself he should be, no matter how many people he’d lost, he wasn’t.
It never got easier.
It was almost too much. Too much to bear, but it wouldn’t 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 couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t 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 wouldn’t stop dissecting it, wouldn’t 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 didn’t. 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 wouldn’t have done this otherwise, right? You wouldn’t 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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t the first time.
This wasn’t the first time you’d come to him with a lead, eyes sharp and voice brimming with certainty. You’d always been like that—so sure, so goddamn convinced that you were right. And most of the time?
You weren’t.
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. He’d been the one who had to clean up after you when things didn’t go the way you expected.
And this time—
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.
Tim’s hands trembled over the keyboard, his fingers curling into fists. That’s why he can’t blame you. That’s why he can’t let himself be angry at you.
Not really.
Because if it hadn’t 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 just—
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 wasn’t 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 to—
“Tim.”
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.
“Tim.”
He heard her footsteps approaching, the sharpness in her tone laced with something else—exasperation, frustration. Concern.
He ignored it.
The footage replayed.
Again.
And again.
“Tim.”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t 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.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Tim blinked at her, dazed, uncomprehending.
Stephanie’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening. “Are you even aware of what’s happening out there? Gotham is a fucking mess. And you’re down here—what? Watching the same damn footage on repeat? Watching (Name) die over and over again?? Like it’s going to change something?”
Tim’s fingers twitched. His throat felt dry, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I have to—”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something harsher. “You don’t, Tim. You’re just—” She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, do you even know where Damian is?”
That made Tim hesitate.
Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Tim swallowed, his jaw locking. “I’m—”
“You’re what?” she cut in, voice sharp and furious. “Busy? Too busy staring at a screen, trying to—what? Bring her back? Figure out some convoluted explanation that makes this make sense?”
Tim flinched.
And Stephanie didn’t stop.
“Because guess what, Tim? It doesn’t make sense. It never makes sense. And you just sitting here, watching her die on repeat? Analysing her every move, every breath, every mistake? It’s not going to fix anything.”
Tim exhaled, slow and shaky, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.
“Bruce, Jason and Damian are god knows where. Dick’s 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 damage—we had to call Dinah in because there aren’t enough of us—”
Her breath hitched, her voice shaking now, but she pushed forward, because Stephanie Brown didn’t stop when things got hard.
“And you? You’re here. Acting like this is going to change anything.”
Tim’s fingers curled into fists.
Stephanie shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. “She’s gone, Tim.”
“She’s not gone.”
Tim’s breath was coming in quick, ragged bursts. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he wasn’t sure if it was from frustration or the way Stephanie was looking at him right now—like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.
“She’s not dead…!” His voice cracked, but he barely noticed. His hands slammed against the desk, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles went white. “She can’t be dead—she just—”
“Tim, do you even hear yourself right now?!” Stephanie snapped, stepping closer. “(Name) is dead! Dead, Tim! And you need to start—”
“No.” He shook his head, refusing to let her finish. “No, because what about all the other people we thought were dead? Superman. Bruce. Conner. Bart.” His voice was climbing now, chest heaving as his mind raced faster than his words. “And you—you, Stephanie. Every single one of you somehow came back to life, whether it was because you weren’t actually dead, or you were brought back by—”
“That’s not the same thing!” Stephanie’s voice was sharp, but Tim didn’t stop.
“It is the same thing!” His eyes were wide now, wild with something he didn’t know how to name. “Superman was literally killed, and what happened? He came back. Bruce—we buried him, and guess what? He wasn’t even dead! Conner—he died during Infinite Crisis and came back! Bart sacrificed himself during —” His breath hitched, and he barely held it together. “And you.” His voice was shaking now. “You faked your death, Steph. You let me and everyone think you were dead for months...! And yet—”
Stephanie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “But this is different, Tim! She’s different!”
“How?! How is this different?”
“Because she was shot, Tim!” Stephanie practically shouted, frustration burning in her chest. “She wasn’t resurrected by some Kryptonian regeneration matrix, or caught in some bullshit time displacement! She wasn’t 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! There’s no coming back from that!”
Tim’s breath stuttered, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head rapidly.
“No,” he muttered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “No, that doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Her suit was reinforced—there’s no way a bullet could have—”
“Because we weren’t prepared, Tim!” Stephanie cut in, her voice cracking. “She wasn’t prepared! Those bullets weren’t normal—those weren’t some cheap rounds from street dealers—they were made of promethium, Tim. Promethium. Her suit wasn’t designed to withstand that kind of impact.”
Tim faltered for half a second.
But it wasn’t enough.
“No.” His voice was flat, empty. “No, because if that’s true, then that means—” His breath hitched again, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. “That means she wasn’t supposed to die.” His voice grew distant, his mind racing through every scenario. “That means there was a way we could have stopped this. That means there was a way I could have—”
Stephanie’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.
“You always do this,” she seethed, voice shaking. “You always think it’s on you to fix everything—to stop everything before it happens.” Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. “Well, guess what, Tim? Not everything is your fault.”
Tim let out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh yeah? Because it sure as hell feels like it is.”
Stephanie inhaled sharply, rage flaring in her chest.
“She’s gone, Tim,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “And you’re sitting here acting like you’re the only one who lost her.”
Tim flinched at that.
She’s right.
How could she not be?
“You think you’re the only one hurting?” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who can’t believe she’s actually gone?” She shook her head, frustration bleeding into every word. “Newsflash, Tim—I can’t believe it either. None of us can.” Her breathing was uneven now, the weight of the past few days pressing down on her like a vice. “But you—” She exhaled sharply. “You and (Name)? You weren’t even close.”
Stephanie saw Tim stiffen, and she felt her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop. Even though she knew she didn’t have any right to say the next few words.
“I mean, I can’t even talk, right? Because it’s not like she and I were friends or anything. But whatever we had was at least something—more than whatever the hell was going on between you two.” She swallowed, voice thick with something she refused to name. “So why, Tim? Why are you acting like this? Like you’re the only one who lost her?”
Tim opened his mouth—then closed it.
Because she was right.
And he hated that she was right.
Because he didn’t know why.
Didn’t know why this loss felt different.
Didn’t 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 wasn’t convinced.
Maybe because he still felt like there was a way to fix this.
Before he could say anything—before either of them could keep unraveling—a sharp, piercing alert rang through the cave, slicing through the air like a blade.
Stephanie jerked her head up, eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?”
Tim’s 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 logs—
And then he froze.
Stephanie immediately stepped closer. “Tim?”
Tim didn’t move.
“Tim.”
Nothing.
Then, slowly—so slowly—he turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable.
“…That’s the alert Bruce installed at the graveyards.”
Stephanie felt her stomach drop.
“What?”
Tim swallowed, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s an alert that goes off whenever someone is digging up the graves.”
Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat.
And then—
Tim clenched his jaw.
“The alert that just sounded… was for (Name)’s grave.”
The Batcave was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with solitude, nor the kind that settled between brief moments of stillness.
No—this silence was suffocating.
Not in the literal sense—there 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 wasn’t truly silent at all—because 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 teetering—on 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 yet—somehow, 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 couldn’t last forever.
Bruce’s voice, when it finally came, was low and sharp as a blade.
“Damian.”
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 Bruce’s gaze when his father finally turned around.
“Why did you do it?” Bruce’s hands had curled into fists at his sides.
“I had to take a chance.”
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.
Bruce’s stare didn’t waver.
His response was immediate.
“No.” His voice was harsher now, dangerously close to breaking. “This isn’t the way.”
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 hadn’t.
Because this wasn’t about right or wrong.
This wasn’t about rules.
This was about you.
“Why not?”
His voice came sharper this time, cracking through the space between them, pushing against the weight of Bruce’s certainty, forcing something else into the silence. Something raw. Something desperate.
“I had to take a chance.”
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.
“(Name) is dead, Damian.”
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.
“She’s not—”
“Damian.”
Bruce’s voice cut through his own, and the finality in it sent something cold shooting down his spine.
But he shoved it down.
He wouldn’t accept this.
He couldn’t.
Damian’s hands curled into fists. “Then I should have gotten her to the pit sooner.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then how does it work, Father?” Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the cave like a whip. “Tell me—tell me how it makes any sense that Jason could be revived but not—” His voice caught for half a second, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. “Not her.”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence—it was almost worse than anything he could have said.
“That was different.”
Damian’s fists clenched.
“How?”
Bruce inhaled again, and something in the way he did it—something so controlled, so deliberate—made Damian’s stomach twist even further.
“Jason wasn’t brought back to life by the Lazarus Pit.” His voice was firm, but there was something almost reluctant in the way he spoke, like he didn’t want to explain this. Like saying it out loud would make something real. “The pit only restored his mind. It erased the damage. That’s different from what you tried to do.”
The words felt like they didn’t make sense.
Like they didn’t fit.
Like they shouldn’t exist.
Like they should be impossible.
But Bruce—
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 tightened—just slightly, just barely.
His mind raced—whirring, unraveling, dissecting—because 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 you’ve gotten over the years. But that was it.
You—
you did not wake up.
You remained still. Cold. Gone.
Why?
Why didn’t it work?
It should have worked.
It should have. So why didn’t it?
No.
No, he refused to accept that.
You couldn’t be gone. Not like this. Not this easily. Not this pathetically.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.
Something inside him cracked.
“You knew.”
The words felt like an accusation.
Bruce didn’t deny it.
Damian’s hands shook.
“You knew it wouldn’t work, didn’t you?” His voice was quiet, but it carried through the cave like a gunshot.
Bruce still didn’t deny it.
“You knew, and you still let me—”
Damian felt himself faltering. He felt the words get caught in his throat.
“You still let me dig her up.”
His throat tightened, and he felt something press down on his chest, something suffocating, something that refused to let him breathe properly.
“You let me take her to the Lazarus Pit. You let me think it would work—”
Bruce inhaled, slow and even. “You needed to see for yourself.”
Damian’s vision blurred for half a second.
Then he snapped.
“That’s bullshit.”
Bruce remained still.
“You wanted me to fail.”
Bruce remained silent.
“You wanted me to see—” His breath hitched. “That she was really—”
He couldn’t say it.
Because if he said it—if he let himself even breathe those words—
It would be real.
Damian couldn’t stand it.
Couldn’t accept it.
Because how could he?
When you had died such a meaningless death?
When you had gone out like that?
He hadn’t gone to your funeral.
Hadn’t watched them lower you into the ground.
Hadn’t stood beside the rest of them, listening to empty condolences and meaningless words.
No.
Because he couldn’t.
Because he refused to accept that you were really gone.
Because you had always been so stubborn.
So reckless.
Because you shouldn’t have died like that.
Because you should have let them help you.
Because it wasn’t 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.
“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”
Damian’s 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 Bruce—who had found Damian at the Lazarus Pit, alongside Stephanie.
Damian let out a sharp scoff. “Huh.” He tilted his head, voice dripping with something venomous. “And what would you know?”
Tim’s expression flickered—just for a second.
“More than you think.”
Damian scoffed, shaking his head. “No. You wouldn’t.”
Tim exhaled sharply. “You think you knew her.” His voice was low, measured, but it wavered slightly. “But you didn’t.”
Damian’s chest tightened. “And you did?”
Tim’s hands curled into fists.
Damian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You hated her.”
Tim stiffened. His jaw clenched.
“No, I didn’t.”
The words were immediate. Unshaken.
And somehow, they hit harder than anything else so far.
“You never even acknowledged her.”
“Yes I did—“
“Well I suppose it wasn’t enough apparently.”
Tim’s breath stilled, his shoulders locking, his throat bobbing in a way that Damian almost wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.
“Well you pushed her away every chance you got,” Tim shot back, voice sharp, words cutting. “So don’t act like you actually cared.”
Damian’s fingers twitched.
“I did care.”
Tim exhaled, bitter.
“Yeah? She definitely knew that for sure.”
Damian froze.
His breath hitched.
You knew.
You had to know.
Didn’t you?
Even when he had insulted you, even when he had been a complete bastard—
Even when he was cruel, even when he acted like you were nothing but a nuisance, even when he never said anything—
You had to have known.
Didn’t you?
Didn’t you?
“I had to take this chance,” Damian said, quieter, breath uneven, hands shaking. “Because she was my sister.”
Tim’s expression flickered.
And then—
“She was my sister too.”
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 hadn’t meant to say it.
Hadn’t planned it.
Hadn’t 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 hadn’t 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 he’d just said.
Because why now?
Why was he only saying it now?
Why was he only acknowledging it when you were already—
His throat locked up.
Damian’s 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 Tim’s ribs so hard that he felt like he could barely breathe. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, like his own body didn’t know how to process what had just happened.
“You don’t get to say that.”
Damian’s voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
Tim exhaled sharply, his jaw locking. “What?”
Damian’s 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 voice—his voice was sharp.
“You don’t get to say that.”
Tim scoffed, shaking his head, but he felt something tightening in his chest.
“I don’t get to say that?” His voice came out bitter, biting, but his own hands were trembling slightly now. “(Name) was my sister too, Damian. That’s just a fact.”
Damian’s breath stilled.
For a split second, his body went completely still.
“Then why did you treat her like she wasn’t?”
Tim’s chest clenched. His breath hitched.
Damian took a step closer, voice cutting deeper, something sharp in his expression, something broken in his stare.
“Why did you act like she didn’t matter? Like she wasn’t even worth your time? Why did you act like she—”
His breath stuttered for half a second, something cracking through his voice before he forced it back down.
“You pushed her away.”
Tim clenched his teeth. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Damian’s hands twitched.
“I never pushed her away.”
“You shut her out,” Tim snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You resented her.”
Damian’s stomach twisted.
“I did not.”
“You didn’t care about her when she was alive.”
“I did.”
“You barely even acknowledged her—”
“I did not hate her.”
“But now you suddenly care?” Tim let out a bitter laugh. “Now, suddenly, she’s your sister?”
“She is my sister,” Damian snapped. “And you don’t get to say otherwise.”
Tim’s breath hitched.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Because that—
That wasn’t the same thing.
That wasn’t—
“That’s not what I said.”
Damian’s nails dug into his palms.
“Yeah, but it’s what you meant.”
Tim inhaled sharply, his hands twitching at his sides, something thick in his throat that he didn’t want to name.
He shook his head, exhaling, his breath uneven. “You think I—”
“You think I hated her?” Damian cut in, voice sharp, voice dangerous. “You think I would have wannted her to die? You really think that’s what I wanted all this time??”
Tim clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Really?”
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.
“Then what are you saying?”
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.
“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”
Damian stilled.
“You keep saying that,” Damian said, voice tight, voice low, voice lined with something Tim couldn’t fully decipher. “Like you actually know what she wanted.”
Tim’s throat tightened.
“You didn’t know her, Drake.”
A beat of silence.
“You don’t get to say that,” Tim said, voice shaking with something raw. “You don’t get to act like you gave a damn about her when it actually mattered.”
Damian’s eyes burned.
“You don’t get to act like you knew her, either,” he shot back, his voice venomous. “You don’t get to tell me what she would have wanted—”
Tim let out a breathless laugh. “And you do?” His voice was rising now, sharp with frustration. “You think you had the right to drag her out of her grave and throw her into the Lazarus Pit because you couldn’t deal with it?”
Damian’s stomach churned. “Shut up.”
Tim stepped forward. “You think she would’ve wanted this?”
Damian’s nails dug into his palms.
And at that moment, Stephanie, who’d be silently listening to the entire argument, stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough, guys—”
“You think she would’ve wanted to wake up in that pit—if she even could?” Tim’s voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t stop. “To wake up wrong?”
“No,” Tim interrupted, his voice raw. He stepped closer, his fists trembling at his sides. “You think you’re the only one who wanted her back?” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who couldn’t accept it?”
Damian exhaled sharply, looking away.
“You thiink you’re the only one who’s thought of dumping her in a Lazarus Pit, hoping that somehow—”
Tim’s breath caught.
He stopped.
Because he couldn’t 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.
“That’s enough.”
Bruce’s voice cut through the air, sharp, commanding, absolute.
Tim sucked in a breath.
Damian’s 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 argument—no, from the fight. Because that’s what this was.
Damian wasn’t 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 wouldn’t.
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, trying—failing—to 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 didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
Damian still wasn’t looking at him.
He wasn’t looking at Bruce either.
He was staring straight ahead, at the cave floor, at something that wasn’t even there, his entire body locked up, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable—
And then his gaze shifted.
Just barely.
Tim saw the exact moment his eyes landed on your body.
—or, 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 hadn’t been the one to do it—he didn’t even know who had done it, if it was Bruce, or Stephanie, or if they had both done it together, but he knew it hadn’t been him.
He hadn’t looked.
Not really.
He hadn’t let himself.
Damian’s fingers twitched.
His breathing hitched.
And then, before anyone could say anything—before Bruce could look at him, before Tim could process anything, before Stephanie could even move—
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 he’d said. Thought back to what Damian did.
And Tim hated how he would’ve 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 thought—
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 wailed—short-lived, swallowed by the city’s 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.
“Well, ain’t this a bloody mess.”
woops… 😬 heyyy guys…!! 🫣 did y’all miss me HAHA. this was definitely long overdue… i think i probably gave yall trust issues 😭 actual chapter 7 will be out at utc+8 12am on 14 Feb 🥰
taglist is closed ‼️(i’ll think about opening it again soon 🤫)
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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 wasn’t 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 spoke—as if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.
You didn’t hate them for trying. But you couldn’t sit there and let them pick at the wound they’d left in you.
The moment Dick started talking about “your life” and how “you both haven’t spent some time together”, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadn’t 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 wasn’t a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But “later” was still a few hours away. You could’ve stayed and talked to them. You could’ve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.
But you couldn’t do it.
Why couldn’t you?
The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didn’t 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 didn’t belong to you.
It didn’t feel like you. No, that wasn’t right.
It did belong to you—it just wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought you’d left behind.
Sixteen year old you.
That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestream—presumed dead—and the weight of Gotham’s shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyone’s shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were useful—that you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one who’d walked away with more bruises inside than out… that’s what you’d felt.
Your older self had moved on—or at least you thought you had. You weren’t that angry, reckless kid anymore. You’d 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. You’d 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 voices—it all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought you’d buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.
And it wasn’t 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 shouldn’t matter.
Not now. Not anymore.
You weren’t sixteen. You weren’t 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 Gotham’s streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice much—the 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.
That’s why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.
“Whoa!”
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.
“Hey, you okay?” 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.
“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up at you. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
You sighed, offering him a hand. “No, it’s okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure you’re not hurt?”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. That’s when you noticed it—a 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.
“Hold on,” you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. “Sit here for a second, okay?”
The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.
“I’ll be right back,” 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.
“Okay,” you said, kneeling in front of him again. “This might sting a little.”
The boy just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
You arched an eyebrow but didn’t 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.
“There,” you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. “Good as new.”
The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. “Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”
“Sure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. “It was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.”
He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. “It wasn’t your fault! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was running.”
“Running, huh?” you asked, tilting your head. “Why the rush?”
He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. “I like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!”
The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. “A superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You don’t want to go running into the wrong kind of person.”
“I won’t!” he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. “I will run really fast, so no one can catch me!”
“Good plan,” you said, giving him an approving nod.
He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Elliot. I’m (Name).”
“Nice to meet you too!”
He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “You’re really nice. Are you from around here?”
“Yeah. I live nearby.”
You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. “What about you?”
“I live at the orphanage,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. “The one down the street?”
“Yeah.”
There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.
“How long have you been there?” you asked, leaning back slightly.
He shrugged. “I dunno. A while, I guess. I don’t really remember anything else.”
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. “Well, you should be more careful running around out here. Gotham’s not exactly the friendliest city, you know.”
He nodded earnestly at your words.
“Just don’t go running into any supervillains, okay?”
He giggled. “Okay!”
Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. “All right, kid. You’re good to go. Take care of yourself.”
“Okay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!” 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 sudden…. 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 him—figures 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 hadn’t left.
“What the hell was that?” 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 couldn’t 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? You’d never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldn’t 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 answers—even if you weren’t 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 weren’t in terrible shape, but they were clearly old—faded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they weren’t new. Passed down. Not what you’d expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprises’ charity foundations.
Your father’s charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes didn’t fit that picture.
But that wasn’t proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicions—just 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 didn’t 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 this—
But then came the reminder: you weren’t Batgirl anymore.
You clenched your jaw at the thought. You’d quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t go back—not 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 couldn’t ignore it. Not completely.
A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasn’t who you were anymore. And yet, you couldn’t just let it go.
For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line you’d set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputer’s database. If there was something wrong, there’d be records—staff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.
You’d 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.
…..
Damnit. You couldn’t wait. This couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 energy—it was a relief to see.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d 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 you’d seen earlier couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.
Still, you couldn’t shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didn’t 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?
“Can I help you?”
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.
“Oh, uh…” you stammered, stepping back from the gate. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t—”
Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. “No need to apologize, dear. It’s not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.”
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. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s much warmer inside.”
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.
“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. “I’m Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?”
You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.
“So,” she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. “What brings you here today?”
You hesitated, your hands warming against the cup’s surface as you searched for the right words. “I, 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.”
Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. “I see. Spying on children, were you?”
