Here in the Cafe we treat people of all races, religions, sexes, genders, and other things with kindness and respect here. If you cannot be civil and respect someone’s right to be themselves, you will not find sympathy or comfort in the Library.
Here I serve the highest quality writings of all kinds.
I have a menu of only my finest works. Feel free to take the time to give me your asks and requests when I am available to take them.
As long as you're aware of my rules you are welcomed:
My current fandom is only DC. But I am planning on adding much more.
RULES:
Please be patient. I am the owner and only one on duty to make everything. I post and respond when I have time to do so.
This blog is for my Fem Reader writings only. Male or Non-binary are on request only.
Please don't request a reader with a specific race, nationality, religion, or spirituality. This avoids creating something insensitive, stereotyped, or offensive. Plus this creates a large influx of asks and requests that are basically the same thing, but with a few minor differences. I will not be writing for bigoted characters nor will I make them as such. So there's no point to me.
I will make mostly SFW but I will occasionally brew a NSFW.
Under no circumstances will I Roleplay I don’t consent to being sent roleplaying messages.
I don’t take requests with OCs.
To the non-native English speakers, I encourage you to interact with me. I use Google Translate which is helpful but not perfect, and some things can be lost in translation. So if you ask something, and you used Google Translate, please tell me. This lets me know that you are an actual person, and not a bot.
I won’t disclose that how many asks or requests I have. If I'm asked anyway, I will always tell you "I have a lot." Even if I actually have none. You'll never know.
All characters I write for are 18+. Any characters who are minors will only be platonic, I will age them up for romantic fics only. If they are still minors the fic is platonic.
I will make things with dark themes/elements. Though there are things I don't write for such as Rape, CNC, or Pedophilia. If I don't feel comfortable writing something you ask for I will tell you and add it to the ban list if it is requested enough.
This blog is still new, the first official post is this one on September 6, 2025. I'm still figuring out how to be a writer on Tumblr and will change things as time goes on. Please give me any advice you have, I genuinely appreciate it.
Masterlist Here The masterlist will always be updated with upcoming fics and when they'll be posted. So keep an eye on it!
Summary: You grew up in the shadows of Gotham’s most famous family — a Wayne by blood, but never by bond. To your father, Bruce, you were a responsibility. To your siblings, you were an afterthought. Alfred was the only one who saw you, who remembered your birthday, who asked about your day. For years, the Bat-family lived their lives while you drifted quietly on the edges of theirs.
But when everything begins to change, their distance turns to closeness… and their attention becomes something else entirely. The siblings who once ignored you now want to know everything about you — where you go, who you’re with, what you’re hiding. The family that left you out now insists you belong to them.
You spent your whole life wishing to be seen. But now that you finally are… can you keep both your family and your freedom?
Warning:
Neglect
Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Family Dysfunction
Possessive Behavior / Mild Obsession
Loss of Parent
Identity & Autonomy Struggles
Found Family vs. Biological Family
Violence
Injury
Intense Emotional Stress
Trauma/Disturbing Imagery
Disclaimer: Due to the comics having a ton of different ret-cons, continuity issues, a lot of questions unanswered, and messed up timelines not thoroughly explained in a lot cases I'm changing quite a few things in my story. Character iterations from different timelines, movies, and shows will be mixed in to serve the purpose of my story. I do research to keep things as accurate as possible but sometimes there is no solid answer for what I'm asking and I have to make it up or change some things as I go.
Character ages: Alfred Pennyworth (68), Bruce Wayne (46), Barbara Gordon (29), Dick Grayson (28), Jason Todd (26), Stephanie Brown (22), Reader (22), Cassandra Cain (22), Tim Drake (21), Duke Thomas (18), Damian Wayne (11)
Word Count: 5,450
💮Masterlist💮
The doors to The Watchtowers main conference room were sealed shut, the Justice League on the other side of them holding a routine meeting that wasn't serious, but still business nonetheless.
Tim Drake was in another wing of the base, sitting at the central console with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands moving across the interface while occasionally swapping out any physical parts. The Watchtower's systems were cooperative today. The screens reacting on cue, data reorganizing quickly, each update clearing without any issues. Tim liked that. He was in no mood to troubleshoot.
Behind him, Conner was dismantling furniture. He'd pull his knees up to his chest, spinning rapidly until some mechanism in the chair gave up and broke the chair entirely. He'd then abandon the broken chair, retrieve another one from another room, and repeat the destructive process. It wasn’t loud enough to be distracting. Just consistent enough to be irritating.
But Tim was used to superpowered shenanigans, so he didn't pay Conner any attention.
"Do they always take this long?" Conner asked, sitting in his new chair with less enthusiasm this time.
"They move faster when something explodes or about to be explode," Tim replied, eyes on the monitor.
Conner made a vague, dissatisfied noise and shifted, leaning forward, then back again, fingers drumming restlessly against the armrest. His attention wandered everywhere at once. The doors, the ceiling, the lights, before settling on the back of Tim’s head.
Tim’s looked at him for half a second to get a look at his demeanor before returning to the current task. "What?"
Conner didn’t answer immediately. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees while trying to muster up the courage to say what's on him mind. "I met her again."
Tim finished entering a command. The system beeped its confirmation. "Okay?'
"It was different this time." Conner's voice dropping as he spoke.
"Different how?"
Conner opened his mouth. Whatever he'd rehearsed in his mirror in his room left his mind. "I don't know," he admitted. "It just was."
"That's not helpful." Tim shook his head and started disconnecting a series of wires. Conner sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
"She's easy to talk to." The words came out slow and carefully. "Like I don't have to think before I say something. It just works. I really, really like talking to her."
Tim let Conner's words marinate for a moment. He moved a lot slower to try and keep working, but his focus had permanently split between Conner and the computer.
"You've said that before," Tim replied. "About other girls."
"Not like this." Conner leaned back, his voice getting quieter, like he was thinking out loud rather than confessing. "Not with her. She's…way better than other girls."
Tim's body froze. His brain immediately rerouting all energy away from his body to further power his brain.
“And she remembers things,” Conner was smiling thinking of fond memories. "Even the small stuff. It's incredible that someone pays attention and remembers those small and silly little details about me.”
Tim rolled his eyes and stood up. "I do that. I always have."
"It's different with her Tim. Everything is different with her. When she does even the most boring and mundane stuff, it just…it just feels like the most amazing thing ever man," Conner shrugged, the words flowing a lot easier now. "I don't have to think about what I'm saying or try hard to do anything. She makes me feel like no matter what, I'm the most special guy."
Tim looked at him for a while. The way Conner's voice changed. The sincerity in his tone. How emotional and genuine his wording is. Conner wasn't trying to brag, or sound impressive, or downplay it. He was just telling the truth. Conner was always an honest, tell you like it is, type person.
It was, objectively, one of his best qualities. Tim found it so damn annoying right now.
"How long?" Tim asked.
Conner snapped out of his dream like state and looked at Tim. "What?"
"How long have you felt like this about [Name]."
Conner leaned back in his chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Since that gala,” he thought for a moment longer. “November I'm pretty sure. Maybe a little before that."
"Define a while?"
"Tim."
"Conner."
"You look mad. Are you mad?"
"I'm not mad."
"You're doing the thing where you're saying you're not mad but when you—"
"I'm processing Conner," Tim insisted and turned back to the console. He resumed typing, tapping on the keys harder than necessary.
Conner watched him for a moment. The aggressive typing, the tenseness in his shoulders, the rapid heartbeat, the subtle grinding of his jaw. Tim was irritated. Then slowly, the corners of Conner's mouth curved into a wicked smirk that only happens when you're about to annoy the hell out of someone.
"She has a really great smile," Conner said in a slow and almost taunting tone.
Tim's typing didn't stop. "Yes she does."
"It's so wide and it actually reaches her eyes. Even the way her eyes crinkle is nice. And her teeth are perfect, she takes real good care of herself."
"Conner."
"And she does this thing when she's thinking where she tilts her head a little to the left."
"I'm asking you, as your best friend."
"I think about it more than I should probably admit."
"Please stop TALKING," Tim groaned. He ran his hands down his face so hard he could have pulled his skin off.
Hearing that his best friend is crushing hard on his sister is something that made Tim feel like he was malfunctioning. Tim kept his friendship and family separate. Conner trying to merge the two felt like a violation of space, an invasion of privacy. The conflict of loyalty in an argument. On top of the TMI transparency factor. Tim has seen Conner when he was the most vulnerable and cringe and stupid and angry and, everything! He never imagined Conner being your type because he knows all of Conner's flaws.
Tim didn't think Conner was bad, he just thought you would be better off with…just not his best friend.
While Tim was having his crisis, Conner was fully grinning now. He knew he had located the best nerve and was absolutely going to keep tap dancing on it. "I'm just saying. When we figure things out, I'm gonna hold her hand in public and everything. Really interlock the fingers. Make it count."
Tim turned around so fast the chair nearly gave him whiplash, his face caught somewhere between horror and genuine disgust. "You will not!"
"Oh I will."
Tim dug his nails into his thighs. He radiated the energy of a man talking himself down from a ledge. "You are my best friend and I want you to know that I mean this with complete sincerity. Please. Stop. Talking. Stop liking my sister."
"I can't man! She laughs at everything I say," Conner continued with absolutely no mercy. "Even the stuff that isn't that funny. But I laugh at all of her jokes, it’s the funniest when she gets the punchline wrong and then she gets all embarrassed. But she knows how to laugh at herself, isn't that cool Tim?"
Tim made the mistake of actually processing that sentence. And then, against his will, his brain supplied him with a whole Hollywood rom-com. You and Conner. Side by side, walking on the beach. The world and the people on it going about their business, but you two were in your own little world. You getting a punchline wrong but Conner looking at her like she was the best thing to ever walk the planet. Their hands—
Tim's face did something terrible. It moved through several stages. First he froze, then a slow morph into the expression of a man who had just opened a door and found something deeply upsetting on the other side. His nose scrunched. His upper lip followed. By the end he looked like he'd been subjected to an extremely foul smell.
"No," he whispered in horror.
Conner's smile faltered. "What?"
"No, nothing." Tim turned back to the console, but then turned away from it immediately. Stood up, sat down, then stood up again. "Nothing, I'm fine."
Tim was not fine. The image was still there, almost mocking him as he paced the room. Conner's dopey lovestruck face and your smile and the hypothetical hand-holding that he now could not stop picturing. Tim made a noise in the back of his throat that he just couldn't help but make.
"Did you just gag?" Conner asked.
"No!"
"Super hearing Tim, I heard it!"
"I cleared my throat! The Watchtower's air recycling is a known issue since we're in space." He gestured vaguely at the air.
"Oh, okay then" Conner stood up and slowly walked towards Tim, his smile returning to his face. "You know what I keep thinking about? Taking [Name] somewhere quiet. Somewhere she'd actually like. She mentioned a botanical garden. And I just gotta take her there so she can geek out about plants. That's when she's the cutest."
Tim gagged again. "Conner."
"And I'd be standing right there. Staring at her, admiring how beautiful she is."
"I'm going to stop you there," Tim said sounding much louder and more dramatic than he wanted.
"And she'd trip on something, and I'd catch her, and we'd be oh so close."
"I'm gonna kill you stop!"
"And she'd look up at me, and I'd look down at her."
The scene was in full motion. Conner catching you. You looking up at him. His best friend's face and your face and the already minimum distance between them dwindling until —
Tim stood up so fast his chair shot back and slammed against the desk. His expression had moved far beyond disgust. Past horror. Right into the territory that could only be described as a man who had seen something he could not unsee and was now simply trying to continue peacefully existing in any way he could.
"I need you to know," Tim said, his voice very quiet and very serious, "that I saw that. In my head. Just now. Against my will."
Conner had both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tries for dear life not to laugh. "Y-you didn't like it? You didn’t like that beautifully romantic visual Tim?"
"I need you to understand," Tim clenched his teeth, "that we have been friends for a very long time. And I value that. And I am going to walk through that door right now. Not because I'm angry. But because I have a duty to inform someone who deserves to know this very important information about his daughter."
"Woah! You're snitching on me" Conner was fully shaking now, his laughter barely contained. "Tim, you are not going in there."
Tim was already at the door.
"They're in a meeting!"
"Then I'll be brief."
"Tim!"
Tim's started off speed walking down the hall as Conner's laugh faded, but the closer he got to the meeting room the faster he moved. He was in a full on jog by the time he finally arrived to those large double doors.
The doors hissed slightly as they opened, and twelve of the most powerful beings on the planet looked up simultaneously. Batman, mid-sentence, went quiet upon seeing Tim. And seeing Tim look like he's on the verge of vomiting and screaming, didn't put anyone at ease.
Cyborg stood up, "Tim are you okay?
"No!"
Tim quickly crossed the room and stopped just behind Bruce's chair, leaned down, and spoke close enough to his ear that no one else was supposed hear.
"Conner likes [Name]. Romantically. Since November." He paused. "I thought you should know."
Tim straightened up quickly left the room, leaving the everyone in curious and stunned silence. Across the table, Clark kept his eyes on his notes. He had, of course, heard every word. Super hearing made whispering secrets extremely hard.
"Disregard that interruption," Bruce said in his usual professional cadence.
Everyone looked at each other, but didn't fight Bruce. Diana picked up the conversation without missing a beat, the room readjusting smoothly along with her but with a light layer of tense curiosity.
Bruce's speech and tone remained completely composed. His eyes, however, were a different story and everyone noticed.
They moved to Clark approximately once every four minutes. Just a single look that lasted exactly long enough for Clark to know it wasn't just a passing glance, then stopped to pay attention to whoever was speaking.
Clark noticed the first one and said nothing. He noticed the second and developed a sudden interest in his blank notepad.mBy the third he had committed to his notes entirely. Writing down everything and studying each individual letter as if relearning the English lexicon was top priority. Which it absolutely wasn't, but the alternative was meeting Bruce's eyes through his cowl and being cursed out in multiple languages through facial expressions.
The fourth look came while Clark was speaking. He was mid-sentence when he felt the glare land on the side of his face. It was a persistent feeling, like being poked in the face repeatedly as if saying "Look at me. Look at me. Look at me!"
Clark finished his point without breaking his stride. He still didn't look over. He made a mental note to talk to Bruce immediately after the meeting. Like adults. To address this directly before it had any opportunity to fester into something that would make the dinner they planned unbearable.
He also made a second note to have a conversation with Conner on how he has single handedly ended the Kent bloodline because he wanted to crush on the wrong girl...if Tim hadn't already gotten out the Kryptonite.
The gym was all yours that evening. You were an hour into your workout with still more energy to spare.
The playlist was loud and random, the bass bouncing off the walls. You bounced around from one area to the other and stayed as long as you wanted. Sweat dripped freely down your face, your hair sticking to your skin, your breathing heavy but steady. Your groans and grunts weren’t held back, echoing faintly under the music as you pushed through another set.