The way she said it—lighthearted and without malice—made your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. “That sounds so bad. I didn’t mean—ugh.” You groaned, cringing at your own words. “I didn’t mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.”
Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. “It’s quite all right. You don’t seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?”
“His name’s Elliot,” you said, setting your cup down. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all.”
“Oh, Elliot,” she said, her tone light. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? Always running around, full of energy.”
You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. “Yeah. He seemed pretty happy.”
“Of course,” she said with a soft chuckle. “We do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. It’s not an easy task, but it’s rewarding.”
Breathing is steady.
No rapid blinking.
Stance isn’t rigid.
No notable pupil dilation either.
Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s an excellent liar.
“Has he been here long?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.
“Elliot? Ah, yes,” she said, setting her cup down. “His 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. He’s grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.”
You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s good to hear.”
But it wasn’t. 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 Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flash—the 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.
“I don’t mean to pry,” you said carefully, “but I noticed his coat seemed a bit… old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?”
Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. “We do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations don’t always cover everything we’d like.”
“Right,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Well, it’s great that you’re doing so much for them. I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”
Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. “It’s a labor of love, as they say.”
You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanor—the way she’d hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responses—set off alarm bells.
Her words sounded rehearsed, like something you’d hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t have proof—nothing concrete—but 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 couldn’t 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. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.”
“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. “It was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if you’d like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.”
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 in—they didn’t feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldn’t ignore.
And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasn’t 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 weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.
Something was wrong here. You didn’t 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 café was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loud—too loud. Gotham’s shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruce’s return, Tim couldn’t 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 wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d 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 couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been lately—colder, 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 hadn’t figured out yet.
“Tim.”
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. “Brooding even in a café. Classic Tim Drake.”
“Cassie.” he said, blinking away the fog in his head.
Tim hadn’t even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. “Did you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?”
Tim glanced up from his coffee. “You mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?”
Cassie shrugged unapologetically. “Same thing.”
Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the café 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. “So, what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Just the usual.” Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasn’t buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.
“Don’t even try it. You’ve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gotham’s been throwing at you. But this is something else. When’s the last time you got out of your own head?”
He hesitated, looking down at his cup. “I’m fine, Cassie.”
“Tim.” Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. “You don’t have to do that with me. What’s going on?”
Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once again—its 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. “It’s Gotham. It’s everything. Bruce is back, Dick’s Nightwing, Damian’s still Robin, and I’m… Red Robin.” He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. “It’s just—where do I fit in all of this? Everyone’s falling back into their roles like nothing’s changed. But I’m not sure I fit anywhere anymore.”
Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didn’t push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. “Are you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if it’s only Gotham, that’s a lot of caffeine for someone who’s just having a ‘midlife crisis’ at, what, eighteen?”
Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief he’d felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruce’s return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.
You.
Tim’s grip on his drink tightened.
Maybe that’s what’s 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 relief—that 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 wasn’t stupid. He’d 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 wasn’t spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce did—or didn’t 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 hadn’t fought back.
No.
You had fought back.
But it hadn’t been enough. Not really.
And now, you’d chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldn’t fathom why.
That wasn’t all that had changed.
Something about your recent behavior, the way you’d started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldn’t explain. The day he’d seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. You’d apologized to him over something. And Damian—he 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 smiled—actually smiled—when you walked away?
Tim couldn’t wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each other’s throats constantly—more him than you—were suddenly… close?
Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Tim’s unease grow.
He couldn’t 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 why—
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 didn’t want him to do when she dragged him out here.
“Still with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?”
Tim didn’t even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. “What do you want, Kon?”
“Food. And maybe some actual conversation?” Kon’s 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. “Hey! You really went out and left us all wondering if we’d get the invite back into your brooding circle.”
“You’re late,” Tim deadpanned. “I’m already way ahead of you in the ‘feeling sorry for myself’ game.”
“Yeah, that’s a surprise,” Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. “So, what’s up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?”
“Do I look like I’m ‘coming to terms’ with anything?” Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.
The words sat heavy in his throat.
Because no. He wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t Gotham, but you?
“I don’t know,” Kon teased. “You don’t look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassie’s worked her magic on you?”
Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bart’s gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. “So, who’s the real problem? Because I’m guessing it’s not Gotham, but you’ve been keeping something from us.”
Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.
He hadn’t meant to talk about this.
But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.
“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “It’s just… (Name).”
There, he said it.
The words hung in the air.
“You mean your sister?” 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, wasn’t 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 weren’t like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You weren’t 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 couldn’t even read you.
And yet—
Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t 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.
Hadn’t that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?
Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.
“No, she’s—”
He stopped.
He couldn’t say it.
Because what was he going to say? That you weren’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t just let people go. He couldn’t just let people in his life go.
No matter how far away you seemed now.
“Whatever,” Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. “That’s not the point.”
“Sure, sure,” Kon said, his tone full of mischief. “Whatever you say, Tim.”
Before Tim could respond, Bart’s eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. “Oh, wait, isn’t that her right there?”
Tim’s breath caught in his throat.
He turned.
And there you were.
Walking past the café, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.
What were the chances?
“Oh yeah,” Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. “That is her.”
Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.
Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the café window. “Oh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.”
Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasn’t ready to deal with.
“Should we invite her over?” Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.
“No—” Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.
But Bart was already gone.
A gust of wind, a sudden rush of air—
And then you were there.
Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.
“The hell—” you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that you’d just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.
Tim didn’t 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 hadn’t.
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 great…
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 didn’t 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, before—
Everything blurred.
The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knew—
You were inside.
Inside a random café, 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.
“Ta-da!”
You blinked.
What.
Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.
Cassie, Conner, and—
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 wasn’t 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.
“Hey!” Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. “You looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figured—why not save you the trouble?”
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. Should’ve expected that.
You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. “Right. Thanks for that.”
“Oh nice! You didn’t scream,” Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. “That’s an improvement.”
You turned to him, blinking. “Excuse me?”
“Y’know,” Bart waved a hand. “Last time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.”
“That’s… comforting,” you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.
“Glad to be of service,” 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 weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
The café was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didn’t belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasn’t meant for you.
Because you weren’t close to them. Not really.
Sure, you’d fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life you’d left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You weren’t friends.
Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. “You cut your hair.”
You blinked at the casualness of it. “Uh. Yeah.”
“Looks good on you,” 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 didn’t 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?
“…Thanks,” you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.
You’d 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 hadn’t said a word. Not once.
“What? Not going to say hi to your sister?”
Tim’s posture stiffened, like he hadn’t expected to be dragged into this.
You didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at you.
The tension was immediate.
Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. “The one time I’m asking you to not make things awkward..”
“I’m not the one..!” Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassie’s 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. “So what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?”
You tensed, caught off guard by the question.
“I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. “I was just running errands.”
Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.
Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.
That wasn’t something you were about to share. Not yet.
Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. “You sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.”
“Yeah,” Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. “You weren’t exactly giving ‘casual stroll.’”
You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.
He still hadn’t said anything.
You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t look at him.
Not really.
You weren’t exactly ignoring him, but you weren’t acknowledging him either.
It was easier this way.
Easier to pretend like there wasn’t a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasn’t pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.
But his friends?
They definitely noticed.
Of course they did.
Bart’s gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassie’s 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 weren’t stupid.
You knew how this worked.
They were trying to get something from you, weren’t they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.
But why?
You barely even knew them.
Sure, you’d crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasn’t enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?
You didn’t want to be a part of this.
Didn’t want to be here.
“Y’know,” Cassie begins, breaking the silence. “You had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?”
You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I—”
“I bet she does,” Kon interrupted before you could finish. “Bet she’s just like Tim—probably broods in her free time, too.”
Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. “She doesn’t brood.”
Kon raised a brow. “You sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.”
“I don’t brood,” you said flatly.
“See?” Tim muttered.
Kon just shrugged. “Alright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?”
“Not really.”
“I dunno,” Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. “I kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.”
You gave him a blank look. “That’s not very reassuring.”
Bart grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”
Cassie sighed, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They get like this when they meet new people.”
Your brows furrowed slightly. “New people?”
Cassie shrugged. “I mean, kinda? We’ve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.”
And that was true.
You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.
Which made this—whatever this was—even 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 weren’t stupid.
They were fishing.
For what, you weren’t sure.
But you didn’t want to find out.
So you took the out when you saw it.
“I should go,” you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.
Kon blinked. “What? But you just got here.”
“Yeah, well I have other plans.”
Cassie frowned slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to rush off—”
“It’s fine,” you reassured, already standing. “It was nice seeing you guys.”
Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didn’t look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.
Cassie sighed, but didn’t push. “It was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?” 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 it—
The way Tim’s gaze lingered on you.
You saw something flicker in his expression.
Something that looked almost like—
No.
You didn’t let yourself think about it. Didn’t let youtself feel anything about it.
It was something you didn’t have the energy to unpack.
So you didn’t.
You just walked away.
Bart let out a low whistle as the café door shut behind you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward.”
“Bart,” Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.
“What? It’s true.” He gestured at the door. “Did you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.”
Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasn’t 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 wasn’t like Tim didn’t know things were weird between you two. But that—that was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as you’d stepped into the café, only to fade into polite indifference.
Indifference. That’s all it was.
He’d expected… what? That you’d at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldn’t act like he was just another person at the table?
Because that’s 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 couldn’t even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You weren’t ignoring him outright, but you also weren’t letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.
Which meant you were doing it on purpose.
Which meant you didn’t want to talk to him.
And the worst part? Tim couldn’t even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He’d seen you pull away before, but this felt different—he 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 hadn’t expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasn’t 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. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s food? Because my burger is phenomenal.”
Cassie gave him a flat look. “Seriously?”
“What? I’m just saying, good food is good food.”
Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. “I knew I should’ve ordered the burger…”
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 couldn’t help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.
That still didn’t make sense to him.
Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?
You’d apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.
Tim had seen the way you pat Damian’s 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 wasn’t like he had a claim to your time or attention.
But it did matter. Because for all the years you’d spent working together, for all the time you’d spent in the field, all the fights you’d fought—together—he’d never once seen you look at him the way you’d 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.
“Ever going to turn to the next page?”
Adrien’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for—who 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 couldn’t. Not after the absolute mess of a day you’d had.
“Right. Yeah.” You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word from the last one.
Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You weren’t 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 library’s sake. “Okay, what’s up with you?”
You shook your head. “Nothing. Just exhausted.”
Adrien snorted quietly. “You say that every time you don’t want to talk about something.”
“Because I am exhausted,” you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.
Adrien didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. And I’m Batman.”
That earned a small huff from you. “No, you’re an idiot.”
Caitlyn smirked. “He can be both.”
Adrien gasped, mock-offended. “Et tu, Cait?”
“You were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,” Caitlyn deadpanned.
“Okay, but in my defense—”
“You have no defense,” you and Caitlyn said at the same time.
Adrien groaned. “Okay, you two suck. I’m being bullied.”
It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didn’t last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m fine,” you muttered.
“Liar.”
“I’m—”
“Liar,” 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. “Can you two just drop it?”
There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.
You sighed, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—there’s a lot of bullshit going on.”
Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanna tell us?”
You hesitated.
Where would you even start?
With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at first—until Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasn’t just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you weren’t avoiding him, like things weren’t 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 weren’t 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 flashes—images? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that weren’t yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didn’t 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 didn’t sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristine—like 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 couldn’t even articulate. You weren’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasn’t 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 could’ve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that café, you hadn’t 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 weren’t close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcoming—too 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 Tim—he 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, because—why had it been so awkward?
It shouldn’t 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 have—barely 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 wasn’t the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.
And you couldn’t 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 everything—despite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bond—there 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. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Caitlyn nodded. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But just—don’t shut us out, okay?”
You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at arm’s length. Not because you didn’t trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your family’s secrets—into the chaos that surrounded you—would only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.
Some truths just weren’t meant to be shared.
You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.”
Adrien narrowed his eyes. “That felt like an ‘I’m not actually going to tell you anything but please don’t be mad at me’ appreciation.”
You let out a small, dry chuckle. “It’s exactly that kind of appreciation.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”
Silence settled between you.
Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldn’t pinpoint whether they’re real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldn’t quite put into words.
You couldn’t let it go.
You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t 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. “…What do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?”
FInally done with this chapter ohmygod…. 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 🤭
reader 🤝 tim — overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice 😬)
also i promise i’ll answer my inbox soon 😭 there is just so much stuff to reply to but i’ll eventually empty it out sooner or later
taglist is closed ‼️
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Things between you and Damian weren’t 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 clashed—Damian was Damian, after all—but now, it didn’t feel like an outright war. It was more… playful. Almost.
He still had his sharp remarks, but they didn’t cut as deep anymore. And you? You’d 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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t look up as you approached, though you knew he’d already noticed you.
“Hey, Damian,” you said, holding the plate out in front of you.
He finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “What is it now?”
You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I made these with Alfred. Thought you might want to try them.”
He eyed the plate suspiciously, like it might explode if he touched it. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you offering me one?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. “What’s your angle?”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “No angle. If you don’t want them, you don’t have to take them. Simple.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want them,” Damian said quickly, his tone defensive.
You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “Oh? So you do want them?”
He scoffed, snatching the plate from your hands like you might change your mind. “I’ll try them. But don’t expect me to praise you if they’re subpar.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Damian took a deliberate bite, his expression carefully guarded as he chewed. You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.
“Well?” you asked.
He paused, his lips twitching ever so slightly before he schooled his face back into indifference. “Adequate.”
You snorted. “Adequate, huh? That’s basically high praise coming from you.”
“Tt. Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop eating.
You grinned, shaking your head as you turned to leave. “Enjoy them, Damian. Or don’t. Whatever.”
As you walked away, you heard him mutter under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch: “I will.”
You didn’t look back, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
No, things between you and Damian weren’t 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 Cassandra’s movements usually put the blonde at ease, but today, she couldn’t shake the restless thoughts spinning in her head.
“I don’t get it,” Stephanie muttered finally, breaking the silence.
Cass didn’t look up, but the subtle tilt of her head told Steph she was listening.
“It’s been almost three weeks,” Steph continued, gesturing with her mug like it emphasized her point. “Three weeks since (Name) quit, and I haven’t seen her here. Not once. No check-ins, no training, no anything. She just… stopped. Like she wasn’t serious about any of it to begin with.”
Cass paused her movements, her sharp gaze flicking to Steph. “Serious..?”
“Y’know, serious about being Batgirl..!” Steph exclaimed, setting her mug on a table with a clink. “I 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. It’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.”
Cass raised an eyebrow, her hands moving again to tighten the grappling gun’s grip. “You miss her.”
“What? No! I—” Steph’s protest faltered under Cass’s calm stare. “Okay, maybe a little. But that’s not the point.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “It’s just so unlike her. You know what I mean?”
Cass considered this for a moment, then nodded. “She fights. Always fights. And she doesn’t stop.”
“Exactly!” Steph said, throwing her hands up. “She’s stubborn as hell. She’d never just quit without a reason. It’s like she’s a completely different person all of a sudden.”
Cass’s gaze stayed steady on Steph, her expression unreadable. “Maybe something happened.”
Steph frowned. “Like what?”
Cass furrowed her eyebrows, setting her grappling gun aside and leaning back on her hands. “I don’t know. But something.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Steph admitted, slumping against the back of the couch. “I mean, yeah, we weren’t exactly besties or whatever, but we spent enough time together. I thought I had her figured out. Now I feel like I don’t know her at all.”
Cass tilted her head. “Did you? Know her?”
Steph opened her mouth to respond but stopped. She hadn’t really thought about it that way. Most of her interactions with you had been competitive or snarky, sure, but there had been moments—rare ones—where it felt like there was something deeper under the surface. She just hadn’t taken the time to dig for it.
“I don’t know,” Steph admitted, her voice quieter. “Maybe I didn’t. But I thought I did.”
Cass nodded slowly, as if that answer didn’t surprise her.
“What about you..?” Steph asked, turning the question back on Cass. “What do you think of all this?”
Cass didn’t answer immediately. She sat in thoughtful silence, her dark eyes focused on nothing in particular. “Not sure,” she said finally. “It feels… off. Like she’s hiding.”
Steph frowned. “Hiding what?”
“I… don’t know.”
The room fell silent as Steph mulled over Cass’s words. For all your bravado and stubborness, there had always been something raw about you, like you were desperate to hold onto something—anything. Maybe Cass was right. Maybe something had happened—something you didn’t want anyone to know.
Stephanie sighed, reaching for her mug again. “You’re probably right. She’s hiding something. But what exactly is she hiding, that’s the question.” She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing slightly at the bitterness. “I hate not knowing. It’s driving me nuts.”
Cass offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You care.”
“Of course I care!” Steph shot back, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I mean, yeah, she’s annoying and stubborn and always has to prove she’s better than me, but…” She trailed off, her voice softening. “She’s still one of us. Right?”
Cass nodded, the smile lingering.
Stephanie leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll try talking to her. Or something. I don’t know. This is just… weird. It doesn’t feel right. To just leave things as it is.”
Cass watched Stephanie closely, her quiet curiosity cutting through the lingering silence. “What was it like?” she asked, her voice calm but insistent. “Between you and her?”
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 Cass’s gaze—steady, patient, unyielding—made it clear she wasn’t going to let it slide.
“What do you mean, ‘what was it like?’” Steph muttered, setting her mug down with more force than necessary.
“You and (Name),” Cass said, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “Before all this. When she was still Batgirl. When you were still Spoiler. When you became Batgirl as well.”
Steph shifted uncomfortably, her lips pressing into a thin line.
What was it like?
“It was… complicated,” 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 father’s, shadow on her shoulders. She’d been furious when she found out after he claimed to be “rehabilitated”, he actually returned to crime instead, leaving no clues behind this time. She knew then and there that something had to be done—that she had to do something—to stop her father. So, she made her Spoiler costume, and set out to stop her father. That night, she’d intercepted one of his coded messages and had made the decision to spoil yet another of his schemes—alone.
It hadn’t 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. She’d hoped to sneak in, plant some evidence for the police, and leave unnoticed. Instead, she’d tripped a motion sensor and found herself surrounded.
She fought back with everything she had, but it wasn’t 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 thug’s 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 weren’t as fluid as you likely hoped they were. You were good—better than her, no question—but your hits didn’t 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.
“Who are you?” you demanded, stepping forward.
“I’m…” She hesitated, brushing off her torn sleeve and trying to stand straighter. “I’m Spoiler.”
“Never heard of you.” You crossed your arms, looking her up and down. “What are you even doing here? Who are you working with?”
Stephanie groaned, more from frustration than pain. “I’m not working with anyone.”
“Then why are you here?” You gestured to the tied-up henchmen. “This isn’t exactly a neighborhood bake sale.”
“I’m here to stop my father,” she snapped, throwing her arms up.
That made you pause. “Your… father?”
She sighed, already regretting the slip. “Yeah. My father.”
You frowned, the pieces slowly clicking together. “Wait… you’re Cluemaster’s daughter?”
“Congrats, you solved the mystery, want a prize for that?” 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. “Why are you trying to stop him?”
“Because someone has to.” Stephanie said, her voice rising. “Because I don’t want people to get hurt because of him. Is that good enough for you, Batgirl?”
You stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “You shouldn’t even be out here. This isn’t a game.”
“I’m not treating it like one!” she shot back. “I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t,” you replied bluntly, but your voice softened after a moment. “But… I guess I can see why you’re doing it.”
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.
“You’re not going to say anything?” she asked, suspicious.
You didn’t look at her. “Not tonight. But don’t make me regret it.”
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 didn’t 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 didn’t need anyone’s pity—least of all from someone who’d clearly been at this vigilante thing longer than her. Or maybe—you just thought she wasn’t worth the effort of turning in.
Over the next few weeks—for some reason—Stephanie 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.
“I don’t need your help,” Steph had snapped when you intervened in another one of her plans to foil her father’s, her voice tinged with irritation. She’d bitten off more than she could chew, but the last thing she wanted was you swooping in to save her.
“You’re welcome,” you’d replied coolly, barely glancing at her as you tied up the last of the thugs.
Steph had bristled. “I had it handled.”
“Sure you did,” you’d said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why you were about two seconds away from getting your head bashed in.”
This cycle had continued for weeks—an endless back-and-forth of barbed comments and unspoken challenges.
But then there were quieter moments. Like this one night—you both got stuck during a freezing rainstorm, huddled together under a flimsy overhang.
“You’re shivering,” you’d noted, tossing your extra cloak over her shoulders without a second thought.
Steph had blinked at you, surprised. “…Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” you’d said, leaning back against the wall and pulling your own cloak tighter around you.
That same night she’d cornered you on the rooftop after the two of you left evidence for the police and Batman to find to deal with Cluemaster.
“Why?” she’d asked, crossing her arms. “Why’d you go along with my plan instead of running to Batman?”
You’d glanced at her, your expression unreadable. “Because you’re not like him,” you’d said simply.
“Cluemaster, I mean. And because… I do think you mean it. The whole ‘trying to stop my father’ thing.”
For a moment, Stephanie had been speechless. She hadn’t expected that kind of answer—or the quiet sincerity behind it.
She hadn’t expected that. Not from a Bat. They weren’t exactly known for handing out compliments—or trust. Especially not to someone like her.
But then again, from the moment she met you, you hadn’t exactly acted the way she thought someone trained under Batman would. Not that she would know what that was like.