You were in the middle of another round of pull up when you saw Tim in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway with his jacket still on. He looked like he'd been there a while, clearly contemplating coming in or not.
You hung from the bar with one hand, swinging slightly as you lifted the other to wave at him.
"HI TIM," you yelled over the music.
Tim replied with what looked like a “Hey,” but it got drowned out completely by the speakers. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside. He made his way straight to the stereo with the gait of someone walking himself into a situation he didn’t want to deal with.
After turned the music down he faced you, looked mildly uncomfortable. "Can you get down for a second? I need to talk to you."
You dropped from the bar and grabbed your water bottle. "What's wrong? Did Jason die again?"
Tim could only manage a weak smile at your joke. "No. That would be an easier situation to navigate though…but, uh, it's actually about Conner."
You lowered the water bottle, brows pulling together. "Is he okay? Did something happen?"
Tim rubbed the back of his neck, "He's fine. We were at the Watchtower today. He came along and he said, that he likes you."
"Aw." You lifted the bottle again, taking a sip. "Well tell him I like him too. He’s a good guy."
Tim let out a groan that sounded like it physically hurt, his head tipping back before he dragged a hand down his face. Your casual obviousness and the task of having to break it down further for you made this already hard task even harder
“No, no,” he said, stepping forward a placed his hands on your sweaty shoulders. “I mean he really, really likes you.”
You nodded slowly, taking another sip of water as you looked at Tim. When he didn't say anything else, and you were left with his last words to process in your mind.
Then it suddenly clicked.
Your eyes went wide. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Yeah," he released you and took a step back.
You set the water bottle down slowly. "Conner actually said that to you?"
Tim let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Conner said… a lot of things. Much more than he should have,” he admitted, shifting his weight again, arms crossing loosely before uncrossing just as fast. “But yeah. It all points to him liking you as more than a friend.”
You laughed, short and overwhelmed, pressing both hands against your cheeks to contain yourself. "Since when?"
"November apparently." Tim watched your face. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I'm not." You were absolutely smiling like that. "I'm just…okay I have to tell you something."
Tim immediately shook his head, already bracing. “Oh no, please don’t.”
"I've liked him since October."
Tim closed his eyes. "Oh my God!"
You bit down on your bottom lip trying to hide your smile. It didn't work.
“October,” he repeated, slower this time, like saying it differently might change it. “So before November.”
“Yes, Tim,” you said. “That’s the layout of the yearly calendar.”
“So you like him?”
You nodded.
“He likes you.”
You nodded again, slower this time.
“And neither of you—” he gestured vaguely between you and some invisible version of Conner in the room “—thought to mention this to anyone. At any point.”
You shrugged slightly, shoulders still loose from your workout, completely unbothered. “It never really came up. And I didn't want to make it weird."
“This is so damn weird, [Name]!” Tim closed the distance and pulled you into a tight embrace, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other came up behind your head. He didn’t care about the sweat as he tucked your face into his neck and pressed his cheek against your hair. “I’ve fought aliens and demons and died and come back to life, and somehow this is the thing that’s throwing me. My little sister is in love with some boy!”
You sighed against his skin, your hands coming up to give him an awkward comfort pat on the back. “That boy is your best friend Tim. We're also the same age. You’re being so dramatic right now.”
“I’m not,” he tightening his hold for a second before easing it just enough to pull back and look at you. His hands stayed on your shoulders, thumbs pressing absently into your skin as he searched your face like he was double-checking that you were serious. “This is—” he shook his head once, exhaling through his nose, “—this is a situation.”
"It’s not a situation,” you said, still smiling, grabbing your towel with one hand and wiping at your face again. “It’s just two adults liking each other.”
“Those two people my sister and my best friend. That automatically makes it a situation.”
"But why?"
“Because it’s Conner. And he doesn’t do things halfway. You heard what I said. He was very thorough.”
“Oh my God,” you laughed, stepping a little closer again. “He said something cute, didn’t he?”
“It was not cute,” Tim said immediately, though the way he avoided eye contact said otherwise. “It was detailed. There was planning involved.”
“Planning?” you echoed, eyes lighting up. "Is he taking me on a date!? He's planning to ask me out now!?"
You didn’t even wait for an answer. The realization gave you the energy you needed, already moving, already thinking three steps ahead. You grabbed your phone off the bench, fingers fumbling for a second from the adrenaline before you caught it and held it properly. Your grin getting wider as you turned back toward Tim and walked towards the exit.
"Where are you going!?"
"I have to ask him out first!"
“You!?”
“If he’s already thinking about it, I’m not waiting. I'll explode if I wait for him to make a move” you said quickly, already heading for the door. “I’ve been sitting on this since October, Tim, I’m not letting him beat me to it.”
“[Name]!”
The door shut behind you.
“…No. No, no, no!"
Tim started pacing across the gym with quick uneven steps. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to steer you away from Conner, but you're running to him. And Conner would meet you half way! He messed up. He can't let anyone take you away and change you. Even if that person is his best friend.
He can predict your moves, and anytime he can't he knows you well enough to recalibrate and adapt. If you move out of the Manor he can't track you normally. If he tried Conner would find out eventually. The man can see through solid objects, he's going to notice dozens of high tech cameras and audio devices that only the Waynes can get.
Tim didn't want to admit it, but he needed help.
The tense atmosphere in the dining room felt like an oppressive force weighing everyone down.
The chairs around the table were occupied with a family member: Bruce at the head, Dick leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Jason leaning back with his hands in his pockets, Tim hunched over gripping his mug, Damian rigid with his arms crossed, Cass in the corner seat with one leg tucked under her.
Bruce hadn't said much since the Watchtower. He walked past Clark when he tried to talk to him. He didn't need want to yet, the information had been rattling around in his head for the entire trip home.
Bruce knew Conner. Conner was a good person, but that wasn't the issue. The issue was what a serious relationship actually meant in the architecture of the emotional house that Bruce had spent the last year carefully building. You had come to this family distant and he had spent every day since trying to correct what he'd gotten wrong, they all have.
A boyfriend, and eventual fiancé, then husband, meant a new center of gravity. Conner would become your person in the way that Bruce was only beginning to earn the right to be.
Dick had come into this house telling himself he was going to be the mature and reasonable one. Because being the best brother, that wasn't something Dick had simply stumbled into. He'd worked for that. He'd shown up, been consistent, been exactly what you needed often enough that you'd started expecting him to be there. That was earned. That was his. A boyfriend didn't just take up space in your life. A boyfriend became the person you oriented around. The one you called before Dick. Dick was not prepared to be outranked.
The thing about Jason's position in your life is just a fact of life. He showed up when he could. He remembered what you liked and made sure it was there. He handled the things that needed handling without being asked and without making a production of it. He had built something steady and practical and real. That was his. The domestic, the reliable, the irreplaceable. That was how Jason loved people. A boyfriend did that. A boyfriend was exactly that. He wasn't angry about it. Anger wasn't the right word. It was more like watching someone reach for something that already had his name on it.
Four months. Conner had felt this way for four months and Tim hadn't caught it. Hadn't noticed the way Conner talked about you, or flagged the change in behavioral patterns. Tim knew Conner better than almost anyone, yet he had missed it completely. Tim was so busy monitoring you, he didn't think to monitor the others around you. He filed them as "non-threatening" and called it a day. If he missed this, what else was he missing? What else was already in motion that Tim hadn't caught yet?
Damian had decided, at some point in the last year, that you were his. You were family, and his family is his top priority. Damian gave his loyalty to very few people and he had decided you were worth that. A boyfriend was not a threat he could neutralize in any of the ways he was taught. Especially a Kryptonian who knew how to control his powers unlike Jon. The thought of someone protecting you better than he could and he would just have to settle for being second best, or worse, a backup? Absolutely not. He was not going to be reasonable about it. He didn't see why he should be.
Cass understood everyone's position. She'd read it the moment they'd all walked into the room. She understood all of it because she felt it too. The idea of you building something serious with an outsider, someone who would get access to the version of you that Cass couldn't examine and mimic, pressed uncomfortably on her chest that almost made it hard to breath. But Cass was also the person in this room who was best at reading what people needed versus what people wanted. And she had been thinking, since the moment Tim had finished explaining what happened.
Alfred stood beside Bruce. He was the only person in the room who hadn't arrived with an agenda, or even create one after hearing what happened. He had come with tea, which nobody was drinking. Alfred understood why everyone felt what they did. He didn't think they were wrong to feel it. He simply thought that what was about to be decided needed to be decided carefully. Because one wrong move will undo everything and ruin it to the point where it couldn't be fixed.
Some words were spoken, but nobody had said anything particularly useful yet after Tim had explained the whole situation more than once.
"She's twenty-two," Dick said.
“I’m aware of her age, Dick,” Bruce said, not looking at him.
"I'm just saying—"
"You've said it. And I've heard it."
"He's liked her since November." Jason said it like it was a bad taste in his mouth. "That's four months of none of us knowing or even suspecting."
"He's a good person," Alfred said standing next to Bruce.
"Nobody said he wasn't," Bruce defended.
"Nobody needed to." Alfred's tone didn't shift. "The implication has been present since Tim finished talking."
“This isn’t about whether Conner is a good person,” Bruce pushed away his mug. “It’s about access.”
Dick exhaled through his nose, glancing between them before landing on Bruce. “So what, we just let it happen?”
Damian's glare snapped toward Tim. “It's already too late. Drake allowed her to leave.
“I didn’t allow anything,” Tim shot back. “She made a decision and then she acted on it because she's felt this way for a long time. I wasn’t going to tackle her in the gym to stop her from asking someone out.”
“You should have,” Damian said without hesitation.
“No,” Dick cut in immediately, sitting up straighter. “That's insane Damian. She'd never forgive us."
Jason rested his forearms on the table. “Relax Dick. Damian's execution’s a little off, but the thought process checks out.”
“It does not,” Bruce snapped.
Jason groaned and rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I get it. Doesn’t mean I’d actually do it or let anyone else do it.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Dick muttered.
Alfred shook his head, setting the tray down before folding his hands neatly in front of him. “I understand this situation isn’t ideal,” he said, his gaze moving from one face to the next. “But instead of uniting to keep them apart, you should unite to keep yourselves together.”
Bruce’s expression tightened just a fraction, his eyes shifting toward Alfred. “Alfred, please…”
Alfred placed a firm hand on Bruce's shoulder while looking around the table. "Remember, the more you push, the more she'll pull."
Damian slammed his hand on the table." But we can't let anyone just manipulate her and take her."
"Conner isn't manipulating anyone," Tim defended. "He didn't brainwash her or threaten her. [Name] and Conner have mutual feelings for each other."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "Yeah and that's the problem. We can't have any romantic interest ruin the dynamic we have here. She has so much going for her, dating is just a distraction. It's going to cloud her judgement and she'll make mistakes. Right Father?"
Bruce's hands clenched into fists. "Damian."
Damian pressed forward, seizing it. “Or are we pretending relationships don’t complicate things now?” His eyes narrowed just slightly. “Because I recall a certain situation in Gotham involving a thief that repeatedly compromised your decision making.”
Dick’s head snapped up. “Okay that's enough!”
“Wow,” Jason chuckled. “We’re going for the jugular now.”
“That is not the same situation,” Bruce said.
Damian didn’t back down. “It is the same principle. You were distracted. You made allowances you wouldn’t have made otherwise. You prioritized someone who was not this family. [Name] has inherited a lot of your qualities, and I'm not having your questionable decision making because of your desperation for intimacy from an outsider be one of them!"
Dick physically recoiled. “Okay! Jesus, Damian enough!”
Jason side eyed Bruce, remembering all the times he let things slide because it was Catwoman. "He's not wrong."
Tim exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s not the same situation as this one."
“It very well could be,” Damian cut in again.“You’re all pretending this is harmless. It isn’t. Relationships change priorities. They always do.”
Dick sat up straighter, his frustration finally showing. “You can’t keep her in a box and expect us to just hold forever!”
“I am not suggesting confinement,” Damian clenched his fists. “I am suggesting control over who gets access.”
Alfred, who was already struggling to keep his mutual demeanor, finally let his own frustration show. "You already do that Master Damian. You expect her to just die alone?"
"No," Damian shouted. "I just don't want her dating anybody involved in the work we do!"
Cass spoke before it could escalate further. "So would you have her date a total stranger?"
The room went quiet.
Damian didn’t answer.
Jason rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table as he spoke. “That’s so much worse."
Dick's shoulders dropping slightly. “We’d have nothing if it came to that. No baseline. No read. No way to know what kind of person he is. We'd need background checks. 24/7 surveillance on him and anyone he associates with."
“And on top of that,” Jason began. "There's no guarantee that [Name] being a Wayne wouldn't complicate things. Even other rich and famous socialites can't be trusted. They might date her to secure a business deal through marriage.
Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. "You're right…I don't like it but you're right." He sat down and crossed his arms over his chest.
“He’s a good guy,” Dick admitted, even if it sounded reluctant. “He’s not going to hurt her.”
“He physically can’t be overpowered easily,” Tim added. “If something happens, he can handle it.”
Jason nodded once. “He’s consistent,” he said. “You know what you’re getting with him. No guessing.”
“And he already trusts us,” Cass added. “That matters.”
“He is still a variable,” he said.
“Everything is,” Countered.
Bruce's face softened for the first time that night, going from tense to thoughtfully neutral. "But he's a variable that can be changed."
“That’s one way to put it,” Jason muttered, though there was less bite in it now, more consideration.
Tim nodded slowly. “He’s already halfway there. He trusts us. He listens. He’s not resistant.”
“Quite the opposite,” Damian said flatly. "He would do pretty much anything to stay on Father's good side. Breaking his daughters heart would guarantee Conner a kryptonite coffin."
Dick shot him a look. “Clark wouldn't allow that.”
Bruce sipped his cold tea. "No he wouldn't. But if we play our cards right and say the right thing…"
Cass nodded once. “We don’t push Conner. We align him.”
Bruce smiled at her “He wants approval. So he’ll adjust on his own if he thinks that’s what’s going to keep everyone happy."
Damian finally allowed himself to relax. "it should be easy enough. Jon is pretty easy to mold. He asks me about [Name] as if she's his sister to."
Dick smirked at Bruce. "Don't you guys have dinner at the Kent's in a week?"
It was rare for the family to immediately correct course and be on the same wavelength that quickly. But when they were, it rarely meant something good was coming.
Hey everyone! I intended for this to be posted today at 10:30am but i had it queued for 10:30pm. So sorry!