Stephanie’s arms dropped to her sides as she studied you, standing there under the faint glow of the Gotham skyline. You didn’t look like you were second-guessing your words or regretting them. You were calm like you’d 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 hadn’t exactly proven otherwise had she?
Sure, she was trying to stop him now, but that didn’t 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 weren’t wrong? What if—just maybe—you’d seen something in her she couldn’t see herself?
Stephanie didn’t know what terified her more then—the 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 didn’t matter. But you didn’t. 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.
“Thanks,” she muttered, her voice barely audible, as she looked away. She didn’t know if you heard her or if you’d 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. “Really?” She muttered, dragging a hand down her face.
“Was that a ‘dramatic exit’ thing, or do all you bats have to disappear every time someone tries to say thanks?”
“Afterwards…” Steph began, her voice soft. “I didn’t really get to see much of her.”
Cass looked up briefly, her head tilting in silent acknowledgment.
“I mean, even after I met you,” Steph continued, “I didn’t see much of her. I thought we were chill. You know?”
Cass’s hands paused over the grappling gun. “Thought?”
Steph hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. Her gaze fell to her mug, and she let out a slow breath. “I guess… everything kind of changed when Bruce ‘died.’” She set the mug on the table and leaned back against the couch. “When you quit being Batgirl, and gave me your costume to take over you.”
Cass blinked, her expression neutral but her body language subtly shifting. “Oh.”
Steph turned to face her fully, brows knitting together. “I thought things would still be fine, but no. Not when Dick and Babs allowed me to take up the Batgirl mantle.”
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 didn’t flinch, your posture rigid as though the weather didn’t touch you.
“I figured you’d be here,” she’d said softly, walking closer, the crunch of gravel under her boots breaking the silence.
“What do you want, Stephanie?” 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 name—so cold, so distant—it made her chest tighten.
“I just… wanted to talk.”
You let out a dry, humourless scoff, still not turning to face her.
Stephanie clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself to continue. “Look, I know you’re upset. I don’t know why Dick decided to bench you from being Batgirl, but—“
“Oh, you don’t know?” You spun around, finally facing her, your eyes burning with frustration. “It’s because of you, Stephanie. He benched me so you could play hero. He chose you. You. Over me. He’s saying I wasn’t good enough to be Batgirl. His Batgirl.”
Stephanie’s heart sank at the venom in your voice. She took a step closer, shaking her head. “That’s not true… Cass wanted me to take over her as Batgirl because—“
“Because what?” you snapped, voice rising. “Because she thought I couldn’t handle it? Because she thought you deserved it more than I do?”
“No!” Steph said quickly, her voice breaking slightly. “Because she thought I needed it. And maybe she’s right. But that doesn’t mean—“
“It doesn’t mean what?” you interrupted bitterly. “That it wasn’t a slap in the face? That it didn’t rip away the only thing I had left?”
Your voice broke, just slightly, and Stephanie’s heart clenched as she watched your walls crack under thr weight of your emotions.
“My 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 didn’t mean anything to me? Like I don’t mean anything?”
“It’s not like that,” Steph shot back, her voice more desperate. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. I never wanted to hurt you—“
“Just stop,” you interrupted, turning away from her again. Your shoulders were stiff, your voice cutting like ice.
“I don’t care what you wanted. I don’t care what excuses you or Barbara or Dick have. They decided you were better than me. That I wasn’t good enough. That I was expendable.”
“That’s not true,” Steph said desperately.
“Oh sure,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “You somehow convinced Dick and Barbara to let you play Batgirl while I’m sidelined and tossed aside. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t know what this would do to me.”
Stephanie felt frustration bubbling under the surface. “Do you think I have it easy? Barbara doubted me from the start! She didn’t think I’d survive as Batgirl. She only gave me a chance because I refused to back down—“
“So then why did they replace me?” you snapped, your eyes glistening with tears you refused to let fall. “Why did they bench me while you got to take my place? Even Cassandra seems to think you’re better than me.”
Steph froze. “That’s—“
“Am I really that replaceable?” you interrupted, your voice trembling.
Stephanie opened her mouth, but no words came out.
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Save it, Stephanie. I don’t care what their reasons are. You want the mantle? Fine. It’s yours. But don’t come here pretending you didn’t know what this would do to me.”
Stephanie took a shaky step forward. “I’m not trying to—“
“I’ll prove them wrong,” you interrupted, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ll prove I’m better than you. Better than any of them thought I could be. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Stephanie stared at you, stunned, as your words hung heavy in the air.
“So enjoy being Batgirl, Stephanie. And stay the hell away from me.”
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.
Stephanie’s hands tightened around her mug as she replayed the memory in her mind.
“From then on,” Steph said, her voice soft, “she did everything she could to one-up me. Patrol routes, takedowns, intel—anything. It was like she was trying to prove herself, not just to Dick and Barbara, but to me, too.”
Cass tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
Steph hesitated before asking, “Why… didn’t you seem bothered by her quitting? Didn’t it… I don’t know, feel weird to you?”
Cass stayed silent, her hands stilling over the grappling gun.
“Cass?” Stephanie pressed.
Cassandra sighed softly. “If it’s what she wanted, then everyone should respect it.”
“But isn’t it weird? That she suddenly quit?”
Cass’s gaze flickered. “Yeah,” she admitted, her voice calm. “But it’s better if she doesn’t continue this path.”
Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “Better? What do you mean?”
Cass hesitated, her voice even. “She wasn’t built for this life.”
Steph blinked, confused. “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
Cass looked at her, her voice quieter but resolute. “I’ve always seen it. A… blockage. In her body language. When she fights, when she moves, it’s always there. It never goes away.”
Steph tilted her head, confused. “A blockage? What does that even mean..?”
“It’s like… a wall she can’t break through.” Cass explained, her tone calm but firm. “No matter what she does, it stops her from reaching her full potential. And that wall… it’s dangerous. For her.”
“But she’s strong—“ Steph opened her mouth to protest, but Cass cut her off, her tone firmer.
“She’s strong,” Cass agreed, “but not for this. That blockage is something she can’t overcome. And if she keeps pushing herself, it’ll hurt her. Worse than being benched. Worse than losing the mantle. She should live a normal life. Away from this.”
Steph stared at Cass, her confusion shifting into an uneasy understanding. The weight of Cass’s words settling heavily in her chest. Cass’s ability to read body language was unparalleled—if anyone could see something like that, it was her.
“But…” Steph started, trailing off, her voice uncertain.
Cass shook her head, her voice soft but final. “This life—it would break her. It’s better this way. For her.”
Stephanie leaned back into the couch, the weight of Cass’s words pressing down on her. For the first time, she felt a flicker of doubt—not about you, but about what this life demanded of you.
It didn’t 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 “blockage,” some invisible wall holding you back, Steph believed her. She had no reason not to.
But why hadn’t Cass told you about it? Why hadn’t she tried to help you work through it instead of letting you walk away? Cass wasn’t the type to give up on people, so why had she just… let you go?
Stephanie’s grip tightened on the mug. She thought back to the nights she’d watched you push yourself too far, the way you’d thrown yourself into patrols and fights with a reckless determination that bordered on desperation. It made sense now, in a way. You weren’t just trying to be good enough—you were trying to be better than everyone’s doubts.
“I don’t…” Stephanie hesitated, her words faltering. “I don’t know how to feel about this.”
Cassandra didn’t respond, her silence stretching between them like the distant hum of the city outside.
The weight of the conversation pressed on Steph’s chest, but then a stray thought flickered in her mind, pulling her out of her tangled emotions. She striaghted slightly, her brow furrowing.
“Wait. Where’s Barbara anyway?” she asked, glancing around the Clocktower.
Cass tilted her head, thinking. “Not sure,” she said simply. “I think… she said she had plans. With someone.”
Steph raised an eyebrow. “Plans? With who?”
Cass shrugged, her expression giving nothing away.
Steph groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Great. So now Barbara is being cryptic too. What is it with you Bat people and your secrets?”
The lunch spot was cozy but buzzing with just enough noise to drown out any awkward silences—though 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:
“Lunch? 1 PM? Don’t pretend you’re busy, I know your schedule. ☕”
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. “Black coffee?” she repeated after the server left, her brows slightly raised.
You glanced up from your phone. “Yeah?”
“I just… didn’t think you’d be the type.”
It took you a moment to register her confusion, but then it hit you. Back when you were sixteen, you hated coffee—especially black coffee. You’d always opted for sugary drinks or anything sweet enough to mask the bitterness. Sixteen year old you would’ve 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 you’ve gotten used to the taste of coffee.
“Just need all the energy I can get,” 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. “I heard about what happened to your friend.”
Your fingers stilled against the edge of your cup. Oh.
Barbara glanced at you, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry. That he got caught up in everything. I should have been more thorough.”
Your lips twitched downward, your voice coming out sharper than intended. “Yeah. You should have.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Barbara’s 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. “How’s school?”
You shrugged, your tone clipped. “It’s alright.”
“Are classes okay? Teachers good?”
“They’re fine.”
Barbara frowned, but she pressed on. “And your friends? Have you made any new ones?”
“No, not really.”
This wasn’t working. Every answer you gave was short, distant, like you were putting up walls. It felt unnatural, almost deliberate. Barbara wasn’t sure if she should press harder or back off entirely.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” 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. “No,” you replied flatly, taking a bite of your bagel.
Barbara’s stomach twisted.
That wasn’t a no.
Not really.
Before she could respond, a voice spoke from behind her.
“Hey, I thought I recognized you two!”
The familiar voice broke through the tension like a wrecking ball, and Barbara couldn’t 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. “What’s this? A secret meeting without me?”
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. “What are you guys talking about? School? Life? Come on, catch me up.”
“Not much to catch up on,” you muttered.
Dick frowned slightly but pressed on, his tone light and cheerful. “You know, I’ve been meaning to hang out with you more, (Name). It feels like we haven’t really spent time together lately.”
You didn’t respond.
“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime?” Dick offered, smiling earnestly. “Or I could swing by the manor and we could—”
“I actually have plans, so I can’t stay,” you said curtly, reaching for your bag.
Dick blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “What? No, wait,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “You just got here.”
“I already told you,” you said, standing up. “I have plans. I can’t hang out.”
“But—”
“Thanks for lunch, Barbara,” you interrupted, sparing Barbara a quick glance before heading for the exit.
“Wait—”
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 didn’t have the words. After all, you’d been acting the same way toward her. Aloof, distant, standoffish.
“Don’t take it personally.”
That was all she could come up with.
Dick frowned. “She’s never acted like this before. It’s like she doesn’t even want to be around me.”
Barbara didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say. She just wished she had an answer.
“She hates me,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned by the chatter from the cafe.
Barbara glanced up at the man. “She doesn’t hate you, Dick.”
“Feels like it,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “It’s like every time I try to talk to her, I just make things worse.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “….You don’t think she’s acting like this because of what happened before, do you?”
Barbara leaned back in her chair, her expression softening. “Which part of ‘before’ are we talking about?”
Dick’s gaze dropped to the floor as his mind pulled him back, unbidden, to those first turbulent days after Bruce’s 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.
“You’re benching me?” Your voice was sharp, anger barely masking the hurt underneath.
“It’s not permanent,” Dick said, his tone measured but firm. “You’re not in the right headspace right now—”
“I’m fine,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’m doing my job, same as I always have.”
“No, you’re not,” Dick countered, his voice tightening. “You’re reckless. You’re putting yourself in danger for no reason.” He took a step closer, his jaw tight. “I’ve seen you out there, and it’s like you’re not even trying to come back in one piece. You’re acting like you have nothing to lose.”
Your heart lurched at his words, but you refused to show it. “Don’t stand there and psychoanalyze me. I’m doing my job. If you think I’m not good enough, just say it.”
Dick let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. You’ve been through hell—losing Bruce—your father—and instead of giving yourself time to deal with it, you’re throwing yourself into the field like you have a death wish.”
Your fists clenched tighter. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit around, doing nothing? Let Gotham fall apart while you and Damian play Batman and Robin? I’m trying to help, Dick!”
“I know you are,” Dick said, his voice softening, but there was a steel edge to it. “But this isn’t helping. Not like this. You’re going to get yourself killed, and I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
“You can’t what?” you demanded, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “You can’t trust me? Can’t rely on me? What, am I just some burden to you now?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!” Dick snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. His voice echoed through the cave, bouncing off the walls. “I’m saying I care about you, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself like this.”
The raw emotion in his voice caught you off guard, but it only fueled the fire burning in your chest. “You don’t care about me,” you spat. “If you did, you’d let me do what I’m good at instead of sidelining me. You’re becoming just like father—deciding what’s best for everyone else without asking.”
Dick flinched at the comparison, but he recovered quickly, his expression hardening. “This isn’t about control. It’s about keeping you alive. You’re grieving, and it’s clouding your judgment. Until you can think clearly, I can’t let you keep putting yourself in danger.”
“You can’t let me?” you repeated, your voice cracking as your anger reached its peak. “You’re not my father, Dick. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do!”
“No, I’m not your father,” Dick shot back, his voice low but sharp. “But I am your brother. And I am Batman now. So it’s my call.”
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 you—anger, betrayal, grief, all swirling together until you couldn’t separate one from the other.
“Fine,” you said finally, your voice cold and flat. “Do what you want. Bench me. Replace me. I don’t care.”
Dick’s expression flickered, a crack in his resolve, but you didn’t 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 Dick’s chest like a knife. A few days later, he’d seen someone in Cassandra’s Batgirl costume, her movements unfamiliar, the seams of the mantle not quite fitting yet.
“Tsk, tsk. Sloppy.” Damian had commented.
“How is this the woman who led the League of Assassins? The “warrior” who ran the outsiders at father’s command?” he had asked sharply.
“You’re right..” Dick muttered, narrowing his eyes as he realized who it was.
“She’s not as good as the other batgirls..”
When he confronted Barbara about mentoring Stephanie, the conversation had been anything but calm. She believed in Stephanie, believed Gotham needed a Batgirl. He’d been reluctant, furious that Barbara had allowed Stephanie to go around Gotham wearing that Bat symbol on her chest when she’s not prepared for what the city has become in the absence of Batman. But he’d 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 Dick’s attention from the monitor. He turned just as you came storming in, radiating anger.
“Are you serious?” you demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the cave’s 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.
“Stephanie’s Batgirl now?” you said, your words laced with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“She’s doing good work,” Dick said, keeping his tone neutral, though he could already feel the tension building.
“She’s replacing me!” you snapped. “Neither you nor Barbara even thought to talk to me about this. Not a single word. You didn’t think for one second about how I’d feel.”
“She’s not replacing you, (Name),” Dick said, his voice taut as he tried to keep his composure.
“Yes, she is,” you shot back, your tone rising. “You’re saying I’m not good enough. That I’m not fit to be Batgirl anymore.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Dick countered, his patience beginning to fray.
“Then what is it about?” you challenged, stepping closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided I wasn’t worth it. You didn’t even give me a chance to prove I’m not—”
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Dick interrupted sharply.
“Clearly, I do!” you spat. “Because you didn’t just bench me. You handed over my mantle to someone else, like I didn’t matter. Like I’m just… disposable!”
“That’s not what happened,” Dick said, his voice rising. “This isn’t about replacing you—it’s about keeping you alive!”
You froze for a split second, stunned, before your expression hardened. “Keeping me alive? What the hell are you talking about?”
Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Like I already told you, you’ve been reckless. Ever since Bruce died, you’ve been—”
“Don’t bring father into this,” you interrupted, your voice dangerously low.
“I have to,” Dick snapped back. “Because ever since he died, you’ve been running yourself into the ground, throwing yourself into danger without a second thought. You’re not thinking clearly, and it’s going to get you killed. I had to take you off the streets before it was too late.”
“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not fine,” Dick retorted, his voice sharp. “You’re angry, you’re grieving, and you’re not in the right headspace to be doing this. You think I wanted to bench you? I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” you bit out. “And you chose her.”
Dick’s jaw tightened. “Because Gotham needs a Batgirl who can think straight right now. Someone who isn’t running on grief and anger. That’s not you right now.”
“Oh, so Stephanie’s better than me now?” you said bitterly. “I see how it is. First, you replace Tim with Damian—without even talking to him about it—and now you’re doing the same thing to me.”
“This isn’t the same,” Dick said, his voice hardening.
“Isn’t it?” you challenged, stepping closer. “You didn’t even ask me. You just made the decision for me. Like I don’t get a say. Like I don’t matter.”
“Tim can handle himself,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp. “Damian can’t. He needed someone to guide him, someone to keep him from spiraling out of control.”
“And I don’t?” you fired back. “I lost my father, Dick. Everything changed the moment he’s gone. The ‘normalcy’ I had was no longer there. But instead of helping me, instead of guiding me, you just… tossed me aside. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
“That’s not what I did,” Dick said, his voice quieter but no less firm.
“Then what did you do?” you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.
“I’m trying to protect you!” Dick shouted, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t see it, but you’re not okay. You think you can just power through this, but you can’t. Not like this. If I let you keep going, you’d—” He stopped himself, his voice catching.
“I’d what?” you pressed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt.
Dick’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at you with a rawness in his expression you weren’t expecting. “You’d get yourself killed,” he said softly. “And I couldn’t live with that. Especially when I’m in charge.”
“Don’t make this about me being reckless or grieving or whatver you think is wrong with me,” you said through gritted teeth.
“It is about that!” Dick snapped, his voice rising even more than before. “You’re spiraling and you know it. You’re not in the right headspace to be out there right now, let alone as Batgirl.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been fine. I’m doing my job—“
“You’re throwing yourself into danger without thinking,” Dick interrupted, his voice sharp. “You’re not acting like someone who’s fine. You’re acting like you don’t care if you live or die, and I’m not going to let you do that under the Batgirl mantle.”
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. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said coldly.
“Someone has to.”
You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “No. You don’t get to make that call, not for me. You didn’t even try to understand. You just made your decision and moved on.”
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 you’d disappeared. His chest felt tight, a mix of guilt and frustration twisting inside him. He didn’t mean to hurt you. That was the last thing he wanted. But letting you keep going out there, in the state you were in, wasn’t something he could allow.
“It’s for your own good,” 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. “It had been rocky after that,” he admitted, the memory of your argument still sharp in his mind. “Even after I told her not to go out as Batgirl, she disobeyed me. Again and again.”
Barbara didn’t respond, her gaze steady on him, waiting for him to continue.
“I’d bench her, and she’d show up on patrols anyway,” Dick said, his tone bitter with frustration, but there was no hiding the regret beneath it. “At first, I thought she was just trying to prove a point—to prove me wrong—but the more I watched, the more I realized…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “She was just hurting. She threw herself into every fight like it didn’t matter if she came out of it.”
Barbara shifted in her wheelchair, her fingers tightening around her own mug.
Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to admit then, but I didn’t 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 wouldn’t talk to me—or if she did, it would get messy. She didn’t trust me anymore.”
He paused, exhaling heavily. “And I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for that.”
Barbara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she stayed quiet, sensing there was more.
“When Bruce came back, I thought things would go back to normal,” Dick said, forcing a hollow chuckle. “I 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.”
Barbara tilted her head slightly, catching the way his voice softened.
“But they weren’t,” he admitted, his voice breaking just slightly. “Not really.” He hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. “(Name) quit three weeks ago. Officially. And… she’s been avoiding me ever since. I see it in the way she leaves before I show up, the way she makes sure she’s never in the same room as me. It’s like—like whatever this is, it’s irreparable. Like I played into her quitting.”
Barbara reached out slightly, her hand brushing against his briefly, grounding him.
“I don’t think I was wrong in my decision,” Dick said, though there was an ache in his voice that made it hard to believe him. “I just—I handled it badly. I hurt her, Babs. And now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to make it right.”
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.
“I…. should have handled things better too,” she admitted softly, almost to herself.
Dick glanced at her, surprised by the admission.
“I should have been there for her,” Barbara continued, her tone quiet but heavy with regret. “(Name) wasn’t in the right state of mind, and I knew that. I knew it. But I…” She hesitated, gripping her mug tightly. “I chose to focus on Stephanie instead. To guide her. To help her become Batgirl.”
“You were trying to do what was best for everyone,” Dick said gently, but Barbara shook her head.
“No, I wasn’t,” she said firmly. “I was avoiding the harder choice. Helping her—helping someone who was grieving, who was hurt, who needed someone to pull them out of that spiral—that would’ve taken more from me. More patience. More time. And I didn’t give it to her.”
Dick’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I thought Stephanie needed me more,” Barbara said, her voice cracking slightly. “She was trying so hard to prove herself, to find her place—find what she needs. And she deserved my guidance too—but I shouldn’t have left (Name) behind. Not like that.”
The two of them fell silent for a long moment, both lost in their thoughts.
“She deserved better from me,” Barbara murmured, her throat tightening. “And now I have to live with the fact that I didn’t give it to her. I have to live with the fact that I let this gap between us grow so big. And I don’t even know when it happened.”
Dick looked at her, his expression softening. “It’s not too late to fix that.”
Barbara gave him a small, sad smile. “How do you fix something when you don’t even know where to start?”
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 didn’t have an answer.
“She’s so… closed off now,” Dick said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how to approach her anymore. Every time I try, it’s like there’s this wall between us, and I just—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “How did I mess up so bad?”