And i'm more sorry this chapter is so short. I mentioned in my previous Update post that this chapter ended up being very very long, around 30K words. So i tried to separate them and make alterations (because i reread my stories multiple times to for spell checks, grammar checks, and continuity are there). But i ended up messing them both up because i was doing too much and going back and forth, and i didn't like a lot of things halfway through...it was all a damn mess.
On top of that writers block and my life has been taking a toll on me. I've been focusing on other stories to keep posting and trying to spark an idea or motivate me. But this is the best I could muster up and I feel proud for powering through.
Thank you all for being patient and I promise Chapter 12 is gonna be a lot better.
Here's another revenge fic so here's one for you guys. Sorry it's not a supernatural one like the other, I tried but I didn't feel satisfied with how it turned out. I promise I'll write a happy fic later on but this one i've sat on for a while, now it's finally done. So yes. this is hurt with comfort. Enjoy!
Zayne x NonMC!Reader, Xavier x NonMC!Reader
TW: cheating, betrayal, infidelity, slight emotional manipulation, public humiliation, social isolation
💮Masterlist💮
Seven years earlier.
The dining hall closed at nine, and by nine-fifteen, you and MC were sitting cross-legged in your shared dorm room floor with two party sized bags of chips, a box of mini Oreos, and a six pack of energy drinks you were saving for long late night study sessions as stressful as this.
"Okay," MC said, pulling her hair with one hand and holding her notes with the other. "Explain osmosis to me one more time, but this time pretend I'm five."
"I did that already and it helped for one assignment. Maybe explaining it at a college level might be better."
She threw a chip at you. "Explain it to me like you're five. Dumbed down on both ends."
You caught the chip and ate it. "Water moves from where there's a lot of it to where there's less of it. It's trying to even things out. It crosses the membrane because it can, and because things in nature always move toward balance."
MC stared at you. "That took you four seconds."
"I've been trying to simplify it for you for forty minutes."
"Why didn't you just say that forty minutes ago?" She grabbed the notes and started scribbling. "Water moves toward balance. That's it. That's the whole thing." She looked up, grinning. That wide open grin that meant she was genuinely delighted and not just faking it. "You're would make an incredible doctor. Or teacher. Or, I don't know, whoever explains complicated things to idiots."
"You're not an idiot. You just need a different angle," you grabbed the last energy drink.
"Same thing, different framing." She capped her pen and flopped backward onto the carpet. "I'm going to fail this exam."
"You're not going to fail."
"I'm going to barely pass this exam."
"Probably," you agreed, she laughed, and you laughed. It was eleven-thirty on a Wednesday and you had an 8 a.m. lecture and you couldn't bring yourself to care about any of it.
This was the thing about MC, early MC, the MC you had chosen and been chosen by, she made time feel generous. Like there was enough of it. Like the night was long and the friendship was longer and nothing bad had happened yet.
She rolled her head to look at you from the floor.
"When we graduate," she said, in that dreamy, half-serious voice she got when she was tired, "we should work as hunters together. And we have to go on missions only with each other."
"We just started college and you can't handle a little basic science class."
"I'm manifesting." She pointed at the ceiling. "Same job. We'll be the most unstoppable duo in whatever department will have us. We'll cover each other's shifts and eat terrible vending machine food at 2 a.m. and complain about meetings together."
You looked at her, the determined certainty on her face, and felt the warmth of someone who makes you feel like the future is a place you'll navigate together.
"Okay," you said. "Same job."
She smiled at the ceiling. "See? Manifested."
You and MC had stayed friends since the first week of freshman year.
That was the thing people kept forgetting, or, maybe the thing you kept needing to remind yourself of. Because it still didn't feel real. Not a casual acquaintance. Not just a work friend.
Seven years.
You'd studied for the same exams in the same library, stress-eaten the same greasy food truck meals at 2 a.m., held each other through breakups and failed courses, reassuring each other that everything will be okay and work out somehow.
When you both landed your dream jobs as Hunters, you'd gone out and gotten embarrassingly drunk to celebrate. When you started dating Zayne, she was the first person you told.
"He's so serious," she'd laughed, spinning her straw. "I've known him since we were kids, I'm still not sure he knows how to have fun?"
"He's different with me," you'd said.
She'd smiled. "I'm sure he is."
It started small.
Something came up at the hospital. Can we reschedule dinner?
Of course. You understood. He's a doctor. You'll go to the new restaurant another time.
I'm sorry, I can't make your work thing tonight. Urgent case.
Fine. You went to the festival alone and smiled at everyone and said he sent his regrets.
I know it's your birthday dinner but the shift ran over —
Okay, that one stung. You'd been at the restaurant with your friends, one empty chair, Zayne's name on a reservation he'd made himself. You'd boxed up the food he would've ordered and left it in the fridge and told yourself this was what loving someone in medicine looked like.
You didn't know, then, what you knew now. You didn't know that on the night of the cancelled dinner, MC had posted a story. A glass of wine, candlelight, a caption that just said perfect evening.
You hadn't thought anything of it. Why would you? You hadn't known to look because this isn't something you'd thought would happen. Especially when it pointed to the people you loved betraying you.
You looked now. Three months of your camera roll. Three months of her Moments page. MC had deleted the posts, but nothing online ever truly disappeared if you knew where to look, and you were very patient and very thorough. You cross-referenced. You built a timeline with the same methodical focus that had made you good at your job and apparently blind to your own life.
I can't make it tonight — timestamped 7:14 p.m.
Her story, a restaurant you recognized, timestamped 8:30 p.m.
Running late, don't wait up — timestamped 6:52 p.m.
Her post, a walk along the riverfront, his coat recognizable in the background if you knew what his coat looked like, and you knew what his coat looked like. You bought it.
Emergency at the hospital — timestamped the night of your birthday.
Her story. Candles. Perfect evening.
You had eleven instances before you stopped counting. You had all the evidence you needed.
It was January. A few days after the New Year, when everything was still new and hopeful. Zayne sat across from you at the kitchen table, the one you'd picked out together. He said the words with that calm and caring tone that used to make you feel safe.
"I've developed feelings for someone else. I think you deserve honesty," he said like he was doing you a favor.
"MC," you said. His silence confirmed it.
You'd thought you would feel something explosive. You thought you'd curse him out, call him names, throw your drink, cry and beg. Instead you felt very cold and very clear, like a window that had just been cleaned.
You cut into your breakfast and spoke without changing from the casual tone in your voice. "How long?"
He at least had the grace to look uncomfortable. "A few months."
"While you were cancelling plans with me," you took a bite and looked at him in those eyes that made you swoon.
"I didn't… it wasn't planned —"
"You were literally cancelling plans with me," you countered, "to be with her. I'm not a newcomer to the concept of logic Zayne."
He didn't answer, he only stared at the breakfast you were still nice enough to make for him. After hearing enough of the silence you stood up, walked to the front door, and held it open.
"You're free to go. You did what you needed to do. Hopefully you said everything you wanted to say, because I will never be talking to you again." your tone was strict, like a mother whose son just confessed to doing something bad.
Zayne slowly rose from the table, his final meal with you left untouched, getting cold as he grabbed his coat and walked to the open door.
When he was on outside you looked at him one last time. "I hope that she was worth it."
You narrowly hit him as you slammed the door, but you didn't care. You didn't cry in front of him. You'd cried plenty in the weeks leading up to it, in the shower, in your car, in the quiet times between one cancelled dinner and the next rescheduled plan. You'd already done your grieving. You were simply done with everything.
Three weeks later, you heard through mutual colleagues that he and MC were official. You heard it the same way you'd heard everything about her over the past months, in fragments, in offhand comments, in the way all of your mutual friends suddenly stopped meeting your eyes.
People who knew the three of you looked at you with a mixture of different emotions and opinions. Some looked at you with pity, after all, your best friend dating your ex is a hard pill to swallow. Some thought that while you were a great girlfriend, MC and Zayne's childhood friend to official couple pipeline was just meant to be, something that was just meant to happen and you were getting in the way. Some walked on eggshells around you, not talking about anything related to MC and Zayne. Conversations around romance, doctors, best friends, were just a few of the forbidden topics in order to spare your feelings. Some even thought that you were the one that fumbled Zayne, that you did something to drive him away so bad he went for your best friend.
But it's okay. It's all going to be okay. You just had to be patient.
You waited six weeks. Long enough that no one could call it a reaction. Long enough that the two of them were comfortable going public. Cute and lovey-dovey photos together, the comments full of happy and supportive comments from people who had absolutely no idea.
Long enough for MC to DM you. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Can we talk?
That message alone ended any patience you had left in you. You left it on read, then you made the post.
It wasn't a rant. No all-caps, no insults, no emotional spiral. Not even an explanation on why you're posting it after months of you and Zayne broke up. Just a clean, organized thread with an easy to follow format. A screenshot with a date, followed by a corresponding piece of evidence.
March 14th: "Can't make dinner, something came up at work." [her story that night, restaurant, his jacket visible in the background]
March 28th: "Emergency at the hospital, so sorry." [her location tag at the park, two minutes from his apartment, 9 p.m.]
April 6th — my birthday: "Shift ran over, don't wait up." [her story: "perfect evening"]
Eleven more just like those. Simple and factually sourced.
Your caption read: I'm not angry. I just think people should have all the facts before they talk to me.
By morning it had been shared over four hundred times.
By afternoon, it was in the group chats of every employee at the Hunters Association, the alumni network of your shared university, even the nursing home you volunteered at were gossiping about it. Someone had sent it to a medical community forum with the caption "friendly reminder to respect your partners." Someone else had made a video reacting to it. The comments were not kind to Zayne.
His professional reputation held, of course it did, he was brilliant and everyone knew it, and no amount of personal scandal would change his outcomes data. He remained, by all clinical and professional measures, an excellent doctor.
But he walked through the hospital now and people went quiet. It wasn't personal. It just made him hard to trust. It's just that… if he could betray his partner who was nothing but good and loving to him, he could betray them to.
Zayne was aware of what was happening, and how it all happened.
That was the worst part. Not the public nature of it, not the comments or the shared posts or the way people's eyes looked away from his in the corridor, but the fact that he could not find the injustice in it. He'd spent three nights after the post went up searching for it, paging through the screenshots with the same methodical attitude he brought to his job. He looked for the falsification, the exaggerations, the emotional distortion that would give him solid ground to stand on.
He hadn't found it.
Every date was accurate. Every cancellation was real. The timestamps were legit and sent from his own phone, and the corresponding evidence was MC's own posts. Things MC had put into the world herself, things neither of them had ever imagined being weaponized and placed side by side like that, aligned and annotated and offered without comment to four hundred people, then four thousand, then more.
I'm not angry. I just think people should have all the facts before they talk to me.
He'd read that caption more times than he could count. He'd tried to find some kind of hidden meaning that would justify or exonerate him and MC. But no, it just showed him in two short sentences that you had felt so wronged and even inconvenienced by those around you, that you had to do this. You had documented something true and placed it where people could see it, and he had no recourse, because the only defense available to him was yes, but, and he couldn't finish the sentence.
Yes, but I genuinely didn't plan for it to happen this way.
Yes, but I cared about her, I really did.
Yes, but things between MC and I developed before I fully understood what I was doing.
The hospital had changed around him. Nothing in a dramatic, blow up in your face, kind of way. Zayne had anticipated drama, some kind of massive fall out or public condemnation. What he got instead was something more difficult. Colleagues who had been warm were now professionally courteous. Residents who had lingered after rounds to ask him questions now asked those questions, then left. The attendings' lounge felt different when he walked in. Like people had received new information and quietly updated their models of him.
Dr. Chen, who had mentored him for two years, whose opinion he valued more than almost anyone's, had said nothing to him directly. She had simply stopped suggesting him for committee positions. He'd noticed. He was fairly certain she intended him to notice.
Dr. Park had been less subtle. "You know," he'd said one afternoon, in the tone of a man who was choosing his words extremely carefully, "competence in one area doesn't exempt anyone from basic decency in another." And then he'd walked away before Zayne could respond.
The thing was, Zayne agreed with him. He couldn't argue that he'd been at least respectful and decent. He had not been either of those things. He's a brilliant cardiac surgeon and a poor excuse for a partner, and he'd told himself for months that the former somehow canceled out the other.
But the post had proven him, so, so wrong.
You heard the knock at 9 p.m. on a Saturday. You weren't expecting anyone. A co-worker had texted earlier about brunch tomorrow, and you'd said yes, and that was the full extent of your social calendar for the weekend. You set down your book, and picked up your phone to check the front door camera.
It was MC, she looked like she hadn't slept in a while.
You looked at the camera feed, thinking of your next move. She knocked again, harder and more frantic. You decided to entertain her for a bit. When you opened the door you casually leaned on the doorframe. Looking at her as if she was just some annoying neighbor.
"Can I help you," you didn't bother hiding the underlying irritation in your voice.
"The post," she started.
"What about it," she looked back at you stunned. MC really didn't expect this kind of reaction from you when she confronted you.
"You didn't have to —" She stopped talking, choosing her next words carefully, like this was a difficult topic for you to understand. "People are saying things about him. About both of us. Our colleagues, people we went to school with, neighbors…people who don't know anything about the situation —"
"They know what I showed them. And if they want to know more beyond that then they can do the research themselves."
"You made it look —"
"I showed screenshots," you said. "Of his texts. And your posts. I didn't caption them. I didn't edit them. What people concluded from accurate, unaltered information is not something I'm responsible for. I just got sick of the way people treated me and thought of me. All because Zayne decided he couldn't break up with me first before humping my best friend rabbits in the woods."
MC's jaw tightened. She'd always done that when she was trying to stay composed. You'd seen it during exams, during hard conversations, during the two times in seven years that you'd fought and had to work with each other the next day. You had known her face so well. That was the thing that sat in your heart like a splinter.
"We didn’t have sex…"
"Oh!? Really? That makes me feel so much better," it was the first taste of bitterness you tasted in your mouth during this whole ordeal.
"I know what I did was wrong," she said. "I know that. I'm not here to tell you it wasn't."
"Okay."
"I'm here because —" MC took a long deep breath. "I need you to understand that it wasn't nothing. It wasn't just… I didn't just decide to blow up your relationship because I felt like it. It wasn't careless."
"It felt pretty careless from where I'm standing. Carelessness of a friend and someone I was in love with. Carelessness from people who were supposed to never hurt me."
"Zayne and I have known each other since we were kids. We grew up together. Went to school together. We did everything together. And there was always something. There was always this thing between us that neither of us ever did anything about because the timing was never right, and then time passed and we both moved on and I thought I had it managed. I thought I'd made peace with us just being friends."
She looked at you, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. "And then I saw him again every day and I realize it wasn't managed at all."
"You could have told me," you said. "When we met. When I started crushing on him like a giddy school girl. Before it became something. You could have come to me. I would have backed off."
"I know."
"I wouldn't have been devastated. But I would have… we could have…" You trailed off. "We were friends for seven years. You were my first call. For everything. My emergency contact that caused the emergency that we'd laugh about later."