Barbara studied him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice.
“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Dick admitted. “I just—I 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 don’t know if I helped her at all. I think I just pushed her further away.”
Barbara placed a hand over his, squeezing it gently. “You did what you thought was right,” she said softly.
“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Dick muttered, his voice thick with regret.
They sat there in silence for a while, both of them weighed down by the choices they’d made and the consequences they were still grappling with. Neither of them knew how to bridge the gap you’d left behind—but they both knew they couldn’t just leave it like this. Not anymore.
finally done with this chapter lol. it’s been long overdue, so sorry about that 😭😓 i had to rewrite a lot of these scenes so many times because i wasn’t satisfied with it…but hopefully you lot are okay with this chapter haha.. 😬🙃 i slightly adjusted stephanie’s 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 i’m going to take a semi-hiatus/break to celebrate my bday which is coming up in 4 days and some other stuff 🫶 next chapter will most likely come out on 28 dec so yeah, until then, i’ll still try to reply to whatever is in my inbox 🫨
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The door slammed open so hard it reverberated through the sterile hospital room. Bruce didn’t flinch. He barely blinked. He just sat there, slumped in the hard plastic chair, his hand resting on yours—cold and lifeless beneath his touch.
“What the fuck am I looking at?”
Bruce didn’t answer, didn’t lift his head.
“Bruce.”
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 didn’t move to defend himself, didn’t 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.
“Get up,” Jason spat, towering over him. His chest rose and fell like a man drowning in rage. “Get the fuck up!”
Bruce pushed himself into a seated position, back against the chair he’d fallen from. Slowly, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jason…”
“What the hell happened? Tell me, Bruce. Tell me why—“ Jason’s 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.
“Tell me why the hell am I looking at her like this?!”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, his own voice hoarse, like gravel scraping against stone. “She went after a drug ring. Alone.”
Jason froze. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes blazing. “What?”
Bruce hands dropped into his lap, empty and useless. “She tracked them down herself. She found out where they were moving shipments. I don’t know when she left—by the time I realized, it was already too late. She—“
“And you let her??!” Jason’s shout rang through the small room, loud enough that the walls almost shook. He pointed at Bruce, his hand trembling. “You let her go after them?! Alone?!”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“She didn’t tell you?” Jason’s voice cracked, raw and vicious. He let out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me, Bruce? You’re BATMAN. You’re supposed to KNOW when this kind of shit is about to go down!”
Bruce finally lifted his gaze to Jason, his face haggard, the bruising around his jaw already deepening. “She didn’t tell me, Jason,” he repeated quietly, like the words were an admission of failure. “She went on her own.”
Jason’s fists clenched at his sides, knucles white. “You should’ve known she’d do this! You should’ve stopped her! You’re supposed to keep her safe—that was your job!”
Jason’s voice cracked again on the last word, and Bruce couldn’t meet his eyes.
“She made her choice.”
“Bullshit!” Jason snarled, stepping forward like he might hit him again.
He should, he thinks.
“She shouldn’t have had to make that choice. She wouldn’t have done it if she thought she didn’t have to. She—“ Jason’s 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.
Jason’s voice dropped, quiet and shaking. “She’s dead.”
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 couldn’t contain. Before he knew it, his fist collided with the drywall, the sound loud and violent as it split under the force.
“Goddamnit!” Jason’s 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 didn’t 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.
“She’s dead,” he whispered again, like saying it out loud would make it easier to believe. “Damnit, Bruce, she’s gone. She’s gone.”
He was furious at Bruce. For allowing this to happen. First him, then Alfred, and now… you.
He was furious at himself. If he’d just been there…. If he hadn’t 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, maybe—maybe—this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you wouldn’t be lying there, cold and lifeless.
“Goddamnit,” Jason choked out, his fingers gripping his hair as he tried to keep himself from shattering completely. “I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve been there.”
Bruce, still on the floor across from him, watched Jason quietly. His voice, when it came, was low and rough. “I promised myself I wouldn’t fail her.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes red-rimmed, furious. “You did. You failed her.”
He bowed his head down, and gritted his teeth. “….And I did too.”
With that, Jason fell silent. He stayed there, crumpled on the floor, staring at your lifeless form as the weight of it all—your death, Bruce’s failure, his own failure, his regrets—settled over him like a suffocating shroud.
And for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t know how to pick himself back up.
The night was deceptively calm, a quiet blanket over Gotham that felt almost serene. But Dick’s 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 deeper—something raw and consuming. His movements were precise, brutal, and unrelenting, each strike a wordless scream of anguish. This wasn’t just justice. It wasn’t even revenge.
This was the drug ring you had been chasing. The one responsible for your death.
And Dick wasn’t 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.
“Where are the rest of you?” 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.
“Where's the rest of your crew?” Dick growled, his voice low and dangerous.
“I-I don't—“
The man's excuse was cut off as Dick slammed him against the wall again, harder this time.
“Don't lie to me,” Dick hissed, his grip tightening. His knuckles were already sore and bloodied, but he barely noticed.
“Where are they?”
The thug whimpered, trembling under Dick's glare. “Warehouse... on 14th... Please, man, I'm just—”
“Shut up.” 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.
“Nightwing!”
Dick froze, his fist hovering in the air.
“Dick, that's enough!” Barbara's voice was firm, but there was a crack in it—a tremor that cut through the haze of rage clouding his mind. “They're down. He's down. You've got what you need.”
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.
“Oracle,” he rasped, his voice raw. “You there?”
“I'm here.”
There was a beat of silence before Dick spoke again, his voice trembling. “I should've been there, Babs. I should've been there for her.”
Barbara's breath hitched over the comm. “Dick—”
“I was supposed to protect her.” The words came out sharp, biting, the anguish behind them bleeding through. “I'm her big brother, Barbara. I'm supposed to protect my family. Protect her.” His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms hard enough to break skin. “But I wasn't there. I wasn't there, and now, she's...” His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat.
Barbara's voice was soft but steady. “You couldn't have known, Dick. You were-”
“Don't,” he snapped, his anger flaring again. “Don'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...” He trailed off, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the words.
“She was dying, Babs,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I wasn't there. (Name) is dead.”
Barbara was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was laced with pain. “You're not the only one who feels this, Dick. Don't act like you're the only one who lost her.”
Dick let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don't get it—”
“Don't I?” Barbara's voice cracked, sharp and raw.
Dick froze, his breath catching.
“She died as Batgirl,” Barbara said, her tone trembling with emotion. “She 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?”
Dick turned, guilt twisting in his gut as he heard the crack in her voice.
“She was under my guidance,” Barbara continued, her voice rising. “She was wearing my symbol. That's on me, Dick. Just like how you thought Jason’s death was on you.”
Dick flinched at the name, his chest tightening painfully. That was a low blow. A low moment in his life in which he didn’t want to go through again. But here he was—
“So don't you dare think for a second that I don't understand,” Barbara said, her voice breaking now. “Because I do. I know exactly how this feels for you. Every second of each day, I feel it. And it’s killing me inside.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Finally, Dick spoke, his voice barely audible. “I can't lose another one of us, Babs. I can't. Jason came back, but she...” His voice cracked again. “(Name)’s not coming back.”
Barbara's voice softened, though her pain was still evident. “I know.”
Dick closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a physical force. “This is my fault, Babs” he admitted, his voice trembling.
“Not just yours… mine as well,” 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 🥰🫶 i love it when dick goes feral in the comics lol (its hot)
“What?” You froze, her words barely registering at first. Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Caitlyn, what do you mean? What happened?”
“I—he—” Caitlyn’s voice trembled, her words coming out in a flurry. “I don’t know exactly! His parents called mine early this morning—he was rushed to the hospital, something happened last night—I don’t—” She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “He’s not okay, (Name). They said he’s in critical condition.”
The blood drained from your face. Your phone felt heavy in your grip as you sat on your bed, stunned, Caitlyn’s voice a distant hum in the background.
Adrien. In the hospital.
Critical condition.
Caitlyn kept talking, her panic spilling over, but you couldn’t process anything else she was saying. The words circled in your head, loud and deafening.
Why? Why’s Adrien in the hospital? You don’t remember this happening back in your first life.
Why?
Why did this happen?
“(Name)? Are you still there?” Caitlyn’s voice broke through, desperate for an answer.
“I—yeah,” you managed, though your voice sounded distant, hollow. “I’m here.”
“You have to come. Please.”
“…I–I know—I’m coming right now, send me the location of the hospital,” you managed to choke out, though your body felt frozen in place.
As Caitlyn’s frantic breathing filled the silence, your mind raced. Adrien. One of your closest friends—someone you thought was safe.
And now he wasn’t.
The call ended, but you didn’t 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.
Adrien’s in the hospital.
He’s in critical condition.
This didn’t happen before.
This shouldn’t have happened.
You scrambled out of bed, phone clutched tightly in your hand as your mind raced. Adrien’s in the hospital. Critical condition. You couldn’t stop the words from repeating in your head, pounding with every heartbeat.
You didn’t bother changing. Your sleepwear—a pair of loose sweatpants and an oversized shirt—was good enough. Grabbing your phone and wallet, you shoved them into your pockets, your hands trembling as you threw open your bedroom door. You didn’t 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 something—or someone—solid.
“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s 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 must’ve been starting his morning duties.
“Where are you off to so early, child?” Alfred asked, concern flickering in his gaze as he took in your appearance—the disheveled hair, your bare feet, and the look of absolute panic on your face.
“I—I…” You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat. Your chest tightened, and you gasped for air as your hands shook.
He’s in the hospital.
Critical.
The more you tried to explain, the more the words tangled and refused to come out.
“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s voice softened, his brows knitting together as he stepped closer. “What’s happened? Please, take a breath.”
You shook your head rapidly, clutching at your hoodie. You couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t you breathe? Adrien’s face flashed in your mind—his smile, his laugh, the stupid jokes he told when he knew you were down. And now—now—
“Adrien—” you finally choked out, your voice trembling, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “He’s—he’s in the hospital. I—critical—”
Alfred froze, his usually calm expression shifting as worry etched deep lines across his face. “Adrien?” 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. “Alfred, I—I need to go—now! Please. I need to go see him!” Your voice cracked, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.
Alfred gently placed his hands on your shoulders, trying to steady you. “Miss (Name), you must calm yourself. You’ll only make yourself ill if you continue like this.”
“No!” you almost shouted, shaking your head violently. “I don’t have time for that! He—he’s—” You stumbled over your words again, your chest heaving as you fought to calm down. “I have to go, Alfred. Please.”
The pleading in your voice finally seemed to register. Alfred’s gaze softened, though his concern didn’t waver. He nodded, his voice low and reassuring. “Very well. I’ll take you there.”
Your hands loosened their grip on his arms, and you exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and urgency pushing you forward.
“Let’s get you to the car,” Alfred said firmly, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll have you there in no time.”
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 Adrien—lying in some hospital bed, fighting for his life.
This didn’t 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. “We’ll be there soon, Miss (Name).”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight of everything sat heavy on your chest. Hold on, Adrien.
Please.
The car hadn’t 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 her—Caitlyn. 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, Adrien’s parents were speaking quietly to a doctor, their faces pale and drawn with worry.
“Caitlyn!” 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.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she choked out, her voice shaking. “I—I don’t know what to do. I just…”
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.
“What happened?” 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.
“Adrien…” She took a shaky breath, gripping your arm as if afraid you might disappear. “His parents called mine early this morning. There was—there was a bombing.”
Your heart stopped. What?
“The Riddler.” Caitlyn swallowed thickly, her voice strained. “One of his bombs went off, and it caused a few buildings to collapse—including Adrien’s apartment block.”
What?
“He was home alone. His parents weren’t there last night, so Adrien—he got caught in the debris when the building fell. The doctors said he was lucky to even be pulled out alive…” Her voice cracked. “A lot of people got hurt. Luckily no one died, but Adrien—he’s one of the ones who were seriously injured. They said he hit his head in the collapse. He hasn’t woken up since.”
You stared at her, the world suddenly muffled and distorted as if you were underwater. Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, but it didn’t make sense. A bombing? Buildings collapsed? No. That shouldn’t have happened. In your first life, you remembered this incident—you were there. You knew the Riddler’s 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 can’t be because—
You tried to breathe, to ground yourself, but the floor beneath you felt unsteady.
No. It can’t. You made things worse before when you went ahead and tried to help. But no one got hurt then—
A noise pulled you from your spiral—footsteps. 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 Adrien’s 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. Adrien’s parents rushed forward, and Caitlyn gripped your hand tightly as you both waited, holding your breath.
“How’s my son?” Adrien’s mother demanded, her voice strained, her hands clutched together in front of her chest.
The doctor offered a small, cautious nod. “We’ve managed to stabilize him. He’s out of critical condition.”
Relief flooded the small group like a breaking dam. Adrien’s mother let out a small, broken sob, her husband catching her shoulders to steady her. Caitlyn’s grip on your hand relaxed slightly, though she didn’t let go.
“But,” the doctor continued, and the word sent a fresh wave of tension through the air. “He’s still unconscious. There was some head trauma from the collapse, and we’ll need to monitor him closely for the next 24 hours. Right now, it’s too early to say when he’ll wake up, but the worst seems to have passed.”
The worst seemed to have passed.
Those words rang hollow in your ears as you stared blankly at the doctor. Adrien was alive—for now. He was out of danger—for now. But it didn’t feel right. Nothing about this felt right.
The bombing. The destruction. Adrien’s injuries. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
You barely heard Caitlyn whispering, “Thank God,” beside you, or the murmured reassurances exchanged between Adrien’s 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 didn’t know why.
Or worse—what it meant.
Alfred Pennyworth had seen many things in his time—far too many for a lifetime, truth be told—but watching you now, standing tall as you comforted Caitlyn and Adrien’s parents, stirred something deep and conflicted within him. You were calm, composed, and steady, offering gentle reassurances to Adrien’s mother while quietly squeezing Caitlyn’s 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 hadn’t 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 Adrien’s condition was discussed. He couldn’t forget the sight of you earlier that morning, wide-eyed and shaking as you struggled to form words. That desperation, that fear—it 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 Alfred—loyal, caring Alfred—wanted to step forward. He wanted to remind you that you didn’t 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. “Master Bruce.”
“What happened?” Bruce’s voice was sharp and direct, though there was something else buried beneath it—something tight, almost concerned. “Where did you take her, Alfred?”
Alfred blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “You saw us leave?”
“I did. From my study.” Bruce’s tone left little room for evasion. “Where did you take her?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Alfred sighed, his voice lowering as he said, “I brought her to the hospital, sir.”
The line went quiet. Alfred could hear Bruce’s breath hitch on the other end.
“Is she hurt?” Bruce’s voice was quieter now, strained.
“No, sir.” Alfred quickly reassured him. “She’s alright. Physically, at least.” He paused, glancing back at you where you still stood, gently rubbing Caitlyn’s back as she cried softly. “One of her friends, I’m afraid, got injured. A boy named Adrien.”
“…What happened?” 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. “The boy was caught in the aftermath of last night’s bombing. His apartment block was one of the few that collapsed. He’s out of critical condition now, but he remains unconscious. The doctors are monitoring him closely.”
Silence stretched on the line, and for a moment Alfred wondered if Bruce had disconnected.
Then Bruce spoke, his voice low and firm. “What’s the hospital’s name and room details?”
Alfred furrowed his brow slightly, confused. “Why do you ask, sir?”
“I’ll ensure his treatment isn’t lacking,” Bruce replied simply, but Alfred could hear the underlying intent. “I’ll upgrade his care—better equipment, the best specialists, whatever they need. I’ll make sure he gets through this.”
Alfred blinked, momentarily stunned. Even after all these years, Bruce still had a way of surprising him.
“Very well, sir.”
Regaining his composure, Alfred quietly supplied the hospital’s name and Adrien’s room number, his voice softer now.
There was a brief pause before Bruce added, almost as an afterthought but with unmistakable weight, “Make sure she gets home safely, Alfred.”
Alfred allowed himself a small, reassuring hum. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”
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 Bruce’s methods—he would leave no expense spared. Adrien would have the best Gotham’s medical resources could offer, a quiet gesture of concern through Bruce’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 before—the 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. He’d failed. Again. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t quick enough.
The Riddler’s attacks had been calculated, vicious. And though he had managed to subdue him in the end, Bruce couldn’t shake the fact that it hadn’t been clean. Civilians had been caught in the aftermath—innocent 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 this—always ten steps ahead, always anticipating every possible outcome. That’s what he prided himself on. Yet last night, he’d miscalculated. He missed out a bomb. And because of that, people got hurt. Adrien, an innocent boy who had nothing to do with Gotham’s darkness, had paid the price.
But what rattled him even more was you.
He exhaled slowly, his thoughts shifting to the scene he’d caught through the window earlier—Alfred ushering you into the car, your movements frantic, your posture tense and rigid with fear. Bruce hadn’t been able to make out what was said, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. Your hands were shaking, your breathing uneven, panic rolling off you in waves. It was like watching a dam break—something he hadn’t 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 you’d built alongside him and the others? To leave the Batgirl mantle behind? Or was there something else he was missing?
You’d always been resilient. Stubborn, even. You fought to be Batgirl and he gave it to you. He’d seen you face horrors most adults wouldn’t survive and come out the other side unscathed. Or at least, that’s what he’d believed. Now, though… now he wasn’t 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 hadn’t 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 arm’s reach—a 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 hadn’t smiled, but even he couldn’t deny the fondness in his expression. You were about 8, or 9 in the picture? He can’t recall.
But now, the photograph mocked him.
What was he doing?
What had he done?
What hadn’t 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. He’d made that choice long ago, and he bore its consequences without hesitation. But when it came to you, or any of his children—his family—it was different. And somehow, in his stubbornness, in his mission-driven focus, he’d lost sight of that. He’d lost sight of you.
Bruce’s 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 night’s events was a cruel reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Gotham’s darkness would always bleed into their lives. It was inescapable. It tainted everything.
And now Bruce couldn’t help but think of you, sitting in that hospital, holding strong for others. Just like he would. He hated that. Hated that he’d 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 say—that you were stronger than you gave yourself credit for. And that was true. But even the strongest people had limits, and Bruce feared you’d 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; he’d 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.
He’d told himself that this was what you needed—to 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, wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t so sure.
For now, though, all Bruce could do was wait—and hope that when you finally came home, he’d know what to say.
Would he know what to say?
He wasn’t sure.
It’s been three days. Three days since the bombing, since Adrien had been pulled from the rubble.
Yet, he still hasn’t 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 wasn’t the first time you’d asked yourself that question, but today, the weight of it felt suffocating. The answer clawed at the edges of your mind, a whisper you’d been trying to ignore: It’s because of you.
You swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop.
If you hadn’t quit, if you hadn’t chosen to abandon your role as Batgirl, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you could’ve helped prevent the attack, maybe you could’ve been there to stop the bomb from exploding before Adrien got hurt. But you had quit, and because of that—
You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. No. That couldn’t be true. You didn’t plant the bomb. You didn’t cause the building to collapse. Logically, you knew this. But still, the guilt sat heavy in your chest, an unbearable ache you couldn’t escape.
This wasn’t 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, you’ve changed something—you quit being Batgirl, and that somehow shifted the timeline. It altered events—and 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 didn’t quite understand what she meant—until Adrien’s parents pulled you aside.
“We can’t thank you enough,” his mother had said, her voice breaking as she gripped your hands. “We heard it was your father who arranged all of this. Without him, I don’t know what we would have done.”
Your heart had dropped into your stomach. “My father?” you’d echoed dumbly, the words barely audible.
“Yes, he’s been so generous,” Adrien’s father added. “We’re truly grateful.”
You’d managed a weak smile, nodding at their words, but you weren’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t shake.
You kept to yourself more. When Caitlyn asked if you were okay, you’d 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. “I’m alright, Alfred,” you’d say, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Really, I am.”
You visited the hospital with Caitlyn every day, sitting quietly at Adrien’s bedside. You’d watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hoping—praying—for 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 didn’t want to deal with you—at 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 didn’t seem to be reading. Wandering the halls aimlessly, shoulders slouched. Staring out the window like you were waiting for something—or someone—who wasn’t coming. Every time he spotted you, his stomach twisted with a frustration he couldn’t name, and he’d quickly duck out of sight before you noticed him.
But avoiding you didn’t mean he didn’t see.
You were moping around. For days. He didn’t know why that irritated him so much. It shouldn’t, 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. He’d thought about approaching you—begrudgingly, of course—and try to settle things after your argument.
That was until he saw you pat Jon’s head.
It was as if something short-circuited in his brain at that moment. The fond way you ruffled Jon’s hair, the soft smile you gave him—why 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. “Whatever. If she’s not going to beg me for forgiveness, then why should I?” His voice echoed off the empty walls, and he immediately regretted muttering it out loud. He wasn’t being petty. Definitely not.
But still, the image of you looking miserable stuck in his head like a splinter he couldn’t 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? He’s in Blüdhaven—there 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 Todd’s 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 didn’t even flinch, though his eyebrows did twitch slightly at the intrusion.
“You know,” Jason said, deadpan, “the front door exists for a reason.”
Damian ignored him entirely, stepping into the apartment like he belonged there and inspecting a nearby bookshelf. “You read?”
Jason sighed and sat up, placing his coffee mug down. “What do you want, Damian? Lemme guess—got into it with Bruce, so now you’re here sulking?”
“No,” Damian replied tersely, shooting him a glare.
Jason blinked, frowning slightly. “Huh.” His tone was flat, but there was a note of curiosity underneath. “Then why the hell are you here?”
Damian’s posture stiffened, his voice slightly defensive. “I need to ask you something.”
Jason raised a brow. “About what?”
“…. (Name).”
Jason froze, his expression unreadable as he processed the answer. Then, he groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re here because of her? Seriously? Out of all the people in Gotham, I’m the one you came to??”
Damian didn’t so much as blink. “You were the most logical choice. Father is unavailable, Grayson is in Bludhaven, Cain and Pennyworth are busy, and Drake is…” He waved his hand vaguely.
“Being Drake. So it’s a perfectly good reason to be here.”
Jason deadpanned. “No. It’s really not.” He shifted on his couch to face the younger boy.
Silence hung between them for a beat before Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “So what do you want to know about her?”
Damian shifted, his eyes narrowing. “You were close to her once, no?”
Jason blinked, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Why are you asking me? You’re the one who practically lives in the same house with her. Why don’t you ask Alfred or Bruce?”
“I’m asking you because you were actually close to her.”
Jason scoffed, leaning back against the couch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “No I wasn’t. If anything, you should be asking Dickhead about her.”
“You’re lying,” Damian countered, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen the photos. The two of you were close.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “….What photos?”
Damian smirked slightly, like he’d caught Jason in a trap. “The ones in the Manor. And the ones she keeps in her room. You were always together when you were younger. It doesn’t take a detective to see it.
Jason scoffed. “That was then. Not now. And for the record, you need to mind your own damn business.”
Damian, of course, wasn’t about to let it drop. He moved closer, relentless as ever. “Why aren’t you close anymore?”
Jason groaned again, louder this time, as if the sheer volume might scare Damian off. It didn’t. He shot him an irritated look. “Why do you even care?”
Damian froze for half a second, caught off guard by the question. His face betrayed nothing, but Jason saw the falter in the boy’s gaze, the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t. I’m simply curious.”
Jason barked a short, humourless laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. Sure. Totally believable.”
Damian glared at him, clearly irritated now. “Tt. You’re avoiding the question.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” Jason shot back, pointing a finger at him. “Why do you care what happened between me and her?”
Damian scoffed, cheeks faintly pink, though he masked it well. “Don’t deflect, Todd.”
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 something—anything—to make him leave. “Fine! You want to know why we’re not close anymore? It’s becaude she’s in over her damn head.”
Damian frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “Explain.”
Jason’s eyes darkened, his voice hard. “When she decided to pick up the Batgirl mantle, she didn’t think it through. You think this life is all capes and heroics? It’s not. It’s hell. I know what it does to people. What it did to me. And yet she just threw herself into it like it wouldn’t chew her up and spit her out.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “I couldn’t watch that happen. I couldn’t…” His voice trailed off, the words dying in his throat.
Damian tilted his head slightly, his tone cutting. “You don’t get to decide what she does or doesn’t do with her life. She’s capable of making her own decisions.”
Jason’s gaze snapped to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You don’t get it, kid. I’m not gonna stand there and watch her throw herself into this crap like it won’t destroy her. I’ve seen it happen. I lived it.”
Damian didn’t back down, his voice steady but sharp. “She’s not you, Todd.”
Jason barked a humorless laugh. “You sound just like Bruce.”
“Perhaps he’s right,” Damian retorted. “You don’t get to decide what she wants to do. You don’t get to control her life just because you’re scared of what might happen.”
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. “You really don’t understand.”
Damian scoffed. “Maybe I don’t. But at least I’m trying to understand. What are you doing? Nothing, that’s what.”
Jason froze, his jaw clenching as Damian’s 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.
“You’re relentless, you know that?”
“Of course,” Damian replied smugly, the ghost of a smirk on his face.
Jason waved him off with an irritated glare. “Go bother someone else, brat. I’m done talking.”
Damian didn’t argue, though he didn’t 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. “You were close once. Maybe you should try fixing that.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.
“Stupid kid.”
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 bookshelf—the one Damian had no doubt found evidence of. He hadn’t meant to keep it out in the open. Hell, he hadn’t 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 enough—him and you, younger, smiling like idiots. You couldn’t 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? He’d 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 simple—when the world wasn’t so goddamn broken. Back when you looked at him like he was invincible. Like he was your hero.
“This is stupid…” 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.
You’d always been clinging to him back then. Always trailing after him no matter what. Back then, he didn’t mind. He never minded. He’d 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 because—deep down—it 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.
You’d still tried. You still looked at him like you believed there was something good in him. There wasn’t. And for a while, he’d let himself believe that too—that maybe he could still be the big brother you needed. That maybe you wouldn’t look at him like everyone else did—like a disappointment. Like a maniac running loose.
But then he found out you’d picked up the Batgirl mantle.
Jason’s grip on the frame tightened as the memories blurred together, anger mixing with guilt until he couldn’t tell the difference. He hadn’t been able to stomach it—seeing you put on that suit, throwing yourself into this life like it wouldn’t chew you up and spit you out the same way it had done to him. To all of them. You were smarter than that, weren’t you? But no, you were stubborn. And he couldn’t stand that.
Couldn’t stand how much you reminded him of himself.
So, he’d pushed you away.
He had to.
At least, that’s 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. “What the hell am I doing…?”
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 himself—of 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 now…..
Now you had quit. You left the mantle behind. What does that mean for him? What does that mean for everyone?
You weren’t that same kid he knew anymore, the one who tripped over your own shoelaces and laughed like that fall didn’t hurt. You’d grown up. And he? He hadn’t been there to see it. He was dead for the most part, and when he did come back, he’d 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 he’d made. Bridge the divide he caused.
Jason stared at the image for another long moment before setting it face-down on the table. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. Didn’t want to see what he’d let slip away.
“Stupid kid,” he said one last time, though now it was hard to tell who he was talking about—you, or himself.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights felt too bright as you sprinted down the hall, Caitlyn’s 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 couldn’t bring yourself to open it. What if Caitlyn had gotten it wrong? What if—
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.
“…What’re you standing there for?” Adrien’s voice cut through your shock, his teasing tone so familiar it sent a rush of relief flooding through you.
You didn’t 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. “Whoa, whoa! I just got out of a coma, try not to break me.”
“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shoulder, your voice thick with emotion. “A complete idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone softer now as he hugged you back. “Missed you too.”
You pulled back reluctantly, giving him a quick once-over. He looked… well, not great, but better than the last time you’d seen him, lying pale and motionless in this very bed. The relief in your chest was overwhelming.
“See? I told you,” Caitlyn chimed in, grinning. “He’s too stubborn to die.”
Adrien rolled his eyes but smirked. “Guess I couldn’t leave you two alone, huh? Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?”
“Oh, please,” Caitlyn said, leaning back in her chair. “We’d be fine without you.”
Adrien raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Would you, though?”
“Don’t be fooled. She cried just as much as I did.” You pointed out, crossing your arms.
“(Name)!! You weren’t supposed to call me out like that..!!”
Adrien and you just laughed, the boy shaking his head. “Thought so.”
You sat down in the chair opposite Caitlyn, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. “How’re you feeling?” you asked, your voice quieter now.
Adrien shrugged, wincing slightly at the motion. “Like I got hit by a truck. But, y’know, alive. So that’s a plus.”
“Understatement of the year,” Caitlyn muttered, earning a weak laugh from Adrien.
His parents stood then, his mom brushing her hand over his hair. “We’re going to speak with the doctors for a moment. We’ll be right back, okay?”
Adrien nodded, giving them a reassuring smile. “Yeah, sure. Take your time.”
As the door closed behind them, a comfortable silence settled over the three of you. Caitlyn broke it first.
“So, Adrien,” she started casually, “how does it feel to cheat death?”
Damn.
Adrien snorted, shooting her a dry look. “Fantastic. You should try it sometime.”
“Hard pass,” Caitlyn replied, smirking. “So, you’re stuck here for how long?”
Adrien groaned, tilting his head back. “Probably a couple more days. They’re all freaked out about my concussion or whatever. Something about observation.”
Caitlyn snorted. “Guess you’re stuck eating Jell-O and pudding for a while.”
“Don’t remind me,” Adrien grumbled, though he couldn’t 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 Adrien’s unconscious form from that night crept back into your mind, and your stomach tightened.
“What happened, Adrien? How—” You faltered. “How did you make it out?”
Adrien’s face softened, his usual joking demeanor giving way to something quieter. “It was… close,” he admitted, his voice low. “Honestly, I thought—I didn’t think I was gonna make it.”
Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably, her smirk fading. “Yeah, well… you scared the hell out of us.”
Adrien gave her a faint smile before turning his attention to you. “But then Robin showed up.”
You blinked, the name catching you off guard. “Robin?”
“Yeah,” Adrien said, his tone tinged with awe. “He got me out of there. I don’t even know how he did it, but one second I’m stuck under some rubble, and the next he’s pulling me out like it’s nothing. If it weren’t for him…”
Your heart skipped a beat. Robin. Damian.
Caitlyn let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, the little guy came through, huh?” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Guess he’s more than just Batman’s sidekick.”
Adrien chuckled, nodding. “Way more. He’s the reason I’m still here.”
Caitlyn leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, color me surprised. Thought he’d be too busy sulking on a rooftop somewhere.”
But you weren’t laughing, you barely heard her. Your mind was racing, the pieces clicking into place.
Robin. Damian.
Damian had saved Adrien. Damian.
The same Damian you’d been at odds with just days ago. The same Damian you’d 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 now—your 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.
“Watch where you’re—oh.” 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. “Damian?”
He crossed his arms, as if trying to reassert his usual air of annoyance. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as though it weren’t painfully obvious that you both lived under the same roof.
You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I live here. What’s your excuse?”
“Tt.” He scoffed, looking like he was already regretting bumping into you. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned on his heel, clearly intending to stalk off, but before he could, you reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait.”
Damian froze, his head tilting slightly as if he couldn’t believe you’d stopped him. “What is it now?” 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. “Thank you.”
He blinked, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “…What?”
“Thank you,” you repeated, your voice steadier this time. “For saving Adrien.”
Damian turned fully to face you now, his expression briefly betraying his surprise before he covered it with his usual scowl.
“Who?”
Oh right, he probably doesn’t know who Adrien is.
“My friend. He told me what you did.”
Damian’s eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. His posture tensed, though he didn’t pull away from you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though the faintest hint of color touched his cheeks.
“Don’t play dumb, Damian,” you said, crossing your arms. “Adrien told me what happened. You saved him. During the whole, Riddler bombing situation.”
The younger boy’s gaze softened slightly, recognition briefly passing through his eyes, before he scoffed, glancing to the side. “Tt. It was nothing. I would’ve done the same for anyone.”
“Maybe,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But it wasn’t just anyone. It was my friend. And because of you, he’s alive.” Your tone softened, the sincerity in your voice clear. “So… thank you.”
Damian’s gaze flickered back to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you wondered if he was even going to acknowledge your words. But then he spoke, his voice quieter than usual.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone.
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I know. You did it because you’re a hero, even if you’d never admit it.”
Damian bristled at that, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
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 something—anything—to break it.
You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Look… I’ve been meaning to say this.”
Damian tilted his head, his expression unreadable but still sharp. “What?”
“I…” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “About the other day, when I snapped at you in my room—I shouldn’t have. I was frustrated, yeah, but it doesn’t mean I should’ve—”
“Stop.”
His voice was quiet but firm, cutting you off mid-sentence. You blinked, looking up at him. Damian’s gaze was softer now, though his brows were still furrowed.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Damian cut in, his voice stiff. He looked uncomfortable, as though the words he was about to say were physically painful to him. “I was… out of line. I shouldn’t have said the things I did.”
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. Damian Wayne, apologizing? You never thought you’d 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.
“I was… wrong,” Damian mumbled, his voice barely above a grumble. His cheeks flushed faintly, and he avoided your gaze entirely, staring determinedly at the floor instead. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
You blinked at him, stunned into silence.
You couldn’t help it—you just stared at him. “Oh wow,” you said, your voice teasing. “So you can apologize.”
Damian’s head snapped up. “Don’t make it a big deal!” he snapped, clearly flustered. “I’m just being… reasonable.”
“Right, reasonable,” you repeated, biting back a grin. “Noted.”
Damian stiffened, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “You’re insufferable.”
“Me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re the one acting like this is the most painful thing you’ve ever done.”
“I simply don’t see why this needs to be drawn out into some… melodramatic moment,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.
You snorted. “Right. Because you never make anything dramatic.”
Damian glared at you, though the faint blush on his face betrayed his usual cool demeanor. “I don’t know why I even bother with you,” he muttered under his breath.
“Because deep down, you actually like me,” you said, smirking as you stepped closer.
“Incorrect,” 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. “Don’t sweat it, Damian.”
His eyes widened, and he batted your hand away almost immediately. “Hey! Stop treating me like a child!”
“Aw, but you are a child,” you teased, grinning at his indignant expression.
“I am not,” Damian huffed, his voice dripping with irritation. But he didn’t storm off like he usually might have. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his hand brushing over his hair where you’d ruffled it.
“You keep telling yourself that,” 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, “Ridiculous.”
But despite his best efforts, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just a little.
The Batcave hummed with the sound of Tim’s furious typing, the clatter of keys echoing through the cavernous space. Monitors surrounded him, each displaying fragments of information from the Riddler’s 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 couldn’t shake it—the image of the buildings destroyed, the civilians being pulled from the wreckage. All because he’d missed one.
One bomb.
It shouldn’t have happened. If he’d been sharper, more thorough, more focused, those people wouldn’t have been hurt.
His fists clenched against the keyboard. Bruce hadn’t berated him, not exactly. But being “grounded” from fieldwork and told to “reflect” 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 hadn’t fixed anything. You hadn’t returned to being Batgirl yet. The passion you’d once shown, the drive you had—it was like it had vanished. He couldn’t understand it. Why weren’t you fighting to come back?
Why weren’t you acting like you again?
“Tim.”
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.
“Cass,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”
She walked closer, her footsteps quiet as ever, and stopped beside him. “What are you doing?”
Tim frowned. “Working.”
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “More like punishing yourself.”
“I’m not—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “I just… I missed something. People got hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”
“No one died,” Cass said simply, but her tone wasn’t dismissive. It was calm, grounded, like she was trying to anchor him.
“But they could have,” Tim snapped, his frustration spilling over. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “I failed. I can’t afford to fail like that again. Ever.”
The cave was silent, but from the corner of his eye, Tim could see Cass’ lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.
“You’re just like Bruce.”
Tim froze, her words hitting him like a punch. His eyes widened as he turned to look at her. “I—no, I’m not.”
“Sure,” Cass said, her smile growing.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t say that.”
She chuckled softly, patting his shoulder. “Come on. Get some fresh air.”
“I don’t need—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the staircase.
“Cass,” he protested weakly, but he didn’t 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 manor’s main hallway, Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “This is stupid. I should—”
“Shh.” 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 voices—your 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 weren’t just tolerating him. You were smiling. Fondly.
As if that wasn’t shocking enough, you reached out and ruffled Damian’s hair.
Tim’s 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 weren’t exactly at ease with each other. And yet, here you were, smiling like you weren’t at each other’s throats days ago.
Cass didn’t 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 you’d smiled at him—fondly, as if he hadn’t been the same brat who’d 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 Damian’s hair.
Tim’s jaw unhinged.
“What?” he whispered under his breath. “What… what?”
Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He could’ve 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 he’d gotten the upper hand. Not the sarcastic quirk of his lips when he made one of his snide comments.
A genuine, soft smile.
“What the fu—”
“Language,” Cass interrupted softly, cutting him off before he could finish.
Tim turned to her, eyes practically bulging out of his skull. “Cass.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind another wall, further from where Damian could hear. “What was that?”
Cass tilted her head at him, her expression calm. “What was what?”
“That!” Tim gestured wildly in the direction of where you and Damian had been. “Damian smiled. Did you see that? He smiled.”
Cass shrugged. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Tim repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you’re going to say? Yes?”
“Why are you overreacting?” Cass asked, her voice as measured as always.
Tim froze. “Overreacting? Me? No. I’m just… concerned.”
Cass raised an eyebrow. “Concerned about a smile?”
“It wasn’t just the smile!” Tim hissed, lowering his voice when he realized he was getting loud. “It was the whole thing! They’re talking! Like normal people! You saw it! And she—she patted his head!”
Cass tilted her head, her lips twitching as if she was trying not to smile. “Is that a problem?”
Tim threw his hands up. “Of course it’s a problem! This is Damian we’re talking about. Damian. When has he ever been this… this…”
“Obedient?” Cass supplied, amused.
“Exactly!” Tim said, then paused. “…Wait, no. That’s not the point. The point is—what even happened? Last I checked, they weren’t on speaking terms. Now they’re all… sibling-y?”
“Isn’t that normal?” Cass asked, her tone still maddeningly calm. “For siblings to act like that? Even if they fight?”
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.
He’d never thought of it that way.
Sure, they were all technically siblings, but Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d 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. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.
Tim shook himself out of his thoughts. “No, but—wait—this still doesn’t explain how they’re suddenly on good terms. Last time I checked, Dick said they had some huge argument.”
Cass smiled faintly. “People change.”
Tim ran a hand down his face, exasperated. “What the hell happened while I was cooped up in the cave?”
“Food,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Tim sighed, letting her drag him along to the kitchen. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that he was hungry. His thoughts were too tangled, replaying what he’d just witnessed.
Damian. Smiling.
You. Smiling fondly back at him.
Have you ever smiled at him that way?
He swore he wasn’t confused jealous. Definitely not.
…Right?
dw i’m definitely not killing off people this early 🫣🤭 have this fluff instead 😇🫶🫶 (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 far—an 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 couldn’t 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?
He’d pressed Alfred for more details the first time, but the butler’s polite smile and vague responses left him with more questions than answers.
He ducked under a clumsy swing from a thug, twisting his attacker’s 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 wouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 he’d had with you in recent memory, trying to pinpoint where things might’ve gone wrong. But nothing came to mind. You’d always seemed fine, maybe a little quieter than usual, but he’d 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 purpose—it didn’t sit right. You were family. He thought he’d 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 didn’t 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 arm’s length?
“What’s got your panties in a twist?”
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. “Haha. Very funny.”
Jason lets out an audible scoff. Even though his face was obscured by his helmet, Dick could practically feel the eye roll.
“So?” Jason drawled, crossing his arms as he leaned against a lamppost. “Are you gonna speak up or what?”
Dick just sighs as he puts away his escrima sticks.
“It’s about (name).”
“What? She messed up again or something?”
Dick’s head snapped toward him, his brow furrowing. “What? No. Why would you even—”
Jason shrugged, kicking at the unconscious body of one of the thugs as if to test if he was really out cold. “I dunno. She’s always messing something up, isn’t she? And you have to clean up after her. At least, that’s the vibe I get.”
Dick’s shoulders tensed, a sharp frustration bubbling to the surface. “Jason, seriously?”
Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “What? I’m just saying—”
“No, you’re not ‘just saying,’” Dick interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. “This is exactly why I’m worried. You guys act like she’s just… this screw-up, like she’s some annoyance you have to deal with, and it’s not fair.”
Jason tilted his head, clearly surprised by the outburst. “Okay, hold on. Where’s this coming from?”
Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He leaned against a nearby wall, staring out over the dimly lit alleyway. “(Name) quit being Batgirl.”
Jason visibly froze for a split second at Dick’s 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. “Okay. And?”
Dick blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. “What do you mean, ‘Okay, and?’” he asked, incredulous. “(Name) quit, Jason. (Name). The girl who literally begged B and Babs to let her become Batgirl. She didn’t just want it; she fought for it. And now—”
“And now she’s finally done being a liability in a cape,” Jason interrupted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Honestly, Grayson, shouldn’t you be happy about it?”
Dick’s 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 him—the small, cruel voice he always tried to silence—had whispered something similar when he first heard the news.
Jason, noticing the brief flicker of hesitation on Dick’s face, took that as his cue to keep going. “I mean, come on. She’s not cut out for this life, and you know it. You’re just too polite to say it out loud. So, good for her. She’s finally realised what the rest of us already knew.”
Dick was silent, his jaw tightening as Jason’s words hung heavy in the air. He didn’t want to agree, not even a little. But the doubt had already been planted, and Jason’s callousness only made it worse.
“No,” Dick said finally, his voice firm. He shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of the thought entirely. “Don’t call her a liability, Jay. And that’s not the point. She quit, yeah, but she’s been distant ever since. When she had this huge fight with Damian—”
Jason snorted. “Probably demon spawn’s fault.”
“Don’t say that,” Dick snapped, frowning at him. “It’s no one’s fault, Jason. They probably weren’t in the right headspace and let their emotions get the better of them.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Dick ignored the jab, his focus still on you and the unanswered questions swirling in his mind. He wasn’t going to let Jason’s cynicism—or his own creeping doubts—stop him. Whatever was going on, he’d figure it out. And more importantly, he’d make sure you knew that he cared, no matter what anyone else thought.
Dick sighed, running a hand down his face. “Jay, come on.”