"I know," MC said again, and her voice broke. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm genuinely sorry. Not because of the post, not because of what people are saying. I'm sorry because I knew exactly what you trusted me with and I chose him anyway." She wiped her eye roughly, like she was annoyed at herself for it.
You didn’t know what to say then. You told yourself to ignore them and move on with your life. But you couldn't help but hear what she had to say. And now you couldn't find the words to respond.
"I would do it again," MC said. "That's the terrible thing. I love him. I love him in a way I can't explain and can't talk myself out of and have been trying to talk myself out of for so many years. I would give up everything for him. I don't need anything else if I have him." She laughed, a short unhappy sound. "And I basically did, didn't I?"
She gestured vaguely. At herself, at the space around her, at you. "I have Zayne," she said. "That's what I have."
She said it like it was enough. Like she had weighed it against everything else and arrived to the conclusion that it was enough. You looked at her for a long time.
I don't need anything else if I have him.
I don't need anything else if I have him.
I don't need anything else if I have him.
That one line echoed in your mind. It felt like a key turning in a lock that opened a door. That door lead to a room of all those feelings you thought you had satiated. The post wasn't enough. You thought it was, but it's not. The betrayal cut too deep and blead you dry.
What they did to you…it mentally crushed you. You couldn't trust anyone completely again. All of those friends that took your side, what's going to stop them from betraying you to? You couldn't fall in love with anyone without doubting yourself, without questioning if you were good enough to make them stay. You don't want to be the clingy paranoid girlfriend, but you didn't have any other way to be now.
Does your job cover long and extensive therapy? Probably. But you needed to sedate this, itch, this hunger inside of you first. You needed to feed whatever vengeful monster you had inside you until it was satisfied. Then therapy.
"I think," you said slowly, "that you should go."
MC opened her mouth, but closed it again. She'd expected more, anger, tears, more of a fight, maybe even a slap to the face. You were always a stronger fighter than her. That was what she'd come prepared for.
"That's it?"
"No. But I heard what you said," you told her pleasantly. "I appreciate you coming, and telling me how you feel. But it's late, and I'd like you to leave now."
She hesitated, searching your face for something. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it and she finally left.
You slowly closed the door and sat in your armchair for a long time after.
I don't need anything else if I have him.
"Interesting," you picked up your laptop and opened it. "Very interesting."
The promotion was the first thing you thought MC didn't need. MC had Zayne after all.
You'd always been one of the top performers your department. Competent, thorough, well-liked. You'd let your work speak for itself. You didn’t see the need to put yourself out there more than you already have. Until now.
You requested a meeting with Jenna. You brought documentation. You brought years of outcomes data, commendation and recommendation letters you'd never thought to use, and a proposal for a department restructuring initiative you'd been sitting on for eight months because you hadn't wanted to seem too ambitious.
You were very, very ambitious now. Ambitious for a new role that would put you right under Jenna. A leadership position over a team of your own, one with all new recruits.
The promotion was announced on a Monday in front of the whole department. MC looked giddy from the other side of the room. You had pushed and supported her in her pursuit to get this role. Dimmed your light to make her shine brighter. But when Jenna announced your name and welcomed you on stage, the look in your eyes alone made MC look like a lone twinkling star in the sky, while you shinned like the sun. After you finished accepting praise and congratulations from your peers, you heard MC had cried in the bathroom on the third floor. But you were just so happy, you couldn't muster enough energy to care.
Next were friends. Who needs friends when you have Zayne. Not MC.
You had approached Tara and Xavier first. They been you and MC's friend since becoming hunters. The bubbly, bright-eyed woman who organized the group dinners and the weekend hikes and the standing reservation at the karaoke bars. And the quiet gentle gentleman who always showed up at the right time when you're in need. You'd always liked Tara and Xavier, but you felt a strange possessiveness over MC. You'd never bothered to cultivate a deeper relationship with them, you and MC had each other, anyone else was casual.
You decided it was the perfect time to cultivate it now.
It wasn't manipulation, just being yourself with more initiative. You listened when Tara gushed about this new guy she liked. You were there with an umbrella when hers was broken by the aggressive winds. You treated Xavier to coffee at the shop that was very much out of the way on your morning commute. You treaded him to hot pot while listening to a very one-sided beef with a baker in his apartment building.
By the time MC noticed that the few friends she had were texting you more than her and making plans without her, it was too late to stop it. Far too late.
Soon the whole solar system of people who had orbited around MC had left her orbit, and now circled you. One by one, not because you stole them, you would never be so crass, but because you showed up and stuck around. Made yourself more valuable to them than MC did. All without putting any real effort, you simply were being yourself.
Who needs a third space when Zayne's house is right there. MC will be living with him anyway, why not speed up that process.
The arcade and bar on Juniper Street was a popular place in Linkon.
It was MC's place. Everyone knew it. She'd been going since before you'd joined the department, had a usual table, was on a first-name basis with the bartender, and everyone knew the games she always played in what order. It was the kind of place that felt like hers.
You started going on Thursdays. Alone at first. Then with Tara. Then with Tara and Xavier. Then others who had naturally drifted towards you. The bartender learned your name and your order, and had it ready for you. The hostess started setting up your table when he saw you come through the door. The manager started texting you about all the exclusive plushies when it came in shipment. All the regulars, young and old, loved seeing you. The local middle schoolers practiced hard to beat your high score in the games you dominated. It was your spot in every way but legally.
You heard that MC had gone in one evening, how she stood at the entrance for a long time, watching you make jokes with that bartenders while surrounded by her former friends before turning around and leaving.
You didn't feel triumphant. That wasn't what this was for. It was more along the lines of vindication. Like this was supposed to happen. You had to do this to get even, to make yourself feel better. If this made you a petty bitter bitch, so what? It's better than being a pathetic loser who just lets the cheaters get away with it.
You simply sat at your table with your people and your drink, thinking about all the work for your new job and for the first time since a Tuesday in January, you felt entirely at ease.
After all, MC didn't need those things. You did her a favor.
Zayne saw you one evening in the lobby of the hospital. It was the last time he saw you before he and MC moved to Skyhaven. After months of living with the silent public shame, the two of them decided starting over in a new city would be best. Zayne can work in another hospital, and MC can work in a different branch of Hunters Association. Plus their childhood friend Caleb would like having them close again.
It was late, after a long bypass surgery, the kind that took everything out of you and left you walking to the exit on pure muscle memory. You were at the front desk, laughing about something with the receptionist.
You looked like someone who had survived a battle and come out stronger. You glanced up and saw him. Your expression didn't change in any way. You simply met his eyes, acknowledged him with a small, civil nod, and returned to your conversation.
That was all. It lasted perhaps two seconds.
He stood there for longer than was acceptable before he stiffly walked to the exit. And upon arriving home he sat in his driveway for a while and stared at his steering wheel and tried to name what he was feeling.
It took him longer than it should have. Regret, he identified finally. Not for MC. But for you. For what he had done to someone who had held that door open for him and said I hope she was worth it, without raising her voice once. Who had documented his failures. To have the truth of what had happened to her exist somewhere outside of her own little world.
He won't give up MC. Never in a million years. But he can still regret his actions. His lies to himself on who he truly loved. His lies to you when all you did was cherish him the way he should have cherished you. The lack of patience out of respect for you as a person with feelings.
He knew you'd never forgive him. So he can only move on with his life, hoping he can forgive himself.
It happened on a Wednesday, which felt appropriate somehow. It was just an ordinary day, the kind nothing was supposed to happen on.
You were in the break room refilling your coffee when Xavier came in.
You'd always liked Xavier. And you technically weren't his boss, you were above him in rank, but he wasn't on your team. So you could freely spend time with him outside of work, just the two of you. You enjoyed going on missions with him, your combat felt so in sync it was almost supernatural. And sending each other pics of your late night junk food hauls felt as natural as breathing.
Xavier poured his coffee, stirring in the sugar, clearly lost in thought. You stood side by side at the counter in comfortable silence while you sipped on your own drink.
"You've been different lately," he said.
You glanced at him. "Different how?"
"Like you took up more space. In a good way." He paused. "That probably sounds strange."
"A little," you chuckled. "But I know what you mean. Thank you."
He nodded, looking at his coffee. Then, without any crazy fanfare, almost random in nature: "I'd like to take you to dinner. On a date. If you're open to it."
You looked at him wide-eyed. He met your eyes without any nervousness, no excessive hedging, no elaborate setup. Just that same calm expression he always gave you when it was just the two of you.
You thought about it honestly. The last several months had been about reclaiming the dignity and peace of mind that had been taken from you. You gained it back, not just with revenge, but with your professional standing, your social world, your sense of yourself in a city that had briefly felt like it belonged to someone else. You didn't let yourself be the loser in anyone else's story, and certainly not in your own life. You'd done that work. You'd done it well. And somewhere in the middle of it, without entirely noticing, you'd stopped feeling like someone who was recovering and started feeling like someone who was simply living her life.
"Okay," you said. You didn’t try to fight the smile that was spreading across your face.
Xavier smiled. That small smile that matched everything wonderful about him.
"Great."
"Great. We can talk about it later. Maybe tonight after another haul."
He picked up his coffee and headed for the door "Sounds good. I have a long list of places I wanted our first date to be." He paused. "For what it's worth. I've wanted to ask for a while now. I just waited until you felt like yourself again."
He left before you could respond.
You stood there for a moment with your drink going cold in your hands, and felt something move through you.
Something that felt like hope, and a brand new beginning.
The text came a year and a half after the post.
You were at the sitting on your couch, enjoying the night as you wind down from a day of hard but rewarding work day. The neighborhood kids had went inside as the streetlamps came on, the crickets chirped in the distance as flora and fauna settled for the night.
The gentle music that played through your speakers, drowning out the quiet hum of the dishwasher that washed the dishes from your dinner. Xavier rested his head on your lap, a combination of a nice meal and your fingers through his hair had him in a deep sleep. You didn't mind your legs falling asleep along with him, taking in all of the features of his face as he has his adventure in his little dream land.
You were watching his face scrunch up ever so slightly when your phone lit up with a notification you hadn't been expecting.
MC is to send you a text message.
You looked at the notification for a bit, hesitating, wondering if you want a part of your past disturbing your present. The last time you even saw her and Zayne were at an award ceremony for the Hunters Association a few months back. The awkwardness and hostility had faded and people talked to them freely. You didn't look their way much or try to talk to them, you didn’t see the need to. So you decided the text could be worth a read.
Hey.
I know you don't owe me anything. I know this message might go straight to the trash and honestly that's fair. I've thought about sending it probably fifty times in the past few months and talked myself out of it every time because I couldn't figure out what I actually wanted to say. My last "apology" to you wasn’t right. It was more about justifying to you why I did what I did and hoping you somehow understood and accepted everything.
I knew what I was doing. I told myself a lot of things to make it okay. That you two were happy now but it wouldn't last, that he would've ended it anyway. That you'd move on and we'd still be friends. And I knew while I was telling myself those things that they were excuses and wishful thinking. I just wanted to take back something that felt like it belonged to me. That I could really have my cake and eat it to. I reached for it without thinking about what it would cost you.
What I did to you was worse than what Zayne did, because I knew you. I knew exactly who you were and what you'd given me, and I did it anyway. You were always a better friend than I ever was, and I was lucky to have you in my life, and I ruined it.
I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not sure I deserve it no matter how much time has passed or how much you heal. I just needed you to know that I think about what I did often. That I'm so so so sorry. Not sorry I got caught, or that I had to face consequences. I'm actually truly genuinely sorry. Sorry that I was someone who could do that to you.
You look good. You look happy. I'm glad.
— MC
You read it three times before opting to put your phone down on the coffee table beside you and sat with your thoughts for a long time.
She was right that you didn't owe her anything. You owed her no response, no absolution, no gracious closure speech. You were not obligated to wrap this up neatly for her benefit, to be the bigger person in a way that made her feel better about what happened.
You thought about the girl on the dorm room floor, manifesting a future in which you'd face everything together. That you'd have long happy lives in a life that just couldn't go on without each other. She'd meant it then, with every fiber of her being, she meant it. That was the sad part of it.
You picked up your phone. You typed for a while. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.
Finally you decided to keep it simple, and wrote: Thanks. Take care MC.
Once you sent it, you blocked her number and put your phone down. Xavier was watching you through tired, hooded eyes, his cheek still smushed against your thighs, blinking slowly in the low light.
"Are you okay?" He reached for your hand and interlaced your fingers in his. "Who was that?"
You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "MC," you said.
He nodded slightly and got his thoughts together. "Do you want to talk about it? I don't mind."
"No," you said quickly and simply. "I'm done talking about it."
You adjusted yourself , laying on the couch and molding your body against his as he wrapped his arms around you. His hand making slow circles along your back as he hummed you a soft tune.
Outside, the planet kept spinning as people went about their lives, their own little worlds. You did the same, sharing your world with someone who would give anything to be part of it in every universe, every timeline, and every version.
HI! I don't normally request anything but I like your writing and think this would be a good one for you. I'm a professional baby-sitter and kids say the weirdest, funniest, randomest things to me daily.
So can you do the Sylus and Rafayel watching their girlfriend's daughter for the first time while she goes to work and they get a first hand experience of her toddler just not making sense?
Unsupervised Opinions
Aw! I'm so happy you like my writing and thank you for requesting! I did a ton of babysitting in college so i have my own list of out of pocket random things i've heard the kids say. So here are a few.
Also I gave each kid a name. I'm not good at naming things. So I went to a random name generator, clicked the "Generate" button 50+ times until I found some that didn't sound stupid.
Enjoy!
💮Masterlist💮
The day was going smoothly. You had been gone for four hours now, and so far nothing is burning or broken or dying. Your six year old daughter Lana hadn't cried or complained once like Rafayel thought she would. In fact they had a lovely time watching cartoons and playing with the very large and very expensive dollhouse he bought just for her.
Rafayel - Like That
After a nice lunch and another round of playing dolls (Lana wanted her bald Barbie and the Hulk to be best friends and fight Rainbow Dash), Rafayel took the time to relax on the couch. His thoughts filled with him imagining you coming home and proposing on the spot because he's such husband material. And then he'd say yes, then you'll get married on the beach, and he'll spoil you and Lana every day, and you'll grow old together, and…
He paused his romantic daydreaming when he notices Lana staring at him. It isn’t subtle in the slightest. She's just a few feet away, standing completely still. Her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that feels way too strong for someone her size. Her head tilts slightly to the side, like she’s trying to make sense of something. Rafayel lets her stare at him a little longer, expecting her to lose interest or get distracted. But she doesn't.
“Is there something you need?”
Lana lifts her hand and points at him. “Why do you look like that?”