Jason turned to him, arms crossing defensively. “Seriously, what the hell do you want me to do, Dick?”
“I don’t know! Go talk to her or something!” Dick snapped, exasperation lacing his tone.
Jason gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Oh, right. Like she’d talk to me of all people. Great plan, genius.”
Dick threw up his hands in frustration, his patience quickly wearing thin. “Come on. What’s your deal?”
Jason paused, the question clearly catching him off guard. “Excuse me?” His voice dropped a notch, low and warning.
But Dick didn’t care about the edge in Jason’s tone or the way his posture screamed “back off.” He was too fed up, too worried, and too frustrated to stop now. “No, seriously,” Dick pressed, stepping closer. “It’s like you don’t even care about (Name).”
Jason’s whole body tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. Dick could practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves.
“What?” Jason snapped, his voice rising. “So you want her to keep wearing a mask and fight battles she clearly can’t handle? You want her to keep throwing herself into situations where she’s gonna get herself killed? That’s what caring looks like to you?”
Dick stepped forward, his own frustration boiling over. “This isn’t about whether or not she’s wearing a mask! This is about you acting like you don’t give a damn about her!”
Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, so now you’re the expert on what I feel? That’s rich coming from you.”
“I thought you two were close, Jason,” Dick shot back, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. “What happened? You used to care about her. You used to look out for her!”
Jason scoffed, the sound harsh and bitter. “What happened? Life happened, Dick. I’m not the same 15-year-old boy she knew back then. And I’ll never be that guy she knew again. So don’t stand there and act like you have any right to talk about my relationship with her when I don’t see you even having half of what me and her had before.”
That struck a nerve, and Dick’s jaw tightened. “You think I don’t care about her?” he asked, his voice low and steady now, the anger simmering beneath the surface.
Jason’s helmet tilted slightly, as if he was sizing Dick up. “Oh, you care, alright. But not enough to actually see what’s in front of you. She tries too hard, she’s always second guessing herself, and honestly? It’s exhausting to watch. Whereas you’re too busy running around trying to ‘fix’ everything to even notice.”
Dick flinched, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” Jason shot back, stepping closer, his voice dripping with bitterness. “But here’s the thing—you want her to keep being Batgirl because it makes you feel better. Like you’re holding this family together or something. But did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, she quit because she wants to?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “And instead of giving her the space to do that, you’re chasing her down like she’s some mission you need to complete.”
Jason’s words hit Dick like a slap in the face, leaving him momentarily stunned.
“I’m just trying to help her,” 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. “Yeah, well, sometimes helping means knowing when to back the hell off.”
The two of them stood in tense silence, the night air heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Jason stepped back, shaking his head. “If you want to do something for her, stop acting like you know what’s best for her. I’d rather see her alive than rotting as a damn corpse, labelled as one of the old man’s fallen soldiers.”
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 Dick’s mind, playing on a loop.
I’d 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. Jason’s parting words had hit their mark, and he hated to admit it. The thought of you… dying—just the word alone made his stomach churn.
Jason had already died once, and Dick hadn’t been there to stop it. He hadn’t been there to save him. If the same thing happened to you, if you ended up another casualty in their endless war against Gotham’s darkness…
That’s 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 wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he let another one of his siblings die.
Siblings.
The word felt heavy now, laden with unspoken truths. Jason’s earlier jab suddenly clawed its way to the forefront of Dick’s mind:
Don’t stand there and act like you have any right to talk about my relationship with her when I don’t 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, he’d been there for you. Hadn’t he?
But as much as he wanted to dismiss Jason’s words, they stuck with him, gnawing at the edges of his conscience. Slowly, memories began to surface, unbidden and relentless.
He was Robin then—young, brash, and full of anger. The grief over his parents’ deaths was still fresh, a raw wound he didn’t know how to heal. And you… you were Bruce’s 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 you’d ask him to play with you, to just talk—and he’d brush you off. “Not now, (Name),” he’d say, and ruffle your hair. The Teen Titans needed him. Gotham needed him. But you didn’t 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 couldn’t play with you for as long as you wanted him to.
He winced as another memory came rushing back: one of the many times you’d 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. He’d walked in with Wally and Donna, laughing about something from their latest mission, barely sparing you a glance.
“Wow, this is nice!” He’d say absent-mindedly, before ruffling your hair like you were some kid tagging along.
“I’ll catch you later, alright?” he’d say, and then he’d leave you alone.
And what had you done? You’d nodded, forced a smile, even as disappointment flashed across your face. He hadn’t noticed it then—not really. He’d 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 hadn’t 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 family—someone who didn’t bail, who didn’t 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 wasn’t sure.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face, the ache in his chest growing sharper. “Damnit,” he muttered under his breath.
What could he even do to make this right? To show you that you mattered to him—that you’d always mattered?
But deep down, he already knew the answer. He couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 he’d fallen short. But he was willing to do better. Even if it meant he’d had to wait.
The thought hurt, but it was better than losing you for good.
“This is nice.”
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. “You can say that again! (Name), I didn’t know you could make treats like this! They’re so good!”
Caitlyn grinned, glancing up from her sketch. “Literally! This is amazing. You’ve been holding out on us, chef.”
Your cheeks flushed, and you looked down at your hands, a little bashful at their praise. “I… honestly didn’t think I could make anything this good,” you admitted, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
“You’re kidding, right?” Adrien said, picking up another cookie. “These 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.”
You laughed, though the comment stung just a little—only because you didn’t 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. “Baking, my dear,” he had said with a faint smile, “is both a science and an art. It requires precision, but it is also a most rewarding endeavor.”
And so, your evenings became a blend of warmth, flour-dusted counters, and Alfred’s gentle guidance. He would show you how to knead dough, measure ingredients with precision, and even share some of his most guarded recipes—ones he claimed even your father was particularly fond of.
When you weren’t 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 you—thanks to your first life. You’d 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.
“Okay, so… if x is equal to 4, then y has to be…” Adrien tapped his pencil against his notebook, staring intently at the equation in front of him
“Eight,” Caitlyn supplied confidently, but her grin faltered when Adrien and you both gave her a look.
“Try again,” you said with a soft laugh, pointing to the part of the equation she’d miscalculated.
Caitlyn groaned dramatically, flopping back into her chair. “Math is dumb.”
“Math is logical,” you corrected, though your teasing tone made Adrien snort. “You just need to stop skipping steps.”
“Why does it feel like you’re giving us the cheat sheet to life?” Adrien said, glancing up from his notes. “You make this stuff seem so easy.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Caitlyn chimed in. “Are you secretly some kind of math genius or something?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off. “I’ve just… always been good at this kind of thing.”
They didn’t need to know the full truth—that you’d already gone through high school. They didn’t know the truth about you or your family before, and you weren’t planning to change that now. They didn’t need to know about the mask you’d 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 you’d settled into this new routine. But you found that you didn’t 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.
“Hey,” Adrien said suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. “We should do this more often.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Agreed. This is probably the most relaxed I’ve seen you in weeks, (Name).”
You hesitated, glancing between your two friends. They weren’t wrong. But a part of you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. You weren’t being truthful to them, yet they were still being so nice. You didn’t deserve them.
You opened your mouth to reply, ready to brush off Caitlyn’s and Adrien’s comments, when a sudden, sharp flash of green invaded your vision. It was jarring—so 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.
“What the hell…” you muttered under your breath, still dazed.
“(Name)!” Caitlyn’s voice was sharp with concern, snapping you out of your stupor. “Are you okay? What just happened?”
Adrien leaned closer, his eyes wide with worry. “You winced. Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?”
You glanced between the two of them, their faces etched with genuine concern. You didn’t want to worry them. You couldn’t worry them. So you forced a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing, really. Just a headache. Probably didn’t drink enough water or something.”
But Caitlyn wasn’t buying it. She immediately pushed herself off you, her sketchbook forgotten as she leaned in close, her expression dead serious. “Nope. No way. If you’ve got a headache, you need to go home and rest. Sun’s probably not helping either.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Adrien chimed in, nodding emphatically. “Don’t push yourself too much. We can always continue this another time, okay?”
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.
“You guys are being dramatic—” you started to say, but Caitlyn cut you off with a pointed glare.
“Nope. Not hearing it. We’re not taking any chances,” she insisted, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on, we’ll walk you home.”
A sigh escaped your lips as you realized there was no point in fighting them on this. “Alright, alright. I’ll go.”
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 wasn’t just a headache—that 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 couldn’t 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 you’d be fine. They only relented when you promised to text them once you’re 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, that’s when you saw him—a familiar, bubbly boy practically skipping towards the manor entrance. Jon Kent. Superman’s son. Damian’s 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. “(Name)!” 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. “Hey, Jon.”
“How are you? Are you okay? You look okay! Wait—were you out? Where did you go? Do you need help carrying anything?!” 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. “I’m fine, Jon, really. And no, I don’t need help. I was just out with some friends.”
“Oh, okay!” he chirped, looking momentarily reassured. “I was just here hanging out with Damian, but—uh, well…” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “I kinda didn’t tell my parents I was flying over here. So, you know, I should probably head back to Metropolis before they notice I’m gone.”
You snorted softly at that, a nostalgic warmth in your chest. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.” You said, and winked.
Jon’s 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.
“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, tilting your head at him.
Jon shuffled his feet, his voice quieter now. “Uh… can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He hesitated again, looking down before blurting out, “Is everything okay between you and Damian?”
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 must’ve noticed, because he immediately panicked, waving his hands frantically as he backtracked. “Oh! You don’t have to answer! Forget I asked! It’s just—” He fumbled over his words, his cheeks turning red. “I 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… I’ve never really seen him act like that before.”
You blinked, his words sinking in slowly. Damian… avoiding the subject of you? Now that you thought about it, you hadn’t 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 couldn’t let Jon worry about that. He was just a kid, and this wasn’t his problem. So, instead of letting your own thoughts spiral, you forced a laugh and reached out to ruffle his hair gently. “Don’t worry about it, Jon. Damian and I just got into an argument, that’s all. Nothing to lose sleep over.”
Jon blinked up at you, his expression still unsure, but he nodded slowly, leaning into the comforting touch of your hand. “Okay… if you say so.”
“Really. We’ll work it out,” you reassured him, giving his hair one last affectionate pat. Somehow.
He smiled again, though it was a little smaller this time. “Alright. I just wanted to make sure. You know… you’re important to Damian too, even if he doesn’t say it.”
You paused at that, something in your chest squeezing painfully, but before you could respond, Jon glanced at the time and jolted upright. “Oh no! I really gotta go now, or I’m so dead!”
With that, he gave you a hurried wave, his boyish grin returning. “Bye, (Name)! I’ll see you soon, okay?”
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.
Jon’s words lingered in your mind.
You’re important to Damian too.
It doesn’t really feel that way though….
Alfred Pennyworth, ever the watchful guardian of Wayne Manor, had always considered it his duty—not just as a butler, but as something far more profound—to care for the members of the Wayne family. For all their strength and tenacity, they were, at their core, human. Bruce and his children—each 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 days—lighter, 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.
“Miss (Name), if I may,” Alfred began gently as he watched you measure flour into a bowl, a little puff of white powder escaping into the air. “You seem… at peace, lately...”
You paused, glancing up at him with a small, slightly sheepish smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“Indeed.” He gave you a soft, knowing look as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “Would it be terribly forward of me to inquire as to what—or who—has brought about this change?”
You shifted, focusing a little too hard on sifting the flour as you shrugged. “It’s my friends. Caitlyn and Adrien. They helped me realize there’s more to life than just…” You trailed off, searching for the right words.
“Than just the responsibilities placed upon your shoulders?” Alfred offered delicately.
You nodded, giving him a grateful glance. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Your friends. Alfred found himself deeply relieved to hear that you had people like Caitlyn and Adrien in your life—people who brought you happiness, people who helped lighten the weight you carried. “I see,” he said with a small smile. “It gladdens my heart to know you have such loyal companions. Though, might I suggest inviting them here, to the manor?”
You blinked, looking at him as though he’d suggested something preposterous. “Alfred…”
“Miss, 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.” 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. “As much as I’d like for you to meet them, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Alfred. They don’t know about this family’s secrets, and I intend to keep it that way..”
Alfred raised an eyebrow, ever patient. “I’m certain Master Bruce and Master Richard can manage a polite exchange, at the very least.”
You gave him a pointed look, and Alfred sighed, though it was laced with fondness. “Very well, Miss (Name). If you insist.”
“Thanks,” 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 happy—even if he wouldn’t be able to meet them—then he supposed that was enough for now.
“Now then,” Alfred said, turning back to the task at hand, “you’ll want to add the butter slowly while continuing to mix.”
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.
“So, Miss Caitlyn and Mister Adrien—are they excelling in their studies with your assistance?”
“Adrien, yes,” you said, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “Caitlyn… well, she’s trying, but math isn’t really her thing.”
“And yet you continue to help them both. How noble of you,” Alfred replied as he handed you a whisk. “And what of school itself? Are you settling in well?”
You shrugged, starting to mix the ingredients. “Eh…It’s alright. A little boring sometimes, but I guess it’s better than…”
Dying.
You stopped yourself short, quickly correcting, “better than not being in school at all.”
Alfred didn’t miss the slip, but he didn’t press. “Indeed. A dull day can be a blessing in disguise.”
You gave him a thoughtful look, lips quirking into a soft smile. “You always know what to say, Alfred.”
“I try, Miss (Name). I try.”
And as Alfred watched you work—your expression relaxed, your mind seemingly at ease—he 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 escape—an anchor to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.
But the calm was short-lived.
Alfred’s comm buzzed quietly, and though his expression remained composed, you saw the subtle shift in his demeanor—a slight straightening of his back, the way his gaze sharpened. Something was happening.
“It seems Master Bruce and the others require my assistance,” 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. “Are you sure you do not wish to assist? They could use an extra hand, Miss (Name).”
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 yourself—to 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 Riddler’s 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. “It’s too dangerous,” Bruce had said. “We need you to sit this one out.”
But you hadn’t listened.
You’d tracked down one of Riddler’s supposed locations on your own, convinced you could help. The moment you arrived, you knew you’d made a mistake. The building had been rigged, and your sudden presence sent everything spiraling. The countdown on the bomb accelerated. The Riddler’s 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 mess—disarming 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.
Bruce’s fury still echoed in your head.
“Do you have any idea what you nearly cost us tonight?”
You hadn’t been able to look him in the eye.
“They got the job done,” you’d mumbled, your voice small, but that hadn’t mattered to him.
“Because they had to clean up after you,” he’d snapped, his words sharp enough to sting. “You disobeyed a direct order, and you let Riddler slip away.”
It was one of those moments you wouldn’t forget. Not because of Bruce’s anger, but because he’d been right. You’d wanted to help, and all you’d 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.
“I’m sure,” you said finally, your voice tight but firm. You offered a small, forced smile. “They don’t need me. They can handle it themselves.”
For a moment, Alfred regarded you with that knowing look of his, like he could see through every wall you’d put up.
“Very well,” he said softly, though there was a faint note of disappointment in his voice. “If you change your mind…”
“I won’t,” you cut in quickly, your voice quieter this time.
Alfred gave a small nod, seemingly accepting your answer, though you didn’t 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 you’d worked so hard on.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides.
“They don’t need me,” you whispered to yourself, repeating the words like a mantra.
But it didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 day—long week, really—and 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 didn’t 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 call—and 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.
“Caitlyn?” Your voice was groggy and thick with sleep, but there was an edge of concern as you sat up in bed. “What’s going on?”
“(Name)!” Caitlyn’s voice came through the line, panicked, frantic, and scared. It hit you like a punch to the gut. “Oh my god, I—It’s Adrien….He—He’s in the hospital…!”
What?
I think you guys should read the masterlist once more in case you missed out any key warnings…
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 can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓)
“I want every perimeter of this warehouse locked down—now. No one gets in or out unless I authorize it. Is that clear?”
“Double the guard on every exit. Sweep the surrounding area. I don’t care if you have to go block by block—make sure none of those bastards slip through.”
“Commissioner! There’s someone here.”
.
.
.
“Quickly, get some paramedics down here. No one touches Batgirl’s mask—is that understood?”
.
.
.
“Get the paramedics to stabilize her, but that’s it—nothing more. No one treats her except Dr Leslie Thompkins.”
.
.
.
“What of the drug dealers?”
“We managed to catch most of them, sir. They were distracted by Batgirl’s appearance—probably 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.”
“Damnit. Notify the precinct to put out an APB. I want every available unit on this. We’re not letting this operation slip through the cracks.”
.
.
.
“I don’t care who’s out there or how far they think they’ve gotten. We’re shutting this operation once and for all. If Batgirl risked her life for this, we owe her this much.”
“Sir…”
“What?”
.
.
.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner…. Batgirl… she’s dead.”
.
.
.
“What. Happened.”
“Bruce, please calm down—“
“Where is my daughter?”
“Bruce—“
“Leslie. Where. Is. My. Daughter.”
“I—I’m sorry, Bruce. I tried everything—“
“Where is she? I need to see her. Now.”
.
.
.
Where did it go wrong?
How did it come to this?
Bruce swore—swore—he’d never let what happened to Jason happen again. Not to any of them. He’d built walls, created rules, pushed himself to the breaking point to ensure it. All of it was to stop this—this—from 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.
“God…damnit…” he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. “Open your eyes. Please.”
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.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, his voice trembling, the words breaking apart with every syllable. “I promised—I promised I’d protect you. And I couldn’t even do that.”
He bowed his head, his forehead brushing against your hand as his grip tightened. “I’m sorry. I failed you.”
so… 🫣
have this while i continue working on chapter 3 and 4 🥰
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 can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓)
Bruce’s brows furrowed, his usually calm expression giving way to faint confusion. “You’re… quitting?”
“Yes.”
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. “Why?” 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 wouldn’t have even entertained the idea. This life was everything she had worked for—every 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. “Because… you were right,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. “This life… it was never meant for me. I was just too dumb to realize it before. But now, I do.”
The admission felt strange, almost foreign. Sixteen year old you wouldn’t have said that—not to him, not to anyone. And yet, as the words left your mouth, they felt right.
Bruce didn’t 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. “If that’s what you’ve decided,” 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.
“Thank you,” 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 couldn’t help but glance back once, but Bruce didn’t 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 weren’t scanning the reports anymore.
He couldn’t 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 that—it felt final, like a line had been drawn in the sand. A line he couldn’t cross.
You’d said you were quitting because the life wasn’t 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 shouldn’t 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 yet…
A faint, nagging voice whispered at the back of his mind, telling him he’d made a mistake. That letting you go like this wasn’t just about the Batgirl mantle—it was about you. About him. About the growing distance between the two of you.
He couldn’t 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.
“Richard,” Damian began, his tone flat and serious. “What does it mean when a girl cuts her hair short?”
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 he’d 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. “Why’re you asking? Is there someone who caught your eye, little D? Someone from school, maybe?”
Damian scowled, his cheeks tinging slightly pink. “Do not be absurd. This is not about me.”
Dick chuckled, brushing crumbs off his hands. “Oh, so it’s not about you. But you want my expertise on the matter? Man, I didn’t know you valued my opinion so much.”
“I don’t,” Damian snapped, his glare intensifying. “But you’re a certified idiot when it comes to women, so your insight into their ridiculous behavior might be useful.”
“Ouch.” Dick placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
“We’re not,” 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.
“What’s going on?” Tim asked, popping a fry into his mouth.
“Damian here wants to know why a girl would cut her hair short,” Dick said, his grin widening. “And apparently, I’m the expert on ‘ridiculous behavior.’”
Tim raised an eyebrow at Damian, who was now scowling at both of them. “Uh… okay. Who are we talking about?”
“It’s about… (name),” 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. “Nah, no way. (name) wouldn’t cut her hair. She’s been growing it out for years. You’re making this up.”
“I am not,” Damian snapped, crossing his arms. “You’ll see for yourselves later if you’re too thick-headed to believe me.”
“Okay, first of all, rude,” Dick said, grabbing a fry. “Second, I don’t know, man. She’s 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.”
Damian scoffed audibly, narrowing his eyes at Dick. “Tsk. It’s not just a trim, Grayson. She cut her hair to her shoulders.” He said the word shoulders like it was a personal affront. “And it looks ridiculous.”
Dick frowned immediately. “Don’t say that, Damian,” 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, pretty—like 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?
“Grayson?” Damian’s sharp tone cut into his thoughts. “Are you malfunctioning, or have I rendered you speechless for once?”
“Huh?” Dick blinked, refocusing on the youngest Wayne.
“Useless,” Damian muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “I should have known better than to seek advice from you.”
Dick snapped out of it, shooting Damian a half-hearted glare. “Hey, you came to me, remember? And cutting hair isn’t ridiculous; it’s just a personal choice. People grow, Damian. Maybe she just… wanted a change.”
Damian raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Wanted a change? That’s the best you can come up with? Tt. I thought you were supposed to be insightful.”
“Okay, first of all,” Dick said, pointing at him with a fry, “you’re lucky I don’t throw this at you. And second, you’re the one acting all worked up about her hair. I’m just trying to figure out why you even care.”
“Oh, trust me, buddy, we know your standards are very high.” Dick smirked. “For someone who claims not to care, you’re putting a lot of energy into this.”
Damian glared, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I will not waste further time explaining myself to a fool.”
“Love you too, Dami,” Dick said with a cheeky grin, earning an eye roll from the younger boy.
Tim, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “Alright, so… are we just going to sit here debating haircuts, or are we going to eat?”
“Good idea,” Dick said, popping a fry into his mouth. But the momentary distraction didn’t stop his mind from circling back to you.
Why did you cut your hair? Was it really just a preference change? Maybe.
Damian’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts again. “Grayson, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Staring into space like a dim-witted cow.”
Dick sighed, shoving a fry into his mouth. “Great talk, Damian. Really helpful.”
“Likewise,” Damian muttered, clearly unimpressed.
But Dick was already tuning him out. He needed to check in with you later. He heard you had patrol tonight—or at least that’s what Barbara had mentioned. Wait, why didn’t you tell him that yourself?
Whatever. He’d figure it out. If you were on patrol, he’d just join you and ask about that then. That is, if Damian doesn’t insist later on being his patrol partner…
Maybe it was nothing…
Tim sat in the booth, idly picking at a fry as his mind wandered. He’d been the one to steer the conversation away from your haircut, but now he couldn’t help but think about what Damian had said. You cut your hair? That didn’t sound like you at all.
Then again, what did Tim really know? It wasn’t like the two of you were close. Despite living in the same manor for the past three—almost four—years, there had always been this… distance between you.
He frowned, resting his chin on his hand. It hadn’t 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 missions—questions that made him pause and wonder if you were even paying attention to the briefing.
“What do you mean, ‘How do you know which lead to follow?’” Tim had asked once, incredulous. He’d 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t take long for him to realize that your work was slipping. You’d 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 case—or worse, a mission—into a disaster.
He hadn’t minded at first. But as it kept happening, as he kept watching you barrel forward with that same stubborn, hard-headed determination, something shifted.
Tim’s frustration grew. He started to wonder why you were even in this line of work. If you couldn’t handle the basics, what were you doing risking your life out there? Of course, he never said it out loud. He wasn’t 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. He’d 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 couldn’t shake it.
You cut your hair.
It wasn’t about the haircut itself—it wasn’t about aesthetics or style. It was about what it represented. Something had changed. Had you?
And while Tim told himself he didn’t care, deep down, a small part of him wondered if he’d made a mistake keeping you at arm’s length all this time.
“Hold up, Babs, why exactly am I needed at the Batcave tonight again?” Stephanie said, twisting the tool in her hand to tighten a small screw.
She sat at Barbara’s 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 couldn’t help but frown.
Barbara sighed, her voice a little tired but still managing to hold a calm tone. “Tonight, we’re a little short-handed, Steph.”
“A little short-handed?” Stephanie repeated, letting out a disbelieving scoff. She glanced up at Barbara, clearly unimpressed. “How can it be short-handed when she’s around?”
Barbara knew who Stephanie meant by “she”. 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 blonde—more so you toward her. And it wasn’t like Stephanie was oblivious to the reason why.
It was because she’s Batgirl too. When Barbara and Dick allowed her to don the cowl during the events after Bruce’s “death,” 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. “(Name)’s not around tonight.”
Stephanie raised an eyebrow, confused by the simple statement. “Well that’s a first. Why not?”
Barbara hesitated, the words slow to come. “She… she quit.”
“…..”
“…..”
“WHAT??!?”
Barbara didn’t flinch at the outburst, her calm demeanor masking her own lingering confusion.
“Wait, wait,” Stephanie said, waving her hands in the air like she was trying to physically stop Barbara from speaking nonsense. “She quit? Are we talking about the same person? (Name) Wayne? The same person who basically begged to be Batgirl?”
Barbara shrugged slightly. “Bruce told me earlier today. Said she came into the cave, and told him she was done, and walked out. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all you know?” Stephanie repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. She shook her head, scoffing. “That’s insane. She’s gotta be pulling some kind of dramatic move. Like, I don’t know, trying to get some attention or whatever. She’ll come back. Give her, like, two days, tops.”
Barbara frowned, though she didn’t 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 you’d been when you quit that didn’t sit right with her.
“You don’t think she’s serious, do you?” Stephanie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” Barbara admitted. “It’s… unlike her, I’ll say that.”
Stephanie scoffed again, shaking her head as she stood up to grab her Batgirl suit. “Whatever. I’m calling it now—she’ll be back, and when she is, I’m going to remind her just how ridiculous she’s being.”
Barbara watched Stephanie slip into her suit, her mind racing with questions she didn’t have answers to. This wasn’t 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 didn’t notice the far-off look in Barbara’s 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 hadn’t before.
After telling your father that you quit—and seeing how easily he let you go—you couldn’t 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 couldn’t quite name. As you turned the corner, too lost in your thoughts to pay attention, you bumped into someone.
“Sorry,” 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 wasn’t 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.
“Your hair.”
You turned around, confused, and caught her still looking at you with that unreadable expression of hers.
“Yeah,” you said, your tone clipped. “I cut it. I know. I get it. It’s awful.”
You made a move to leave again, but her next words surprised you enough to freeze you in place.
“No,” Cassandra said simply, her voice softer now. “It looks… really nice.”
You blinked, staring at her like she’d grown a second head. A compliment? From Cassandra? That wasn’t something you were used to.
“Thanks,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I guess.”
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 wasn’t just her compliment that threw you off. It was the fact that she’d 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 couldn’t help but replay her words in your mind.
“It looks… really nice.”
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 movements—it was different. Subtle, but undeniable. She couldn’t 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. Damian’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his face twisted in anger, while Bruce’s tone was firm but weary, as if he’d 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. “Cass! Finally, someone sane. Come join us before this place explodes.”
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.
Damian’s sharp voice cut through the relative calm of her corner. “Why is Brown here? Isn’t it supposed to be (Name)’s turn to patrol tonight?”
Stephanie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome, little guy,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Damian ignored her, his gaze locked on Bruce. “Well?” he demanded.
Bruce sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s not patrolling tonight.”
Damian’s brows furrowed, his tone growing more impatient. “And why not? Where is she?”
The tension in the room thickened as Bruce finally answered. “She quit.”
For a moment, the entire cave went still. Everyone except Stephanie and Bruce froze, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.
“What?” Damian said flatly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Dick was the first to intervene, stepping forward and addressing Bruce directly. “What do you mean, she quit?”
Bruce’s tone was even, but there was an edge of finality in it. “Exactly what I said. She told me she quit, and I respected her decision.”
Damian’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “And you just let her?”
Bruce gave him a calm but firm look. “If that’s what she wants, who am I to stop her?”
Damian’s expression darkened, his anger bubbling over. “Unacceptable,” he growled. “There’s no way she just quits. Something’s wrong.”
Before Bruce could respond, Damian spun on his heel. “I’m asking her myself,” he snapped, already storming toward the elevator.
“Damian—” 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 Damian’s fury lingering in the air.
Dick broke it first, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Bruce hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Go. Make sure he doesn’t do something reckless.”
As Dick followed after Damian, the remaining group stayed quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Cassandra’s gaze lingered on Bruce, her mind still replaying your distant expression from earlier. Something about all of this felt… wrong.
And she wasn’t 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.
“You quit?” he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
Caught off guard, you blinked at him. “Good evening to you too, Damian,” you said dryly, already bracing yourself for the argument that was clearly brewing.
He stepped inside, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “What do you mean you quit? You seriously quit? Why?”
You let out an annoyed sigh, already tired of his interrogation. “Why? Can’t I quit?” you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice.
Damian’s jaw tightened, his expression shifting from anger to utter disbelief. “Are you right in the head?” he shot back, his voice rising. “What kind of madness is this? Did all those late nights finally drive you insane?”
Ok, that ticked you off. Slightly.
“Seriously?” you deadpanned, giving him a pointed look. “You think this is about me losing it?”
“Yes!” Damian barked, his voice ringing through the room. “First, you cut your hair off like it didn’t mean a damn thing to you, and now you suddenly walk up to Father and say you’re done being Batgirl? Just like that? You’ve completely lost it!”
You frowned, irritation creeping into your voice, but you kept calm. “Nothing is wrong with me,” you replied firmly. “I made a decision. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Not my business?” Damian repeated, his voice incredulous. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at you. “This affects all of us! You can’t just make a decision like this without considering what it means for the rest of the family!”
You stood up, arms crossed. “And why does that bother you so much? You’ve never cared about what I do. All you’ve ever done is criticize me, undermine me, act like I don’t belong here in the first place! So why do you care now?”
“I don’t care!” Damian snapped, though his voice faltered for just a second. “I care about what your actions mean for our family. You walking away like this—it’s selfish, reckless—”
That was it. The breaking point.
“Selfish?” you shot back, the irritation in your voice finally boiling over. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything I’ve done to prove myself? After all the crap I’ve put up with just to show all of you that I deserve to be here? And you have the audacity to call me selfish?”
Damian threw his hands up in frustration. “This isn’t just about you! Do you even realize what you’re throwing away? What your actions say about the rest of us? You’re acting like—”
“Like what? Like I’m done?” you yelled, cutting him off. “Because I am, Damian! I’m done trying to live up to expectations that no one even thought I could meet in the first place! I’m done being the one who has to prove herself every damn day just to get a shred of acknowledgment!”
“That’s ridiculous!” Damian shot back, his tone defensive. “Father wouldn’t have given you the mantle if you didn’t deserve it. You’re just—”
You cut him off again, your voice sharper, harsher. “He gave me the mantle because I practically begged him to. Not because he thought I deserved it. And every day since, I’ve 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 I’m not good enough to help.”
Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. “You don’t get sidelined. You’re just making things up.”
“Oh, shut up,” you snapped, your tone biting now. “Don’t act like you know what I go through.”
Damian opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off again, your voice rising. “No, don’t you dare. You don’t know. You don’t know how it feels to constantly feel like you’re not good enough, to be compared to everyone else and always come up short. You don’t get it, Damian, and you never will. Because you’ve always been the heir, the one Father sees as his true successor. But me? I’ve been nothing but an afterthought.”
Damian’s face faltered for a brief moment, something unspoken flashing in his eyes. He hated the way his chest ached at your words.
“That’s not true,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Isn’t it?” you challenged, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it. Not when I’m 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 can’t see me as anything but second-rate!”
Damian hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion in your voice. He quickly shook it off, doubling down. “This is beneath you,” he said coldly. “Throwing a tantrum and walking away won’t fix anything.”
“A tantrum?” you echoed, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. “You think this is a tantrum? Damian, this is me saying I’ve had enough. I’m tired of breaking myself for a family that doesn’t even see me!”
“Then make them see you!” Damian countered, his voice rising again. “You don’t just quit because it’s hard! You don’t just give up!”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Of course, that’s your answer. Just fight harder, right? Because that’s all you know how to do. But I’m not like you, Damian. I can’t keep pretending that this fight is worth it.”
“Not worth it?” Damian repeated, his tone disbelieving. “Are you actually kidding me? Richard told me that fighting for family is always worth it—”
“Well Richard can go fuck himself for all I care,” you snapped, cutting him off. “For someone who prides himself as a family guy, he’s done a great fucking job proving that, hasn’t he?”
Damian bristled, his voice rising. “Don’t talk about Richard that way—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “I forgot he actually gives a damn about you. No wonder you have such a biased perspective on how he really is.”
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. “This isn’t over,” 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.
Damian’s 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 hadn’t meant to blow up on him. But everything was just… too much. It wasn’t 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 don’t 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 Damian’s eyes, ready to walk away. Maybe he was right—maybe you were being reckless, selfish. Because if you weren’t being Batgirl, who were you anymore? You certainly didn’t feel like the Bruce Wayne’s daughter.
You scoffed bitterly, shaking your head. They’d be fine without you, you thought. They always are. It wasn’t 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 roles—Damian 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 wasn’t 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 you’ve been through.
“I should’ve quit a long time ago,” you muttered to yourself, your voice hollow.
They didn’t 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 Damian’s 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 wasn’t all there was to it. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t know the pain you’d been carrying all this time. The weight of the mantle, the pressure to be someone you weren’t sure you could be. You literally died because you wanted to prove you deserved this mantle.
But Damian didn’t 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 didn’t think anyone would have believed you if you told them. They’d 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 different—lighter, maybe—but it didn’t 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 wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t 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 Damian’s words, the echo of a family that would carry on without you. Maybe you weren’t 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 couldn’t carry anymore.
But the thought of it didn’t 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 cave’s 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 couldn’t place exactly where Damian had gone.
Where would he be?
He knew Damian wasn’t the type to go off and brood in silence. No, if Damian had something to say, he’d say it—loudly. So the question was: Where would he go to find you?
Dick’s 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 didn’t seem likely. The library, maybe? No. He probably went to look for you in your room.
Dick’s 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. He’d known you for years, shared the same space, even lived under the same roof for what felt like forever—but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where your room was.
It was a simple enough question—where was your room? He’d been there countless times, right? He’d spent so much time around the Manor, yet now, all he could think about was the fact that he couldn’t pinpoint the location of your room. The door had been right there, hadn’t it? Near the end of the hall? Or maybe down by the study?
Dick’s 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 didn’t 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 everyone’s room was.
How could he not know? Sixteen years. He’d known you for sixteen years. He’d visited this house, stayed in this house, lived in this house for years, and yet…
His breath hitched. The realization was almost too absurd to comprehend.
He knew where Damian’s room was. Knew where Tim’s was. Knew Cassandra’s, hell, he even knew where Jason’s childhood room was—Jason, who didn’t even live here anymore. He even knew the little quirks about each of their spaces: the sword display in Damian’s, the books stacked haphazardly in Tim’s.
But your room?
His mind was blank. He couldn’t 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 wasn’t sure even existed. Why couldn’t 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. He’d 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, Dick’s 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 didn’t even spare Dick a glance, his steps quick, purposeful.
“Damian!” Dick called, jogging after him, a mix of concern and confusion flooding his mind. “Hey, wait up.”
Damian didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, and he shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this, Grayson.”
Dick’s frustration only grew. “What’s going on? What happened in there?”
Damian’s fists clenched at his sides as he turned his head back toward the direction he was walking. “Nothing you need to know.” His voice was tight, clipped.
Dick’s steps faltered, but he wasn’t about to back down. “Damian, come on—don’t shut me out. What happened with you and (name)?”
Damian, however, wasn’t interested in talking. His head jerked up with a scowl. “I don’t need you to fix this, Grayson. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Dick, unwilling to let it go, caught up to him and blocked his path. “Damian, I’m not trying to fix anything. I just want to understand what happened. Why are you so upset?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something more than anger. “Because I don’t understand it!” he snapped. “(Name) quit. She quit, Dick! And you’re all just standing around pretending like nothing’s wrong! That it doesn’t matter!”
That stopped Dick in his tracks. His heart sank as the weight of Damian’s words hit him. Standing around and pretending like nothing’s wrong? That it doesn’t matter? Of course not. He’s worried too. You quit? It didn’t make sense. But before Dick could respond, Damian was already pushing past him, practically shoving him out of the way.
“Damian—” Dick started again, but the younger boy cut him off, raising a hand to silence him.
“Don’t. Just don’t. I’m done with this conversation.”
Dick’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Damian’s arm before he could walk past. “Damian, stop. Just talk to me for a second.”
Damian whirled around, his eyes full of frustration and barely contained rage. “Why? So you can tell me everything’s fine? That we’re just supposed to accept this?” His voice cracked, just slightly, and Dick saw the sharp pain beneath the anger. “You don’t get it, Grayson. She quit. She walked away, and it feels like no one’s doing anything about it. No one cares!” 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 Damian’s anger—he was angry too, but his reaction was much more raw, and far more personal than Dick had anticipated.
Dick’s hand remained on Damian’s 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. “What do you mean by that?” Dick asked, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion. “Of course I care about her, Damian. But getting upset won’t change anything.”
Damian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “Sure, you care now,” he scoffed. “But it doesn’t feel like that to her, does it?”
Dick froze, his hand still gripping Damian’s arm, but now it felt more like a lifeline for him, trying to hold onto something solid in the midst of this emotional storm. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his heart starting to pound. “You’re not making sense.”
Damian pulled his arm away sharply, his movements tense and jerky. “Whatever,” he muttered, his voice growing colder. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to the cave.” He turned on his heel, striding away, his anger still hanging heavy in the air.
Dick stood there for a moment, his mind reeling. Damian’s words were like a punch to the gut, and Dick couldn’t make sense of them. It doesn’t feel like that to her. What was he talking about? Was Damian implying that you didn’t believe Dick cared about you? That you’d 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 Dick’s stomach as the implications of Damian’s words settled in. Did you really think he didn’t 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 you—as family, as his sister. But now, he wondered if he’d ever truly shown that.
Damian’s words continued to echo in his head as he stood there, frozen for a moment longer. What did he mean? Dick couldn’t fathom why you would feel that way.
With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside, his mind refocusing. He had to find you. He couldn’t let this go on any longer, especially if you thought you weren’t seen, weren’t 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 couldn’t form a solution to try and resolve whatever conflict you had with Damian.
Without another word, Dick turned towards the cave, his resolve hardening. He’ll just wait until you’ve calmed down from your emotional argument with Damian, and then talk to you.
how we feeling about this chapter 😘
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Your breath hitched, and your phone slipped from your trembling fingers, landing with a soft thud on the carpet.
Four years ago.
The date burned in your mind like a cruel joke. It couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. But the reflection staring back at you, the unfamiliar-yet-familiar state of your room, and the unscarred body you now wore told you otherwise.
This was real.
You forced yourself to take a deep breath, but the air felt too thick, too suffocating. You sank onto the edge of your bed, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your thoughts spiraled.
What was happening? Was this some kind of hallucination? Were you dead, and this was some twisted afterlife?
You closed your eyes, trying to remember everything that had led up to this moment. The warehouse. The fight with the drug ring members. The blood. And then it hit you.
You died.
There was no questioning it. You felt your heart stop. You felt yourself take your last breath. You remembered the darkness afterwards. The quietness.
Before you heard the alarm.
A noise so mundane, yet so impossibly jarring in the context of your supposed death.
Your heart pounded as new thoughts invaded your mind. If this was real—if you were truly back to being 16—what does this mean?
Was this meant to be a second chance for you?
A second chance?
That was rare.
But a second chance for what exactly? To try again? Another chance to make yourself seen in this godforsaken family? But what use would that be? If you couldn’t do that before, what changes things now?
What exactly could you even fix?
Was it any use to try and see if anything you could change now would make your family acknowledge you?
Your hands tightened into fists as doubt and fear crept in. Four years ago, you were a girl who’d spent every waking moment trying to prove herself. Four years ago, you were still chasing the approval of a family who barely seemed to notice. Four years ago, you were still desperate to find your place, even if it meant destroying yourself in the process.
Did you have to repeat that whole process again? Go through all that pain and disappointment and loneliness all over again?
You shook your head violently, banishing the thought. No. You wouldn’t let that happen. Never again. This time, you’d do things differently. This time, you wouldn’t let yourself go through that again.
Not when that very thing drove you to your death.
You stood up from your bed and when towards your dressing table. Your gaze locked onto your reflection, lingering on your hair. The long, luscious black curls framed your face, a stark reminder of everything you’d endured when you were sixteen. It felt foreign, almost like you were looking at someone else entirely. Back then, your hair had been a source of pride—something you nurtured and refused to cut because you wanted it to grow naturally, to be perfect.
But now, seeing it again after everything you’d been through, it didn’t feel like pride. It felt like a symbol of the girl you used to be. A girl who sought validation in all the wrong places. A girl who let the weight of everyone else’s expectations crush her.
Without hesitation, you reached for the pair of scissors on your desk. You picked them up, holding them firmly in your hand. For a moment, you hesitated, the memories of your past self flashing through your mind. Then, with a sharp breath, you snipped.
The first lock of hair fell to the floor, and you kept going, cutting away the length of your curls until your hair rested just below your shoulders. It was a bit uneven, messy, and far from perfect—but that didn’t matter. The act itself felt liberating, like shedding a layer of skin that didn’t belong to you anymore.
When you finally put the scissors down, you stared at your reflection. You barely recognized the person staring back at you, but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t mind.
This was you. A new you. A girl who wasn’t going to live her life chasing after her family’s approval. A girl who wasn’t going to let herself spiral into loneliness and despair again.
You swore, in that moment, that you’d do things differently. This second chance—whatever it was, however it came to be—was yours. You wouldn’t let anyone dictate your worth this time.
This time, you’d live for yourself.
A soft knock at the door startled you from your thoughts. Your heart stilled as a familiar voice reached your ears, a voice you hadn’t heard in so long—a voice you thought you’d never hear again.
“Miss, are you all right? You’ve missed breakfast. I wanted to check on you.”
Your heart began to pound. You stood frozen for a moment before rushing to the door. As you opened it, you felt your breath hitch.
There he was. Alfred Pennyworth. The man who was supposed to be dead.
But he wasn’t. Not here. Not now. Because somehow, you’d been sent back to the past, and he was alive. Standing in front of you, as real as the pounding of your heart.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, your emotions wavering between shock and overwhelming sadness. Was this why you were sent back? Was this your chance to save him?
Alfred’s expression shifted as he took in your freshly cut hair, his usual composure faltering for just a moment.