Rafayel pauses for a second, letting the question hang in the air. Then he recovers quickly, a wide smirk pulls at his lips as he runs a hand through his hair.
“Oh. Why do I look so handsome? Well, it’s simple—”
“No,” Lana cuts him off.
Rafayel blinks a few times, the smile faltering just slightly. “…No?”
She shakes her head, still pointing at him again. "Like that."
There’s another pause as he tries to decipher exactly what she means. “Then what are you referring to?”
She huffs, clearly frustrated that her perfectly clear explanation isn’t being understood. Her hands come up, moving in small, uncertain and vague gestures as she tries again. “Your face is doing something.”
“My face is doing something,” Rafayel repeats, slower this time.
“Yeah.”
“What is it doing?”
She thinks for a moment. He can see the effort it takes for her to find the right words.
“It’s weird," she finally said.
Rafayel’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s reconsidering several life choices at once, before returning to her. “Weird how?”
Lana scrunches her face, trying harder. “It’s like when my juice tastes wrong but it’s still juice.”
That does not help. At all. And that comparison was just downright hurtful.
“…I see.” He does not.
Lana nods, satisfied, like she’s done her part. Then she leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to say something important. “Are you sick? Because mommy hates sick."
That almost breaks him. She doesn’t believe him. It’s obvious in the way she tilts her head again, studying him from a new angle like that might fix whatever she thinks is wrong. “No. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
She nods slowly, still watching him. Then, out of nowhere, “You look like you complain a lot.”
He scoffs and clutches his invisible pearls, like she’s just accused him of something deeply offensive. “I beg your pardon?”
Lana doesn’t flinch. “You look like you complain a lot.”
He places a hand against his chest, fingers splaying slightly as if to steady himself. “That is a bold claim to make with absolutely no evidence.”
“You just did it.”
“I did not complain,” he counters immediately, voice rising just enough to carry a dramatic edge. “I responded. There is a difference.”
She stares at him, unimpressed. “That sounded like complaining.”
Rafayel exhales sharply, turning his head to the side like he’s momentarily distancing himself from the situation before it becomes intolerable. “Unbelievable. Let me make something very clear. I do not complain. I have standards.”
"Mommy has standards and she doesn't look like that."
"Like what," he groans, his failure to understand her while being bullied by a six year old clearly getting to him.
Lana studies him again, slower this time, trying to line up what she sees with what she feels. “Like…” she starts, then trails off, frustrated. “Like when I stay up too long and everything feels weird.”
Rafayel's expression smooths out as he is starting to understand what she's saying, but not quite putting all the pieces together. Lana makes with another attempt, more certain now that she’s close. “Your eyes are like… like you forgot to sleep.” She nods, satisfied with that. “Yeah. You look like you forgot.
There’s a moment nothing is said. Rafayel's expression shifts, subtly and gradually. The confusion fades first, then the irritation, replaced by a slow understanding. His gaze lingers on her for a moment longer as he replays the conversation in his head.
“Are you saying I look tired.”
Lana nods immediately, relieved he finally understands. “Yeah.”
"...But, I'm not tired."
"Okay," Lana grabs his hand and tugs him off the couch to sit on the floor. "We're gonna play Hair Shop now. You're my customer."
Rafayel lets himself be pulled down, the earlier conversation already done and over with as he settles on the floor. His posture straightens out of habit, and his hands rests in his lap.
"So that's it? No more follow up questions?
Lana's small hands start twisting and tugging his hair, already working her magic. "Uh-huh. Now stop talking or i'm charging you extra!"
Rafayel chuckled and got comfortable. "Yes ma'am."
Sylus carries your eight year old daughter Mira through the front door of his home, her small arms wrapped comfortably around his neck, fingers loosely clutching at his shirt like she’s settled exactly where she wants to be. Behind him, Luke and Kieran carried multiple bags and boxes from what had clearly turned into a successful and extensive shopping trip.
Sylus - Flat
“Did you have fun today?” Sylus asks, a warm smile on his face. His hold her steady and secure, his attention entirely on her as if nothing else in the room matters.
Mira shifts slightly in his arms, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression. “You have a straight back because you have no boobs.”
Sylus abruptly stops walking. “…I see,” he says after a moment. His tone neutral and controlled.
Behind him, something drops. There’s a muffled curse, another thing drops, and the unmistakable sound of someone trying not to laugh.
Mira continues, encouraged by the lack of reaction. “Mama has them, so her backs hurts sometimes, I hear her say it. You don’t say your back hurts, so yours is good.” She gestures vaguely, as if this is a well-established fact she’s simply sharing for his benefit.
Sylus adjusts his hold on her slightly. His expression remains composed, though there’s a slight narrowing of his eyes, like he’s filing this moment away for later analysis.
“That is,” he begins slowly, “a very specific conclusion.”
“It’s true,” Mira replies. She pats his chest to emphasize her point. "Flat."
Mira studies him again, gaze moving with quiet scrutiny. “You stand really straight too,” she adds.
“I do,” he answers, because that much is undeniable.
She nods. “Yeah. Because no boobs.”
Sylus exhales once, trying to control the conversation while his other two kids snicker and snort behind him. “It’s because I’m a man Mira. Men don’t have…breasts, like women do,” he explains, slower than usual, each word chosen with care.
“My doctor says I’ll have boobs like my mommy.” She says it like she’s offering him critical information he’s somehow missing. "So mommy and I will match."
“Well, yes,” he replies, adjusting his tone without losing composure. He lowers her to the floor, but instead of standing back up, he crouches down to her level, maintaining eye contact. “That’s because you’re both girls. As I said, I’m a man, so I don’t have breasts the same way women do.”
Mira considers that, her expression thoughtful for a brief moment before she counters. “But our neighbor Mr. Sho has boobs and he’s a man.”
“I see.” Sylus remains perfectly still “Mr. Sho is a sumo wrestler. He is… built differently.”
"How?"
Sylus exhales quietly, straightening just a fraction before answering. “He eats a great deal in order to maintain that size. It’s part of his job.”
Mira nods slowly, absorbing that information. But her expression suggests she’s not entirely finished. “So if you eat a lot, you’ll have boobs like mommy?”
Sylus pauses, just briefly, weighing the accuracy of the statement against the consequences of agreeing with it. “…Well,” he says carefully, “technically, excessive caloric intake can lead to—”
He stops himself when he realizes his explanation was not making sense to the child in front of him. “…yes. When you eat a lot of food you will get big like Mr.Sho”
“I don’t know what a calorie is,” Mira says immediately. Then her face brightens, the logic snapping together. “Oh! If we give you a lot of food, you can get big like Mr. Sho and then you’ll have matching boobs like mommy and me!"
Sylus opens his mouth to respond but he does not get the chance. Mira is already gone, darting toward the kitchen, her small footsteps quick and determined like she’s just been assigned an important task.
Sylus follows Mira at a quick pace, long strides carrying him into the kitchen just as she begins pulling open the fridge with full confidence and no plan. Leaving Luke and Kieran on the floor, their laughter loud, unrestrained, and deeply unhelpful.
Based off true stories. Rafayel's story is an actual conversation between one of my clients and her son. She came home from work and instead of saying "Hi mom" her son asks her "why do you look like that."
Sylus's story was actually when i visited my uncle and cousin. My cousin developed early and knew a lot for her age, but she's still an 8 year old so she's still pretty naive. It also didn't help that i looked exactly like my aunt growing up (same facial features, height, weight, haircut, clothing style) so to her we match. And yes for the life of us we could not get her to stop saying boobies.
Anyway i hope you enjoyed reading and a bit of lore about me. Thanks again anon for the ask! please like, comment, and reblog so i know you guys like what I write. It keeps me going and know what you guys like to read.
Can you do a LADS fic with one of the boys (you can pick any one) of us growing old together. I don't see a lot of those kinds of fics and I think it'll be super cute!
Still Here
Aw this is such a cute ask! I don't really see any fics of characters aging. If y'all find some let me know pretty please and thank you!
💮Masterlist💮
The waiting room smells like lemons from the antiseptic wipes and old magazines, and you've been staring at the same watercolor print of a lighthouse for fifteen minutes. Outside the window, the sky is that particular flat white of a winter afternoon. Zayne sits beside you with one of his ankles crossed over the other, reading something on his phone. A medical journal, probably, even now, even retired. Old habits die hard.
His hair is an even deep slate grey and his face marked with faint laugh lines and marionet lines. You still aren't used to how handsome it makes him look, even though he's looked like that for many years now. You didn't look much different. Your hair now thinner and a nice shade of silver, your laugh lines deep, and faint smile lines. And not once did Zayne look at you differently. Both of you, age sixty-two, still deeply in love like you were at twenty-six.
The doctor is kind, and young enough to be your granddaughter's age. She reviews your chart with the same demeanor that young people have when they're being careful not to say old. Inflammation in the joints. Completely normal. She says stay active the way people say it when they mean move your body before it decides not to.
Zayne listens to everything carefully, already making a detailed plan in his head. Your health and well-being was, is, and always will be his mission.
He doesn't say much on the drive home. His hand finds yours over the center console like it always does. It was automatic and natural, like breathing. You watch the city scroll past the window and feel the warm weight of his palm against yours and think about how many car rides you've taken together. How many silences. How fluent you've both become in the language of just being near each other.
You don't tense up when he makes a right on 78th Street instead of the left. "Where are we going?"
"The park," he says, making another smooth right turn.
"The one by the water?"
He gives you a quick glance, "We haven't been in a while."
You haven't. You used to go every Sunday when the kids were small, when there were seeds to throw at the ducks and shoelaces to tie and the whole world to explain to tiny people who found everything astonishing. Now the kids have kids of their own, and the Sundays belong to just the two of you again.
"Okay," you say. "That sounds wonderful."
The path along the water is bare and quiet. The trees have given everything up for the season, now they're all clean lines and pale bark, branches laced against the white sky.
Your breath comes out in small clouds as the cold sits in your cheeks, your ears, the tips of your fingers. It's that particular winter chill that doesn't stop you from enjoying it, but will get you sick if you come outside unprepared. The old park you and Zayne had your first date felt like it was frozen in time. The domestic ducks on the water, making their winter preparations, a big dog pulling its owner toward a much smaller dog, an old couple on a bench sharing something wrapped in paper. You catch yourself watching them for a moment before realizing, with a small serine smile, that you are them.
You've become the couple on the bench.
Zayne walks slowly beside you. Like always you easily matching his pace, to not stride ahead and then stop and wait. He doesn't move as fast as he did when he worked at the hospital, but you didn't mind. He finally slowed down like you wanted him to. That's the thing about decades with someone. You learn them, and they learn you, and the learning never really stops, it just becomes instinctual.
Your knees ache the same way you described to the doctor. You feel it in your hips and lower back. The path is even but your body makes its negotiations anyway, small protests, the gentle tax of a long life.
Zayne notices immediately and olds his arm out for you. "I may walk at a snail's pace, but I'm still strong enough to keep you from falling."
You gently hooked your arm with his, making sure to not lean on him too much. "Thank you my love. This will help me finish this walk, and keep you from taking in anymore strays."
"You love all the strays I brought home," he softly defended as you continued down the path.
"Yes, all eleven of them." You stop near the water's edge where the light is brightest .
The surface of the lake is silver-grey, ripples fading where a duck cuts through, and you stand there together watching it. Watching as the wind gently moved the water, making small currents.
You become aware, slowly, that he's looking at you and not the water. When you turn, he doesn't look away. You noticed the lines around his eyes are a bit deeper now. Almost as deep as yours. You think of all the times those lines appeared: laughing, squinting into sun, frowning over a patient notes at two in the morning, sobbing at his mother's funeral, crying at the birth of your first child. A whole map of a life, right there.
You wonder if he's thinking the same about you.
"See something you like?" you tease.
"Every day of my life," he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and pulled you closer. Both of you watching the lake a little longer.
You walk back slower than you came. The ducks have dispersed. The dog owner has gone. The couple on the bench are still there, and this time when you pass them, the woman looks up and meets your eyes and smiles, the way strangers smile when they recognize something in each other.
And you smile back.
In the car, Zayne turns the heat on and takes one of your hands in his. It's your favorite way of getting warm.
Home is warm and well lit, lamps instead of overheads, the heater ticking quietly in the hallway. You shed your coat at the door and move toward the kitchen, and Zayne follows as far as the doorway, where he stops and leans against the frame and watches.
You move through the kitchen slowly. That's the thing he's been noticing, for a year or two now, in the way a doctor notices things even when he's trying not to. You used to move through this kitchen like water. Efficient and certain. Reaching for things without looking, pivoting without thinking. You made it look effortless, like a language you were fluent in.
Now there are pauses. The way you slowly lower yourself to get something from a low cabinet, a small calculation before each movement. The way you braced against the counter to help you lift yourself when you bend and squat. A reach abandoned and reattempted.
He watches you, and his chest feels like its getting tighter.
He thinks about his own hands. How they ache now, stiff until the hot water of the shower works them loose. How he slowly takes the stairs one at a time when he's tired. The way his joints pop when he moves a certain way, when they had never done that before.
They are both slowing down and changing.
He'd spent so much of his life in proximity to mortality as a doctor. He understood since he was very young that the body is not forever. He'd made a kind of peace with that understanding decades ago. But peace, he has learned, is not a destination. It's a practice. Something you return to, again and again, each time the truth comes back around.
The truth, right now, is this: they are old. They will not live forever. The time they have is not infinite.
And that's okay.
You turn from the stove and catch him watching and raise your eyebrows, and he shakes his head the way he always did, a silent it's nothing. And you make a small sound that sounds like a laugh and turn back to what you're doing.
He pushes off from the doorframe, crosses the kitchen, and stands beside you. He takes over the task of stirring the soup in the pot. He's close enough that your arm brushes his, so he can feel the warmth of you.
The time is narrowing. This is true.
But it is narrowing here, in this kitchen, in this light, beside you. Every remaining day, every slowed step, every aching morning will be spent in the presence of the one thing in his life he has never once doubted.
He thinks: I would choose this. I would choose all of it — the slowing, the aching, the finite shape of it — as long as it ends here.
You think: there is no better place to run out of time. No one better to run out of time with.
Outside, the winter dark has settled over the street. The radiator ticks. The soup on the stove simmers. You hum a slow little song. And he stands just a little closer.
Like it always has been. And how it always will be. Until that final day.
Thanks again anon for the ask! please like, comment, and reblog so i know you guys like what I write. It keeps me going and know what you guys like to read.
So my cat decided she likes to play in traffic so I've been focusing on her recovery and working overtime to get the vet bills paid. But I'm getting my life (and my cat) back together slowly but surely. So my March update is gonna be pushed back until April.
April 4th: 2 requests
April 11th: Another LADS x NonMC Reader
April 18th: Found in the Silence. I made 1 long chapter into 2 and ended up fucking up both of them which is why it took so long.
April 25th (Hopefully): Sequel to Forever and Ever. I say hopefully because I've been shuffling ideas and can't seem to settle on anything because I have so many ideas I like.
Thanks for your patience everyone you're all amazing for being patient with me!
Just curious as to when you'll be updating found in the silence series?
I honestly haven’t had time to write anything. I got a new job and I’m working 10 hours 7 days a week and my mental health hasn’t been good for multiple reasons. I’ve been trying to force myself to write or even brainstorm more things but I end up staring at my laptop for hours. Even rough drafts is hard right now.
Things are getting better slowly but surely so I’m aiming for a chapter sometime in March.
I know there's a group of LADS fans that don't like MC being the bad guy but she is in this story. Sorry but she has to be. She's an asshole, Sylus is an asshole, you're an asshole. That is the intended theme for this story. Don't like don't read, and definitely don't hate!
Trigger / Content Warnings
Murder
Gun violence
Infidelity / cheating
Emotional abuse
Psychological abuse
Manipulation
Graphic descriptions of death (non-gory but explicit)
Haunting / supernatural horror
Nightmares / dream horror
Pregnancy themes
Threats toward children
Generational trauma
Parental abandonment
Adoption-related trauma
Grief
Intense emotional distress
No redemption / no happy ending
This story is based on this post/art. All of the credits are in the photo.
Word Count: 8,419
💮Masterlist💮
You loved him with everything you had. Sylus was your world. Your marriage, a sanctuary you had built with your own hands, brick by precious brick.
You remembers the way he pulled you close in the morning, still half-asleep, murmuring your name like a prayer. The way his fingers would trace patterns on your skin in the dark, writing promises only you two could read. Every shared meal, every whispered secret, every time he chose you—it all felt like proof that you'd found your forever.
You were his wife. His partner. His chosen one.
You wore his ring like a queen wore her crown. You wore his love like a knight wore her armor. He never gave you a reason to feel unloved or unwanted.
But then she arrived. And you watched your world end in slow motion.
The way his eyes changed when he looked at her, that spark you thought belonged only to you, now burning for someone else. The distance grew between the two of you, and you stood on the side reaching, begging, trying everything to pull him back. You made his favorite meals. You wore the clothes he loved. You laughed at his jokes, touched his arm, reminded him of your vows.
But it didn't matter. He was already gone, wasn't he? Already choosing her.
You watched him slip away day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. He let your heart slip through his fingers, while he held hers. You were still wearing his ring when he stopped wearing his. Still calling yourself his wife when he'd already made her his future.
The guns came without warning. Luke and Kieran held two barrels pointed two loaded pistols towards you. Cold metal, colder eyes. They followed his orders and unloaded their weapons, the bullets tore through you. Through flesh, through bone, through the heart that had loved him so completely
Sylus, your husband. Sylus, the love of your life. He'd ordered your death like you were nothing. Like your years together meant nothing. The pain was excruciating, but worse was watching him walk away with MC. His hand on her back, protective, tender, the way he used to touch you as your blood pooled beneath you and your vision blurred.
He didn't look back. Not once. You died alone on the ground, discarded, while they disappeared into their new life together. They drove off to live your happily ever after as you were buried in an unmarked grave.
But death wasn't the end. It was a beginning.
You rose from your tattered corpse, no longer bound by flesh. Every drop of love you had poured into him crystallized into something bitter, colder, deadlier.
You would have your revenge.
The world felt bitter, darker, colder, infinite. You could feel the threads connecting you to them, pulsing with possibility.
They thought walking away meant freedom? They thought your death meant peace? MC thought she could just spread her legs for another woman's husband and get away with it? Sylus thought he could lie and break your heart, mind, and soul without consequences?
How beautifully, tragically naive.
They wanted their happily ever after?
You would give them something far more memorable.
Even long after they themselves were dead and buried, they will always wonder…
"Was it really worth it?"
You found them at dawn.
In your bedroom. In your bed. The sheets you'd picked out, the mattress that still held the shape of your body, the room where he'd whispered promises into your hair on countless mornings. Now it reeked of her—her perfume, her sweat, the cloying sweetness of their satisfaction.
They were still tangled together, her head resting on his chest where yours used to lay, his arm draped possessively across her waist. His fingers traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, the same absent-minded gesture he'd done to you. The morning light caught on his face, softening it, making him look peaceful and content.
Happy. You made him happy. But she made him happier.
Something inside you twisted violently.
They celebrated their love the same night they had you murdered!
The rage hit you like a roaring tsunami. But with the rage came a sense of awareness. The world around you differently now. You didn't just see it, but you could sense it. The door. The walls. The very air itself felt tangible and responsive, like it was waiting for you to reach out grab it.
You raised your hand. It looked translucent in the dim light. But when you focused, when you poured all that fury into your hand, it became solid. Real!
You had to test it. You slammed it against the bedroom door.
BANG!
The sound was a thunderclap that shattered the morning stillness. The door shuddered in its frame, rattling on its hinges. The impact reverberated through your spectral form. you could feel it, the shock of solid wood against your fist, the satisfaction of making the physical world acknowledge your existence after you were forcefully departed from it.
Sylus jolted upright like, his hand raised ready to use his evol. Every muscle in his body went taut as predatory instincts snapping into place. MC gasped, clutching the sheet to her bare chest, her eyes wide and wild as they fixed on the door.
"What the hell!?" Sylus's voice was rough with sleep and adrenaline.
They stared at the door. Waiting and listening for the noise to happen again. You held perfectly still, drinking in their fear like it was fine wine.
No footsteps in the hallway. No voices. No creaking floorboards or rattling windows. Just that single, sound still echoing in their ears and in their bones.
"Did you hear that?" MC whispered, her voice trembling. Her fingers dug into his arm.
"I heard it." Sylus was already moving, throwing off the sheets, not bothering to put on any underwear. His expression was hard and calculating as he scanned the room. Looking for threats. For intruders. For something that made sense. He wouldn't find it.
He crossed to the door with predatory caution before he yanked the it open. The hallway stretched empty before him. Completely silent and undisturbed. Morning light filtered through the windows at the far end, painting everything in soft, innocent haze.
But the air was wrong. Like the atmosphere before a storm. He stepped into the hallway, his eyes sweeping left, then right. Nothing. No one.
You stood right beside him. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his pupils dilated as he searched for an enemy that wasn't there. He felt you. He didn't know it yet, but some primal part of him recognized the wrongness, the presence of something that shouldn't exist.
"Sylus?" MC called from the bed, her voice small and frightened.
"It's nothing," he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now. The first crack in his armor.
You smiled, tasting their confusion, their fear, like honey on your tongue. The rage inside you purred with satisfaction. This power, this ability to reach across the veil and make them feel you. It was intoxicating.
You need more.
By midday, Sylus was gone.
A business meeting and security checks. Something about ensuring the perimeter was secure after the "incident." You'd watched him leave, watched him kiss MC at the door like a devoted lover, promising to return soon.
And now she was all alone.
MC moved through your kitchen with familiarity, like she'd done this a thousand times before. Because she undoubtedly has. She'd been here while you were still alive, cooking in your kitchen, using your things, playing house with your husband while you were out. The thought made your rage spike hot and vicious.
She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, wearing one of Sylus's shirts like it was hers. The sleeves rolled up as she chopped vegetables on your cutting board with your knife. She was humming something soft and tuneless, completely at ease.
She'd convinced herself things were fine. The morning's disturbance was nothing.
She reached for the cabinet above the stove, where she had reorganized the spices from the far superior system you had in place, and pulled out paprika.
The rage built inside of you again. You focused until you could feel the kitchen around you, every surface, every object, all of it waiting for your touch. You stepped closer to her, wanting her feel you somehow.
MC paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. She glanced toward the closed window, put down the knife and checked the thermostat. The AC was off and the rooms overall temperature dropped. She shrugged her shoulders and continued her cutting.
You focused again, using everything bit of energy you had on the cabinet beside her head.
BANG!
The cabinet door slammed open so hard it cracked against the adjacent wall. The sound was deafening in the quiet kitchen.
MC screamed. The knife clattered to the floor as she stumbled backward, her hip slamming into the counter. Her eyes were huge, fixed on the cabinet that now hung open, swaying slightly on its hinges.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Sylus?"
Silence.
She was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
You watched her chest heave with panicked breaths, watched her eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for something, anything that made sense. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the counter, trying to steady herself.
"It's just—it's just old hinges," she whispered to herself, but her voice shook. "Just—just the house settling. It's fine. It's—"
You moved closer, letting the temperature drop further. Her breath misted in the air.
"It's fine," she repeated, but she was backing toward the door now, her movements jerky and frightened. "It's fine, it's fine, it's—"
She ran.
You stayed in the kitchen, surrounded by the scattered vegetables and the abandoned lunch, and smiled.
The fear was so much sweeter when they were alone.
MC didn’t come back into the kitchen.
She hovered in the doorway for a long moment, keys in hand, still pale, still shaken, before deciding she couldn’t stand to be alone in the house any longer. Takeout was easier than cooking anyway. Leaving was easier than sitting with the feeling that something was wrong and being unable to know why.
The door closed behind MC, leaving you alone.
Sylus came home an hour later.
He stepped through the door without hesitation, keys jingling softly as he set them in the dish by the entryway. In one hand, he carried a briefcase. In the other, a tall, curved vase filled with freshly cut red roses.
The scent followed him like a sickly sweet perfume as he placed it in the middle of the counter. Turning it slightly so the light can hit the petals just right. MC would spot them immediately when she came back.
When he was satisfied, he pulled out his phone.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, intimate tone he saved for her. “I just got back. Yeah, I got you something to help you feel better, you'll love it.”
You didn’t need to focus so hard this time. What you are and what you can do felt so natural at this point even though you were killed yesterday. You were fully embracing what you had become and how you felt. That acceptance, made you stronger than you've ever been.
You looked at the flowers. Simple red roses in full bloom, deep crimson, the petals lush and dewy. The basic uninspiring kind MC like. You ground your teeth remembering the bouquets Sylus got you. They were all different. A beautiful carefully crafted piece of botanical art that showed the unrelenting love Sylus had for you. It was a floral symphony of romance that you loved and appreciated every time.
These roses were a downgrade. You're doing Sylus a favor at this point.
Sylus calmly walked to the fridge, his phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek, using his now free hands to grab a glass of water for himself. But before his fingers could make contact with the fridge, the vase quickly glided across the smooth marble, tipping over the edge with no chance of saving it.
The crash was violent, the glass exploded across the tile floor, shards skittering in all directions as water spilled outward in a sudden flood. The roses petals tearing loose and scattering among the wreckage.
Sylus stood motionless, arm still extended, staring down at the destruction. The phone remained clutched in his hand, her voice faint and tiny as MC called his name again and again, asking if he was all right, asking what had happened. He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the island, on the exact spot where the vase had stood moments before. Completely sturdy, leveled, and safe.
This had not been an accident. It was impossible.
The house felt completely different now. His pulse quickened, the uneasiness crawling up his spine. He told himself there had to be an explanation—water on the counter, a tremor, something, anything! But none of it was there. He remembered setting the vase down. Remembered making sure it was stable. Remembered thinking how it looked right there.
You were close enough to him now to feel the heat of his body, close enough to sense the growing break in his composure. So close he could see his own breath despite the warm temperature in the house.
Eventually, he would clean the mess. He would sweep up the glass, throw away the ruined flowers, order another bouquet and tell himself it meant nothing. Even if he couldn't bring himself to mean it. Something fundamental had shifted. The house no longer felt like his domain like it always had. The space no longer felt empty.
He was not alone.
The next four days that followed the vase incident were tense. Sylus and MC went through those days in a routine haze. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to bed.
Sylus ordered another bouquet by nightfall. He placed the new flowers in a heavier vase, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, as if reducing the exposure would prevent another act of supernatural sabotage. MC noticed his mood shift, of course. She watched him watch the house. His eyes lingering longer on shadowed corners, his movements a lot more careful, checking locks and thermostats with subtle paranoia. But she said nothing. They were both too proud, too rational, too eager to believe in safe explanations.
You watched them still. Being able to latch onto one of them no matter where they went. The life and times of Sylus were nothing new to you. You knew everything about him. But you discovered so much more about MC.
Within those four days you saw the dedicated colonel, the flamboyant artist, the caring doctor, and the attentive co-worker.
All unbelievably handsome, talented, rich, and loyal. The way they looked at MC was the way Sylus looked at you. They knew that MC was taken, but not by who, and it was obvious that if given the chance they would take it. They would sweep her off her feet and never let her go again.
MC had choices. Yet she still chose wrong!
But the four full days passed without incident. You didn’t rattle a single cupboard or drop the temperature once. You gave them peace. You gave them space. You let them believe, if only for a moment, that maybe it was over. That the worst had passed.
It made what came next all the more exquisite.
MC wore black satin and red lipstick. Sylus, the dark shirt you bought for his birthday, the one he always claimed brought him luck. You watched them leave together, laughing, fingers laced, tension slipping from their shoulders as they went to have their romantic evening.
They went to a restaurant with candles on the tables and wine in their glasses, a place where everyone knew your name, but couldn't say anything now. They returned late, tipsy and giddy, lips already smeared with lipstick, eyes heavy with desire and drink. They touched each other without shame as they slipped through the front door, their laughter bouncing off the walls like they owned the night.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Instead, they left a trail of clothing from the hallway to the bathroom, giggling and clumsy and unbearably content. You heard the shower start and their voices echo through the fogged glass. The bathroom light flowed through the open door casting soft shadows into the hallway. They were in there together, tangled in steam, their bodies close, their breath rising like incense into the air you’d once called your own.
That was when you moved.
One moment, the bathroom door stood wide open; the next, it slammed shut with a force that shook the hinges.
Inside, the water kept running but their moans stopped instantly.
Then the lights went out dipping the room in total darkness.
They fumbled in the dark. Their bodies awkward and dripping, the earlier ease gone, the intimacy evaporated, replaced by slow but panicked movements and shallow breaths. Sylus found the wall at last and navigated to the light switch. When Sylus managed to restore the lights, the bathroom felt stripped of warmth and intimacy.
They moved out of the around in silence after that, grabbing towels, avoiding each other’s eyes. Moving quickly like strangers who were caught being somewhere forbidden.
MC turned toward the mirror, towel wrapped tight around her chest. Her skin still glistened with water, the droplets sliding down her neck and collarbone, but her hands moved on auto pilot. She reached for the hand towel by the sink and wiped a broad stroke across the glass so she can see herself.
The steam parted and revealed a reflection that did not belong to her. You stared through the mirror as though it were nothing more than a window, your expression completely unreadable. Your eyes were fixed directly on hers, like a statue fixed in place.