“You’ve, uh… changed your look,” he said gently, a hint of hesitation in his voice. “May I ask… why?”
You didn’t answer him right away. Instead, you lunged forward, wrapping your arms tightly around him. You could feel his body tense under your embrace, likely caught off guard, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let go just yet. Damnit, you missed him.
It took Alfred a beat to respond, and even then, his arms came around you tentatively, a silent acknowledgment of the sudden outburst. “Miss,” he began softly, concern lacing his tone, but before he could say more, you pulled back abruptly.
A stray tear had escaped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away, offering him a small, shaky smile.
“I just thought it was time for a change,” you replied simply, your voice steadier than you felt.
Alfred’s sharp eyes caught the tear despite your best efforts to hide it. His brow furrowed slightly. “Are you certain you’re all right, Miss?”
You shook your head quickly, forcing your smile to widen. “I’m fine, Alfred. Really.”
He hesitated for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but finally gave a small nod. “Very well, then. Breakfast is waiting for you downstairs.”
You gave him a grateful look and stepped past him, heading downstairs to eat.
As you walked away, Alfred remained rooted in place, watching you. Something was different. He’d seen it in your eyes, in the way you smiled, and in the way you’d hugged him.
He couldn’t place what had shifted, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just another day.
You stepped into the kitchen, the familiar scent of Alfred’s cooking wafting through the air. At the table, you spotted Damian already eating. He was so much younger than you remembered—shorter, his posture not as rigid, but the scowl on his face? Oh, that was exactly the same.
If you were 16, then Damian must be about 11 now. The realization hit you like a wave, and you couldn’t help but stare for a moment, taking in the sight of your youngest brother looking… well, like a kid again.
Unfortunately, he noticed.
Damian’s sharp green eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you pause mid-step. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you like you were an alien that had invaded his space.
Internally, you thought, What the heck is his problem? But you weren’t about to let him get under your skin. Not this time.
You walked over to the table, keeping your composure, and took your seat. Alfred had already set out your plate—classic scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit, just like you remembered from those years.
As you settled into your chair, Damian finally broke the silence.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?”
You glanced at him briefly but didn’t rise to the bait. “Good morning to you too, Damian,” you replied calmly, picking up your fork.
Damian’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair, studying you with a scrutinizing gaze. Then he huffed. “It looks stupid.”
That ticked you off. Your grip on the fork tightened momentarily, but you caught yourself before you could snap back. Instead, you took a deep breath and decided to let it go. Without saying a word, you simply started eating your breakfast.
For a split second, you swore you saw Damian flinch, his gaze flicking down to his plate. He let out an annoyed scoff, stabbing his oatmeal with his fork, and mumbled something under his breath.
You couldn’t help but feel a tiny spark of triumph. Ignoring him, not letting him get to you was a win, right?
You kept eating, pretending not to notice how Damian kept sneaking glances at you from across the table, his expression unreadable. Whatever he was thinking, you weren’t going to let it bother you.
Not this time.
Damian had been awake long before the sun rose. His mornings were always disciplined: training, meditation, and breakfast—his time to exist without the noise of others. By the time he sat at the table, the house was still and quiet, just the way he preferred it.
Today was no exception. He ate his breakfast in relative peace, each bite of oatmeal and fruit deliberate as he mentally reviewed his plans for the day. That peace, however, shattered the moment you entered the kitchen.
He heard you before he saw you, the soft padding of your steps on the hardwood floor. He didn’t bother looking up at first, expecting to see you shuffling in half-asleep as you often did. But something made him glance up—and that’s when he froze.
Your hair.
It was short. Messy. Uneven in places, as though you’d taken a pair of scissors to it in a fit of frustration. He blinked, staring, his mind working to reconcile this with the version of you he’d seen just yesterday. What the hell happened?
“What the hell did you do to your hair?” he asked sharply, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself.
You paused, your eyes flicking to him briefly before responding with infuriating calmness. “Good morning to you too, Damian.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. Normally, you’d snap back with some sarcastic remark. That was how it always went with the two of you—a constant back-and-forth of sharp words. Especially when your father or Grayson wasn’t around to stop you two from bickering. But now? Nothing.
“It looks stupid,” he added, his tone more biting than before.
You didn’t even flinch. Instead, you calmly reached for the plate Alfred had prepared for you, picked up your fork, and started eating.
Damian stared, his expression hardening. What was this? Why weren’t you responding? The silence grated on his nerves in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
His eyes flickered back to your hair. It wasn’t just the fact that it was short—though that was strange enough. It was what the act symbolized. You had always been so particular about your hair, letting it grow long, keeping it neat. He remembered you fussing over it, refusing to cut even the split ends because you wanted it “natural.”
But now? You’d hacked it off like it meant nothing.
Damian’s fingers tapped against the edge of his plate as he studied you. Something was different about you. It wasn’t just the hair. It was the way you carried yourself, the calmness in your demeanor that didn’t belong to the person he remembered.
And it unsettled him.
He hated not understanding things, and right now, you were an enigma. Damian prided himself on being observant, on reading people with precision, but you were throwing him off completely.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing at his oatmeal with unnecessary force.
Despite himself, his gaze kept flicking back to you. You ate in silence, seemingly unbothered by his presence—or his insults. And for a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something in your eyes. Something quiet. Resigned.
Damian scoffed, turning back to his food, but the uneasy feeling lingered.
Whatever had changed in you overnight, it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. You were acting like a stranger, like he didn’t matter, and Damian hated that.
Why did he hate that? He doesn’t know. But what he does know is that he hated not knowing things. And right now, he had no idea what changed about you overnight. Though one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to let it slide. Not until he figured it out.
You shoveled the rest of your breakfast into your mouth as quickly as you could manage, the clock on the wall reminding you just how little time you had. It had been so long since you’d been in school—high school, no less. The thought made your stomach churn.
High school. The one place where whispers and rumors followed you like shadows. Where the weight of your name and the absence of your family’s visible support made you feel like a target. Where every glance, every muttered word, felt like a judgment.
But then, another thought struck you.
High school also meant Adrien and Caitlyn.
Your heart skipped a beat at the realization. Adrien and Caitlyn—your two closest friends, the ones who stuck by you when no one else dared. The ones who had tried so hard to pull you out of your destructive spiral, to get you to stop chasing the approval of a family that seemed indifferent. And how did you repay them? You pushed them away.
You could still remember the way their faces fell when you told them off, accusing them of not understanding you, of not understanding why you needed to prove yourself. The hurt in their eyes, the silence that followed. You hadn’t seen them in years.
But now? Now you had the chance to fix it.
The thought gave you a renewed sense of urgency. You stood, grabbing your bag—or what you thought was your bag. You weren’t even sure if it had everything you needed, but you didn’t care. You just needed to go.
As you rushed down the stairs, Alfred appeared at the base, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Miss, where on Earth are you running off to in such a hurry?”
“School!” you blurted, already moving past him.
“School?” Alfred repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “Miss, if you insist on going, at least allow me to—”
“No time!” you called over your shoulder, pushing open the front door. “I’ll take the bus!”
“The bus? Miss—”
But you didn’t wait to hear the rest of his protests. You bolted down the driveway, your bag bouncing against your back as you ran. The crisp morning air stung your lungs, but you didn’t care.
You had to catch the bus.
You had to see them.
The thought of Adrien and Caitlyn waiting at the school, of their familiar faces, of the chance to mend what you’d broken—it filled you with equal parts hope and fear. What if they didn’t forgive you? What if they’d moved on?
No. You couldn’t let yourself think that way.
This was your second chance.
A chance to make things right.
You reached the bus stop just in time, your breath coming in short gasps as the vehicle pulled up. The doors hissed open, and you stepped inside, your mind racing faster than your feet had moments ago.
For years, you had regretted the way things ended with them. Now, you had the chance to fix it. You just had to find the courage to do it.
You fumbled in your skirt pocket, fingers brushing against a few spare coins. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to cover the fare. You dropped the change into the slot, the clinking sound strangely grounding in this surreal moment.
As you stepped further into the bus, your eyes scanned the rows of seats. The hum of the engine and the soft chatter of other students filled the space, but all of that faded when your gaze landed on two familiar figures in the back row.
Adrien, with his short blond hair falling messily over his forehead, was leaning back against the window, lazily scrolling through his phone. Caitlyn, her brown hair tied neatly in a ponytail, sat beside him, scribbling something into a notebook.
Your chest tightened. There they were. Just as you remembered them.
The realization hit you all over again, like a tidal wave crashing against your chest: you were back. Truly, impossibly, undeniably back.
Your gaze lingered on them, drawn to the easy camaraderie between the two. Adrien muttered something, and Caitlyn rolled her eyes with a smirk before elbowing him lightly. The sight was painfully nostalgic, a reminder of the warmth and friendship you’d so carelessly tossed aside.
Then you noticed the empty seat beside them.
It called to you, tempting you to go over, to sit down, to fall back into the fold of their friendship as if nothing had ever happened. You took a hesitant step forward, but your feet faltered.
No. Not yet.
They hadn’t noticed you yet, and maybe that was for the best. You couldn’t just barge back into their lives, not without making things right first. You owed them an apology—a real one—and this wasn’t the time or place for it.
So, you slid into an empty seat farther up the bus, one out of their line of sight.
You exhaled shakily, leaning back against the seat as your mind churned. Seeing them again after all this time stirred up a whirlwind of emotions—guilt, longing, hope, and fear all tangled together.
You didn’t want to ruin their morning. You didn’t want to come crashing back into their lives uninvited, not when they didn’t even know what you carried in your heart.
For now, you’d wait.
But as you sat there, your eyes flickered to the reflection in the window, catching the faint outlines of Adrien and Caitlyn in the background. You couldn’t help but hope that later, you’d be able to face them properly and make things right.
The bus ride felt agonizingly slow, your heart thrumming in your chest as the city passed by in a blur. You were sixteen again. Sixteen, sitting in a high school bus, on your way to Gotham Academy. The thought was still absurd.
When the bus finally pulled up to the school, you stepped off hesitantly, your shoes hitting the pavement with a weight you hadn’t felt in years. Gotham Academy loomed before you, as grand and imposing as ever. The sprawling stone building with its Gothic spires seemed to mock you, its arched windows catching the pale morning sunlight.
You stood frozen for a moment, staring up at the place that had been the backdrop for so many of your formative years. Nostalgia washed over you, bittersweet and suffocating.
The courtyard was already buzzing with students. Groups of teenagers clustered around benches, laughing, chatting, or finishing up last-minute assignments. Some darted across the lawn to catch up with friends. Others leaned against the stone walls, scrolling through their phones.
It was so familiar. The hum of conversation, the subtle hierarchy of who sat where, the tension of homework left undone—it all came rushing back to you. It felt like stepping into a memory, but this wasn’t just a memory. This was real.
You inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air tinged with the faint scent of freshly cut grass and chalk dust.
Two years. It had been two years since you’d last walked these halls. Two years since you’d graduated and left this chapter of your life behind. Except now, here you were, a sixteen-year-old all over again, staring at the same building with the same familiar ache in your chest.
Your gaze shifted to the steps leading to the main entrance. How many times had you trudged up those stairs, your bag heavier than your shoulders could bear? How many times had you stood here, dreading the day ahead because of whispers you couldn’t silence and rumors you couldn’t stop?
The same faces. The same cliques. You spotted people you hadn’t thought about in years, younger and unburdened by the drama that would inevitably unfold.
The weight of it all hit you again. This wasn’t just a second chance to relive the past. This was a chance to change it. To fix the things that had gone wrong. To make peace with the person you were at sixteen and the choices you made.
Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag as you forced yourself to take a step forward, then another. Each step brought a flood of memories, some sweet, others bitter.
This time, things were going to be different.
This was it. The start of your new beginning—or your repeat, depending on how you looked at it.
The rest of the school day went surprisingly smoothly. Classes passed by with minimal hassle, and you even managed to take a few notes—though it was difficult to focus on anything but the surreal fact that you were truly sixteen again.
At lunch, you avoided the cafeteria entirely. You weren’t ready to deal with the crowded chaos yet, so you found a quiet spot outside and ate there instead. The day wasn’t as bad as you remembered, though the whispers and side glances still lingered in the corners of your awareness.
By the time the final bell rang, you almost dared to think that high school wasn’t as awful as you had built it up in your mind. Maybe it was the years of separation—or maybe it was the determination you felt now, knowing you wouldn’t let the same things happen again.
But just as you stepped out of your last class and into the hall, a hand gripped your wrist tightly, yanking you backward. Before you could react, you were dragged into an empty classroom.
The door clicked shut behind you, and when you turned, you froze.
Chloe Travers.
She stood before you with her arms crossed, a wicked smile curling at the corners of her lips. She hadn’t changed a bit—not that you expected her to. Her pristine blonde curls, immaculate uniform, and piercing green eyes screamed perfection. But you knew better.
Chloe was the reason your high school years had been hell. The daughter of influential Gotham socialites, she was untouchable—at least, that’s what everyone believed. Her reputation was pristine, but beneath it was a master manipulator who thrived on making others miserable. She never did anything that could directly incriminate her, and when she couldn’t keep her hands clean, her clique always covered for her.
You clenched your fists, already bracing for whatever cruel remark she was about to make.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with that awful haircut,” she sneered, taking a slow step closer. “What, did Daddy finally stop paying for your fancy stylists? Or are you just trying to make a statement now?”
You swallowed the bitterness rising in your throat, but this time, you didn’t shrink back.
“Thanks for noticing,” you said evenly, your tone sharper than you’d ever dared to use before.
Her expression faltered for a split second, but she quickly recovered, her smirk widening. “Wow, you’ve grown a backbone. What’s next? You’ll actually try to fight back this time?”
“I don’t need to fight back against someone whose entire personality revolves around making people miserable,” you shot back, keeping your voice steady.
Her eyes narrowed, and the room grew tense. Chloe’s lips curled into a condescending grin.
“You really think you’re so much better now, don’t you?” she hissed. “You’re still the same pathetic little shadow, clinging to your daddy’s name to make yourself seem important.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, refusing to let her see the way her words stung.
“I’m not the one clinging to my parents for relevance,” you said coolly. “At least I know how to do something other than bully people.”
Her face twisted in fury, and before you could blink, her hand shot up, ready to strike you across the face.
But the impact never came.
A hand stopped hers mid-air, gripping her wrist firmly. Your breath caught as you turned to see Adrien standing there, his jaw tight and his eyes burning with anger.
“Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cold and commanding.
At the same time, someone stepped in front of you protectively, shielding you from Chloe. Caitlyn. Her presence was steady and reassuring, her shoulders squared as if daring Chloe to challenge her.
“You okay?” Caitlyn asked over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off Chloe.
You nodded numbly, unable to form words.
Chloe yanked her arm free from Adrien’s grip, glaring at him. “You’re making a mistake,” she spat, her voice trembling with rage.
“No,” Adrien said calmly, his gaze unwavering. “The mistake would be letting you get away with this again.”
Without another word, Caitlyn grabbed your hand gently but firmly and started leading you out of the room. Adrien followed close behind, his presence a silent warning to Chloe not to follow.
The walk to another empty classroom was silent, tension hanging thick in the air. When you finally stopped, Caitlyn let go of your hand, and the three of you stood there, the quiet almost unbearable.
You stared at them, your mind racing. Why? Why did they jump in like that? Why did they defend you, especially after what happened the last time you’d been sixteen? You remembered the argument clearly, even though it had been four years for you. For them, though, it was probably still fresh.
Before you could say anything, Caitlyn hesitated, then broke the silence.
“Your hair,” she said softly, her tone unsure.
You blinked, caught off guard. “What about it?”
She shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Adrien before looking back at you. “It’s… different. Shorter. You never would’ve done that before.”
Adrien crossed his arms, his expression unreadable as he studied you. “Yeah. What’s going on with you, (Name)?”
You blinked, your throat tightening. “What do you mean?”
“You’re different,” Caitlyn said, stepping closer. Her usual sharpness was softened by concern. “Chloe’s always been horrible, but you’ve never fought back like that before. And now… you’ve cut your hair and…” She trailed off, her brow furrowing.
Adrien crossed his arms, tilting his head as he studied you. “We’re not mad, but we’re worried. You’re not acting like yourself. Did something happen?”
The care in their voices made your chest ache. For years, you’d thought about how deeply you regretted pushing them away, how much you missed them. Now, standing in front of them again, with their concern still so evident despite everything, you didn’t know what to say.
Your lip quivered, and you glanced at the floor, feeling shame creep up your spine. They didn’t deserve the way you’d treated them back then. They were great friends—better than you’d ever acknowledged.
And you threw it all away because you were so caught up in proving yourself to your family.
“I…” Your voice cracked, and you looked up at them, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry.”
Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a surprised look, but neither of them interrupted you.
“I’m so, so sorry,” you said, your voice breaking. “For everything. For how I treated you both. For all the awful things I said. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
You could see their brows knit with confusion, but you couldn’t stop. “You two… you were always there for me. Always trying to help, always standing by me. And I pushed you away like an idiot because I was so focused on proving something to people who didn’t even care.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you hurriedly wiped it away. “I don’t even know why you bothered with me after the way I acted. I don’t deserve friends like you. I don’t deserve you.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Your chest tightened as you added, “And I get it. I’d understand if you don’t want to be friends with me anymore after what I said and did, but—”
You didn’t get to finish.
Caitlyn lunged forward, wrapping her arms around you tightly, cutting off your words with the force of her hug. A second later, Adrien joined her, his arms wrapping around both of you.
For a moment, you were too stunned to move. But as their warmth sank in, so did the overwhelming sense of relief. You let out a shuddering breath, the tears finally spilling freely as you hugged them back.
“You’re such an idiot,” Caitlyn mumbled into your shoulder, her voice trembling. “But we missed you.”
Adrien chuckled softly. “Yeah. Don’t think we’re letting you off the hook that easily. You still owe us an explanation.”
You laughed—a real, genuine laugh—and it felt like something inside you was healing. For the first time in years, you felt lighter.
“Maybe it’s because of the new haircut,” Adrien joked, pulling back slightly to ruffle your still-damp hair.
“Oh, shut up,” you said, sniffling but smiling.
They both grinned, and the three of you stood there for a moment, wrapped in a bubble of comfort and understanding. Whatever came next, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t letting go of them this time.
You walked into the manor, cheeks hurting from the wide smile you couldn’t seem to shake off. For once, you felt like you were doing something right—something for yourself. The weight of guilt and regret that had once plagued you felt lighter, almost manageable. You’d made up with Adrien and Caitlyn. You’d taken the first step in changing things.
It felt surreal, like you were rewriting the script of your life in ways you hadn’t dared to dream before.
As you walked into the living room, Alfred was tidying up, humming softly to himself. He glanced up when he saw you, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.
“You’re back earlier than expected,” he said, pausing his work. “And wearing a smile that’s far too wide to be anything ordinary. Might I ask what has brought this unusual cheer to your day?”
You grinned, almost mischievously. “Let’s just say… things are changing, Alfred. For the better.”
Alfred raised a brow but didn’t press further. “Hmm, cryptic as always, I see. Well, whatever has brought this change, I hope it continues to do so.”
You turned to head upstairs, but Alfred’s voice stopped you. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, “you do have a patrol scheduled for tonight. Do be mindful of the time.”
And just like that, your smile faltered. Patrol. Right. How could you almost forget? Almost.
Because this was that time—when you were sixteen, desperate to prove yourself, and driven by an endless spiral of toxic self-comparison. This was the period when Stephanie had donned the Batgirl mantle, leaving behind her identity as Spoiler, and your insecurities had spiraled out of control.
Back then, you felt overshadowed, like Stephanie’s presence somehow diminished your worth. Even after she eventually returned to being Spoiler, the damage was already done in your mind. You hadn’t “won” anything; you’d simply been left behind.
But now… now, standing in this second chance at life, you could see how warped your thinking had been. None of it mattered. What mattered was doing what was right—not for anyone else, but for yourself.
Your resolve solidified. You turned back to Alfred. “Where’s father?”
Alfred frowned slightly, tilting his head. “In the cave, as usual. Why do you ask?”
You didn’t answer, simply nodded and headed toward the clock entrance. Alfred’s confused expression followed you, but he didn’t question further.
Descending into the Batcave, the cool air and faint hum of machinery enveloped you. The smell of leather, metal, and the faint chemical tang of the medbay felt familiar, almost comforting.
There he was, seated at the Batcomputer, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he scanned reports and case files. His back was to you, but you didn’t need to see his face to know the intensity of his focus.
“Father,” you called out.
Bruce didn’t turn, though his fingers paused briefly over the keyboard. “I’m here,” he replied, his voice steady and sharp, as always. “What is it?”
You stepped further in, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m not going on patrol tonight.”
Bruce didn’t react at first, still absorbed in whatever was on the screen. “Alright,” he said absently. “I’ll reschedule your route for another time. Stephanie can fill in for you tonight—”
“No,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “That’s not what I meant.”
Finally, Bruce stopped typing. Slowly, he turned his chair around to face you, his expression calm but searching. “Then what do you mean?”
You took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage you had. “I’m done, Father. I’m quitting as Batgirl.”
i don’t think this really focused on the batfam as much, it’s more of world-building i suppose. but the next parts will definitely showcase more of the batfam!!
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 | ask to be added <3 (idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓)