“Oh my god!” MC recoiled as if something struck her.
Sylus spun toward her instantly, his towel slung low on his hips. “What? What happened?”
She couldn't answer. Her gaze still locked on the mirror, eyes wide and fixed in place. You never broke your eye contact. You didn't even blink, scared of missing a single second of this moment. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Only a shuddering breath as she struggled to even breath properly. MC then her hand lifted to point at you.
Sylus followed her finger just in time to see you calmly walk out of frame.
Not a mirage, or a hallucination, or a vague shadow. The last time he had seen you alive, you were crumpling beneath gunfire. Now, you were walking away from him like nothing was wrong.
“She was there,” her voice small, wrecked with fear. “You saw her. Tell me you saw her!”
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Sylus nodded, just once. "Yes…I saw her."
MC exhaled shakily, stepping back from the sink with uncertain footing, one hand reaching blindly for Sylus as though the contact alone could keep her from collapsing. She gripped his forearm, fingers digging into damp skin, using him like a crutch for reality. He didn’t move. He stood there, his body rigid and cold as marble.
The damage had been done.
You had touched things. Moved things. Appeared in front of them.
Sylus's mind was churning through a thousand calculations, none of them adding up to anything useful. This wasn’t a threat he could neutralize. This wasn’t a security breach or a mistake to be covered up. This wasn’t a woman he could have killed and forgotten.
You had been buried, yes.
But he had buried a body, not the part that mattered.
They were foolish enough to think the house was the problem. That you were bound to the place you once called home.
The decision for them leave the place they tried to erase you from was quick and frantic.
“I’m not staying another second,” MC kept repeating, her fingers slipping as she pulled on pants still damp from the shower. “I don’t care where we go, I just need to get out of here!”
“I know.” His voice was tight. He barely looked at her as he yanked open drawers, pulling out his phone and wallet with shaking hands. “Grab your things. Just the essentials.”
She did. No luggage, no toiletries, just the what they thought mattered: phones, car keys, wallets. It was a full on escape. One that you knew was a pointless endeavor.
The hotel they found was sterile and over-lit, the kind of luxury that tried too hard to mimic warmth. The concierge gave her best customer service smile and a swipe of the credit card machine, saying nothing about the disheveled pair with wet hair and wild eyes. The elevator ride was silent. In the suite, MC finally exhaled in one long breath before collapsing onto the bed.
“We should be safe here,” she said quietly, almost trying to convince herself. “It’s new. It’s clean. She can’t be everywhere.”
Sylus sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the floor for a long time. "We'll find a new home. A completely new life and a fresh start."
After hours of reassuring words and comforting kisses, MC finally calmed down enough to fall asleep soon after.
But Sylus couldn't. He lay beside her for over an hour, eyes wide open. When her soft breathing evened out and the tension in her limbs dissolved, he carefully pulled the sheet away and stood. He didn’t bother trying to look presentable. Just his jacket, his keys, his phone. He scribbled a quick note and left it on the nightstand: Going for a drive. Couldn’t sleep.
The road was mostly empty, long stretches of asphalt with only the company of streetlights. Sylus kept both hands on the wheel, his shoulders as his eyes fixed straight ahead. The talk radio was low enough that he couldn’t make out the words, only the sound of the voice filling the silence. He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel until his fingers began to ache.
He spoke without thinking, the words slipping out as if saying them out loud might make them true. “It’s not her,” he said quietly. “It’s stress. A little guilt. Just stress. A lot of stress. Nothing else.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “She’s gone. She’s gone. I made sure—”
"SYLUS!"
You voice sounded like a bomb detonating beside his ear. It was right there, it was loud and furious and undeniably close.
“FUCK!”
His hands jerked on the wheel. The car swerved hard, crossing the lane before he could correct it. His foot slammed down, missing the brake, and the tires screamed as the headlights veered off the road. The car hit the telephone pole head-on. The impact jerked his body forward, then back. The seatbelt biting into his chest and shoulder as the airbags deployed and knocked the air out of his lungs. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Then the car stopped completely.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the ticking of the engine.
Sylus sagged against the steering wheel his chest burning as he struggled to draw in air that wouldn’t come fast enough. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Something warm ran from his nose, dripping onto his shirt. He blinked hard, trying to focus, the edges of his vision swimming.
The hazard lights clicked on automatically, their steady blinking reflected against the dark road ahead, casting red light across the interior of the car in slow and rhythmic pulses.
He didn’t move. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. You were seated directly behind him. He locked eyes with you through the rearview mirror.
Your body wasn't a ghostly apparition. It was solid and bloody, looking the way you did that night after you were brutally gunned down, lit intermittently by the flashing of the hazard lights. You were not slumped or disorientating from the crash. You were not weak or fighting for your life from your bullet wounds. You sat upright and composed, your face calm and your eyes fixed on him.
Sylus’s hands slipped from the steering wheel as his body recoiled, and he twisted in his seat just enough to confirm what he was seeing. You didn't vanish. You didn't shift or blur or fade. You remained exactly where you were, occupying the back seat as naturally as you once had on long drives together.
A painful sound slipped through his lips as he shoved the door open and stumbled out onto the road. His legs nearly gave out beneath him, forcing him to brace himself against the broken frame of the car as the cold night air hit his hot and sweaty skin. He turned back slowly, dread pooling heavy in his gut.
You were still there, your gaze never leaving him. You didn't try to move, you just simply watched as he staggered away from the car, every step uneven, his shoulders hunched as if making himself smaller to escape your stare.
He didn’t look back again after that. He walked along the edge of the road before managing to teleport away towards the hotel, far from the life he had tried to escape into. While you remained seated in the back of the wrecked car, watching him leave you behind again.
MC slept deeply in the hotel bed, a soft smile on her face as she dreamt.
In the dream, the world was brighter, softer, and warmer. Her home filled with love and comfort instead of dread. She was curled against Sylus on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders as the television played in the background. The light in the room was low and golden, the kind that belonged only to a dream like this. His presence felt grounding and reassuring, his thumb absentmindedly brushing along her arm as though nothing had ever gone wrong.
For a while, she simply rested there, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, letting herself become at the ease of it.
Then the baby cried.
MC stiffened, lifting her head from Sylus’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t react at all. The crying came again, a lot more urgent that made her chest tighten from her motherly instincts.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have as she walked toward the nursery, the walls dim and quiet, the television noise fading behind her. The crying continued, guiding her forward step by step, her pace quickening as worry settled in her gut. Halfway down the hall though, the sound faltered. By the time she reached the nursery door, it had stopped entirely.
She hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.
The nursery curtains were drawn shut, but was lit by a single lamp. Everything was exactly as it should have been, but something was very, very wrong. The rocking chair sitting in the corner, moving slowly back and forth.
You were sitting in it, holding MC's baby securely in your arms, cradling her tiny body against your chest as though you had done it a thousand times before. Your movements were slow and calm, the rocking gentle and steady. The baby was quiet now, her face relaxed, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as she slept.
MC couldn’t breathe.
You lifted your gaze and looked at her tenderly, your eyes lowered briefly to the child in your arms before returning to MC’s face. There was no hostility in your posture, no aggression in the way you held the baby, no rage radiating off of you in subtle ways.
“She's cute,” you whispered. "My baby would have looked cuter though."
MC’s breath hitched. She stood frozen in the doorway, every instinct screaming at her to move, to do something, but her body refused to obey. “Put her down,” she said, the words barely holding together. “Now. Please.”
You smiled, but it was anything kind. “Don’t make that face, MC,” you murmured. “She’s fine.”
The baby vanished in a puff of gray smoke that dissipated almost as instantly as it appeared, leaving your arms empty as if they had never held anything at all. The rocking chair continued to move for a moment longer before slowing to a stop.
“Because she isn’t real,” you said calmly. You leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes never leaving her face. “This is a dream. Your dream of a life that you truly don't deserve. My husband and a baby together? Give me a fucking break. Slimy little homewrecker…"
You rose from the rocking chair slowly, the wood giving a soft creak beneath your weight. The door slamming shut behind her as you stood.
MC reacted on fear and instinct. Spinning on her heel, she lunged for the doorway, fingers closing around the handle as she yanked hard, openly panicking. The door didn’t budge. She tried again, putting her weight into it this time, her shoulder slamming against the wood as she struggled to pull it, push it open. But it wasn't budging.
Behind her, your footsteps were unhurried. There was no rush in you, no need to close the distance quickly. You knew she had nowhere to go. The door remained firmly shut, the walls unmoving, the nursery sealed as though it had always been meant to hold only the two of you.
“No. No, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she fumbled with the handle again. “Please open—”
MC turned slowly, her back pressed to the door, chest rising and falling too fast as she watched you approach. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for escape, for an interruption, for anything that might wake her from the dream she now understood she couldn’t control.
You stopped a few steps away from her, close enough now that she could see every detail of your face. “Are you enjoying yourself, MC?” you asked quietly.
MC swallowed hard, her back pressed flat against the door, nowhere left to retreat.
“Living my life,” you said. “Wearing my things. Sleeping beside my husband in my bed. Playing house with the future I was supposed to have.” Your eyes never leaving her face, committing every ounce of her fear into your memory. “The life of a good and honest woman you were more than happy to have erased.”
MC stuttered. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” you interrupted, your voice calm but unyielding. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You took another step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep you in view. “Don’t insult me by pretending you felt remorse when you were scratching your nails down my husband's back, the same night my body was being buried in an unmarked grave in the middle of a dead field.”
Her composure shattered. “Please,” she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. “Please I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I know that now. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” you said simply. “You shouldn’t have. You could've had anyone you wanted. You’re beautiful. Intelligent. Successful. People trust you without even realizing why.”
Your eyes narrowed as you glared at her. “I trusted you. I let myself believe you weren’t a threat. That we could have been friends.”
MC slid down the door until her knees nearly gave out entirely, tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re only sorry because I’m here,” you said. “Because I can follow you anywhere and you can’t escape. You’re sorry because I’m forcing you to face the consequences of your deplorable actions.”
“I’ll leave him,” she said desperately. “I’ll move away! Back to Linkon, anywhere! I won’t see Sylus again! I swear!”
“And will that magically bring me back to life?”
MC said nothing. She couldn’t. The answer was already there.
“Exactly,” you said.
You squatted down to her level, slowly bringing your hands up and cradling her face in your hands. MC shrank back instinctively, her back and shoulders digging into the door, unable to catch her breath as you touched her. Her eyes flicked wildly across your face, searching for mercy or any kind of emotion she could recognize and reason with. She found none of it.
“You don’t get a clean ending,” you continued. “You don’t get absolution. You don’t get to run somewhere far away and pretend I just some crazy chapter of your life.” Your gaze hardened, in a way that made her stomach drop. “I’m going to live with you and that parasite growing in your belly."
She didn’t react right away, as if she’d misheard. “What?”
"Yeah, your pregnant. A few weeks along, but it's there."
MC shook her head in denial, weak and desperate. “No…no, that’s not—please—”
“You’ll feel it soon,” you went on, as if explaining something mundane. “And every time you look at that child, you'll think about how your selfishness ruined it's life before it even began.”
Her breath hitched, panic finally cresting into something close to hysteria. “Please,” she whispered. “Please—”
“I’ll be there in your dreams and when you wake up,” you said. “In the quiet moments, when you think you’re safe. In mirrors, when you’re not expecting it. In the corner of your eye, when your guard is down. Every time you start to believe you’ve moved on, I’ll remind you of who you stepped over to get here.”
Tears streamed down her face unchecked now. Her body trembled, exhausted, defeated. “I can’t live like that,” she whispered.
You frowned, repulsed by her words. “I didn’t get to live at all.”
You straightened slowly, taking a single step back, already fading away.
“One day,” you said softly, “you’ll stop asking for forgiveness and start begging for silence and peace.
You met her eyes one last time.
“And I won’t give you either.”
You reached for the switch of the lamp and turned it off, ending the dream in darkness.
MC woke with a sharp gasp, her body jerking upright in the hotel bed, heart pounding hard enough to make her chest ache. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat, her hair stuck to the back of her neck. For a moment, she lay there disoriented, breath uneven, the room unfamiliar in the dark. She could still feel you there, touching her, breathing the same air as her.
She pressed her palm against her stomach. There was nothing to feel, nothing to confirm what she’d heard, but she felt nauseous anyway. Tears came down like rain during a storm. She tried to keep it silent at first, but she couldn't hold back anymore, her shoulders curling inward as she folded over herself. Bringing her knees to her chest and holding them close.
Thirteen years later, MC’s life had settled into something that passed for peace.
Her marriage with Caleb was full of joy and love that she didn’t think she could feel again. The house she shared with him sat on a calm street lined with trees that bloomed every spring without fail. Where the neighbors knew each other and helped each other.
Afternoon light spilled across the living room floor as their baby boy wobbled between them, his small arms outstretched, determination etched into his tiny face. MC hovered close behind him, ready to catch him, while Caleb crouched a few steps away, hands open and ready to embrace him. Their six year old daughter concentrated on her coloring book nearby, looking up every now and then to encourage her brother.
“That’s it,” Caleb encouraged, smiling. “You’re doing great. Come on.”
The boy took two more steps before collapsing into MC’s arms, squealing with delight. She lifted him, pressing her face into his hair, breathing him in.
For moments like this, the past stayed quiet. For moments like this, she almost believed she had outrun it. Outrun you.
You still appeared sometimes.
In reflections in the mirror and windows. In dreams that left MC waking with her mind and body numb. The sudden drops in temperature or the unmistakable sense of being watched when she was alone. When certain things moved on their own with no one near them. But never long enough to destroy what she’d built. Never enough to keep her from moving forward.
Caleb knew nothing about Sylus. Nothing about the twins MC gave birth to and put up for adoption moments after they were born. Nothing about the woman who had promised never to leave. MC had learned that survival sometimes depended on silence. If she wanted to live her life with Caleb and their kids, she needed to swallow her past and keep it down.
It was mid-afternoon when the doorbell rang.
MC answered it with her son balanced on her hip, expecting a neighbor or a delivery. Instead, she found herself staring at a girl who looked no older than thirteen, standing rigid on the porch, thin and pale, white hair pulled back too tightly in a ponytail, red eyes filled with something volatile and barely contained.
“Are you MC?” the girl asked with no hesitation or uncertainty.
“Yes,” MC said slowly. “Can I help you?”
The girl’s expression changed instantly right before she lunged. The girls hands grabbing at MC’s hair right at the root, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood as she tried to pull her forward to the ground. MC cried out in pain, twisting away and shielding her son instinctively as Caleb rushed forward, pulling the girl off her.
“Hey!”
Caleb used his evol to create some distance between MC and the girl. The girl fought against the gravity holding her back her face twisted with unfiltered rage.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go! She has to pay for what she did! This is your fault! You ruined everything!”
MC retreated several steps, heart racing, her son pressed tightly to her chest as he cried from the sudden violent altercation, as her daughter ran to her room. MC murmured to him softly, though her body was shaking. Caleb didn’t look back. His entire focus was on the girl thrashing against his evol.
“Explain yourself.” Caleb demanded.
The fight drained out of the girl all at once. Her shoulders sagged, she fought to even out her breath. “My name is Rin,” she said hoarsely. “I’m thirteen. And she ruined my life. Because of her I've been haunted my entire life!”
"I don't know you," MC insisted.
Rin let out a humorous laugh. “You don’t remember me because you didn’t keep me.”
Caleb stiffened. “What does that mean?”
Rin's gaze didn't leave MC. “She comes to me at night, in my dreams, ever since I was five. The Bride in Red. That’s what I named her when I was little. I didn’t know who she was then. Just that she was always crying, always angry, her white wedding dress covered in blood. Always out to get me!”
MC couldn’t breathe.
“I only found out recently,” Rin continued, her voice trembling now. “She showed me. The night she died. The warehouse. The guns. You and my dad walking away.” Her eyes burned into MC’s. “She made me relive it. Over and over and over again!”
Caleb’s looked at MC in shock. “MC,” he said quietly, “what is she talking about?”
“That’s not possible,” MC whispered, though even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
“Your perfect little wife gave birth to twin girls,” she said angrily. “She didn’t even bother giving us names, she just gave us away like we didn’t matter. We were adopted by different families. I didn’t even know I had a sister until last year when I went looking for MC.”
MC couldn’t speak. She gripped her son hard enough to try and use his presence to calm herself down without hurting him. Her mouth opened, then closed again, her past had found her and was pressing against her from all sides.
“She told me everything,” Rin said. “The Bride in Red told me who you were. Who my birth father is. Who she was. And why she’ll never stop.”
MC’s knees buckled from underneath her. Caleb rushed to catch her and hold her steady, letting Rin hit the ground as his evol released her.
“She isn’t just haunting you and Sylus,” Rin's furious gaze held strong as tears of frustration ran down her face. “She’s tied to your bloodline. To anyone who is born into this family because of what you did.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She told me she doesn't care. That she'll haunt our bloodline until the end of time! That her mission ends when our bloodline does.”
Caleb's body went rigid. His eyes drifted toward the hallway towards his daughter's bedroom. Last night came back to him in vivid detail, their daughter waking up crying, clinging to him, whispering about a woman standing in her room.
“She was wearing a red and white dress,” she’d said. "She didn't have a face daddy! She was really scary!"
At the time, he’d told himself it was just a nightmare.
Now, he looked back at Rin. “My daughter’s five,” he said quietly. “She had her first nightmare last night. About a woman in a red and white dress with no face”
Rin’s breath caught. “That’s how it starts. And it wasn't a nightmare. She was there. In the room. The longer she's around the more her face appears. Your son will have the same experience when he's older."
Caleb’s teeth clenched. “Then this isn’t just about the past,” he said. “It’s about our children.”
He turned to MC. “You need to tell me everything. Now.”
MC could only cry as her world fell apart again. Caleb's look of shock and betrayal. Her daughter hiding in fear. Her son whimpering against her chest. And her first daughter Rin, a young girl haunted by MC's past mistakes, knowing she will not be the only one.
You had kept your promise.
Not to forgive, or forget, but to endure.
Twenty-five years passed, and Sylus never became whole again.
Time moved forward around him the way it did for everyone else, indifferent and relentless, but something in him remained fixed in the moment everything was lost. He aged. His hair thinned, aging lines carved themselves into his face, not from laughter but from the constant, unrelieved weight of remembering. People who met him later in life described him as distant, irritable, hollow in a way.
MC had left long ago. He came back to the hotel that night after his car accident and found her gone. She didn't even come back to their home to get her items, she just left and never came back. That loss had been bad at first, but it wasn’t what broke him. It was what followed.
You still never left.
He missed MC. But he missed you so much more.
He missed the woman who had loved him without any terms and conditions. The wife who had believed in him and supported him. The wife who built a future filled with life and love. The future he had taken and crushed so thoroughly that even death hadn’t been enough to erase it. Regret settled into him so deeply it became part of his DNA. He apologized aloud sometimes with tears in the eyes and his voice rough, knowing there was no one to hear him but you.
“I know,” he would whisper. “I know I ruined it. I ruined everything."
He tried everything people suggested. Therapy. Religion. Acts of charity meant to balance invisible scales. He dug you from your unmarked grave and built you a beautiful mausoleum, always keeping it clean and stocked with your favorite flowers. Kneeling at your casket begging for your mercy and forgiveness.
He spoke your name like a confession, like a plea, like a prayer. He meant every apology. Every ounce of remorse was real.
He knew you watched him. He could feel your gaze when his back was turned. He would feel your cold spots and lingered there in your presence, then feel it get warm as you drifted away. Sometimes he would hear your footsteps, or see you move something in the house.
But it was his dreams that you really dominated.
When you appeared, it was not as you were when you died, but as you had been before everything soured. You sat beside him on the couch, fingers laced through his hair. The teasing touches when you passed by him and giggling when he tried to return the favor. The excited look on your face when you cooked something new for him. You laughed in those dreams. You smiled in those dreams. You kissed him in those dreams. Sometimes you spoke his name the way you used to, with pure adoration.
And every time, without fail, he woke up without you. Staring at the ceiling as he had to once again face reality.
There would be no forgiveness. No release. No moment where the weight lifted and the past softened.
When the knock on his door came, he assumed it was a mistake. No one ever came to him. Luke and Kieran only came when called.
He opened the door to find a woman standing on the threshold, eerily calm and visibly tired in a way that immediately unsettled him. She was young, mid-twenties at most, short white haired with vibrant red eyes.
“Are you Sylus? And did you have an intimate relationship with a woman named MC” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, and yes.”
“My name is Mara,” she said. “You’re my father.”
The words struck him all at once, but he didn't react right away.
MC had never returned. She had changed all of her contact info and left Linkon. He had been left with absence and guilt, nothing more. He stepped aside, letting Mara into the house, and they sat across from one another at the small kitchen table.
"MC didn't tell me she was pregnant," Sylus said.
"She had twins," Mara elaborated. "Her name is Rin, we were adopted by different families as babies. I know where she is, I just haven't spoken to her yet."
"Did you ever find MC?"
"Yes. Though when I tried to speak to her she turned me away. Apparently Rin found her when she was only thirteen. MC and her new husband's marriage was never the same after that. Caleb, her husband, said it was a 'stay together for the kids' arrangement…Did you want her contact information?"
"No," Sylus said immediately. "It's best if she stays away from me."
Mara spoke after a moment of awkward silence. “I didn’t come for reconciliation, or money, or explanations about your life. I came because of her.”
Sylus looked at her. "About MC?"
“No,” Mara corrected. “The Bride in Red. That’s what I called her when I was a child. She first appeared when I was five. A woman with a featureless face, wearing a wedding dress covered in blood. Standing in my doorway, or sitting at the end of my bed. Watching me.” Her voice remained steady, but there was a slight strain in it now. “She never hurt me. She just stayed. And when I got older, I saw her face, and she showed me things. A warehouse. Guns. A woman bleeding on the floor. You walking away, with my mom, the other woman.”
Sylus closed his eyes, the familiar ache in his heart blooming into something ugly.
“I know who she is now,” Mara said quietly. “I know who you are, and what you and my mother did to her.” She met his gaze again, unwavering. “I’m not here to punish you. She’s already done that.”
Sylus swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He stared at her for a long moment before speaking, his voice rough and stripped of pretense. “So why are you here?”
“I have a son. My husband and I adopted him when he was two.” Mara went on. “He’s five years old now. Last month, he told me there was a woman in his room. The Bride in Red.”
Sylus’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.
“And I’m pregnant now,” Mara said. “Another boy she will undoubtably haunt as well.” She rested a hand over her stomach, protective and afraid. “I need to know how to make her stop. I need to know how to keep my children safe.”
Sylus stared down at the table, at the grain of the wood, at anything but her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.
“There isn’t a way.”
Mara went still. "What?"
“I’ve spent twenty-five years trying,” he said, the words breaking free at last. “Apologies. Confessions. Regret. I begged and cried and pleaded. I built her a mausoleum and see here every morning at sunrise. I punished myself in every way I knew how. None of it mattered.” He looked up at his daughter, at the life he had never known and the future already tainted by his choices.
“I killed her,” Sylus said, the truth as devastating as it had ever been. “I didn't leave and give her a chance to be happy. To start over and live. I lied, and cheated, and I thought that killing her would be the end of it.” His voice broke completely. “I didn’t just destroy her life. I destroyed mine. And now—” He gestured helplessly. “Now it’s yours. And your children’s.”
“So there’s nothing I can do,” she muttered. She used the back of her hand to wipe away her tears.
Sylus shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I'm so sorry.”
Some sins did not end with the sinner. Because some ghosts did not want justice or mercy or closure. They wanted remembrance. They wanted acknowledgment that what was taken had mattered.
Sylus would live out the rest of his days knowing with perfect clarity, that he had been loved fully once, and that it was you he had condemned to die, but you had sentenced him to remember.
His family had not been cursed. It had been claimed.
You had promised to stay. And you always kept your promises.
YAY! First Love and Deepspace story. I was hesitant to write for the game because I was having a hard time coming up anything good. But the moment I saw that post with that picture this idea just came to me! Hopefully y'all liked it and support me in the future.
And please please please like, comment, and/or reblog so I know you guys want to see me write and post more. And don't hesitate to drop ideas!
Summary: You grew up in the shadows of Gotham’s most famous family — a Wayne by blood, but never by bond. To your father, Bruce, you were a responsibility. To your siblings, you were an afterthought. Alfred was the only one who saw you, who remembered your birthday, who asked about your day. For years, the Bat-family lived their lives while you drifted quietly on the edges of theirs.
But when everything begins to change, their distance turns to closeness… and their attention becomes something else entirely. The siblings who once ignored you now want to know everything about you — where you go, who you’re with, what you’re hiding. The family that left you out now insists you belong to them.
You spent your whole life wishing to be seen. But now that you finally are… can you keep both your family and your freedom?
Warning:
Neglect
Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Family Dysfunction
Possessive Behavior / Mild Obsession
Loss of Parent
Identity & Autonomy Struggles
Found Family vs. Biological Family
Violence
Injury
Intense Emotional Stress
Trauma/Disturbing Imagery
Disclaimer: Due to the comics having a ton of different ret-cons, continuity issues, a lot of questions unanswered, and messed up timelines not thoroughly explained in a lot cases I'm changing quite a few things in my story. Character iterations from different timelines, movies, and shows will be mixed in to serve the purpose of my story. I do research to keep things as accurate as possible but sometimes there is no solid answer for what I'm asking and I have to make it up or change some things as I go.
Character ages: Alfred Pennyworth (68), Bruce Wayne (46), Barbara Gordon (29), Dick Grayson (28), Jason Todd (26), Stephanie Brown (22), Reader (22), Cassandra Cain (22), Tim Drake (21), Duke Thomas (18), Damian Wayne (11)
Word Count: 5,961
💮Masterlist💮
1 Year Later
You had claimed the living room hours ago.
You lay on your back along the length of one of the couches. Shoes kicked off somewhere near the coffee table, phone held above your face, couch cushions molded to your body. Both legs stretched out, hanging lazily over the armrest. You were halfway through typing a response to your friends, thumb hovering as you reread her last message.
Dani: This chem professor is a dumbass!!!
Brooke: He teaches nothing and assigns too much and gets mad when we fail.
Dani: Can we talk in person??? I need to rant.
Laura: Yeah yeah come to my place. I don't feel like leaving my house.
Cass: Its gonna snow this afternoon and I'm not happy about that.
[Name]: Can we eat while we're there I'm starving.
The group chat’s slow banter exploded with meal suggestions.
Your phone vibrated steadily as messages stacked one after another, arguments branching off into subthreads about pasta types, whether Laura’s fridge contained anything usable, and whose fault it would be if someone ended up eating cereal for dinner.
You were smiling and giggling at the exchange when Dick flopped down on top of you like you were part of the upholstery.
“Dick,” you snapped, shoving at his back immediately. “Get off.”
He lifted slightly, twisting his head to look at you, genuine surprise crossing his face. “What? [Name]? Where did you come from?”
"I was here the whole time!"
"Oh sorry," He shifted his weight slightly, then went completely slack again, his full weight settling back down as if the problem had been resolved.
"Oh my god Dick! Move!" You tried to push him off, his weight and the awkward angle gave you little leverage.
“But you’re so comfy sis,” he complained lazily, making no effort to move.
"There are so many other couches in this house."
“But I wanted this couch.” He shifted minutely, as if that constituted a defense. “This couch is my favorite couch.”
"I was here first."
"I was born first."
You shoved at his shoulder again. “Get your fat ass off me.”
He shifted just enough to lift his head. “Hey! I'll have you know I’ve upped my workout routine, and I’m in the best shape of my life, thank you very much!”
"I meant that literally."
Dick burst out laughing, completely unoffended, and finally rolled off you completely, taking a seat on an adjacent couch. The cushions rebounded beneath you as the pressure vanished.
“Good to know I’ve still got it,” Dick said, clearly pleased with himself.
"Yeah whatever," you rolled your eyes. "Watch your back though. Me and my friends got upgraded to the advanced Pilates class. Give me two months and I can wear the Nightwing suit better than you."
He grinned. “Challenge accepted.”
You returned your attention to your phone as the messages continued to pour in. The group chat had settled on a takeout order, and had reverted to its usual topic of trash talking professors.
A knot formed in your stomach as your thoughts drifted toward your own classes. There was too much happening at once. Deadlines stacking, expectations mounting, exhaustion creeping in where motivation used to be. You had struggled academically before, bad semesters and difficult years, but nothing like this. This felt like you were slipping entirely.
Dick noticed the shift in your face. He watched you at the doorway for a bit before making contact with you. You were all giggles and smiles, but now you looked troubled.
"What's that face for," he asked.
You glanced up. “What face?”
“That one,” he said. “The ugly one you make when you’re thinking too hard.”
"You mean my regular face," you joked.
"I'm serious sis," he leaned forward, worry etched into his face. "I don't like seeing you unhappy for even a second. What's going on?"
You hesitated, then slowly sat up, phone lowering into your lap.
“Just…a lot,” you said. “My classes. The extra training you guys insist on. The holidays are coming up and I’ve got commissions stacked on top of everything. And I definitely took on more than I should have. And winter’s coming, which means the horses are acting like they don't have any home training, so bringing them in at night is a hassle. It’s just too much right now.”
You exhaled, rubbing at your temple. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Um, excuse you,” Dick scoffed. “I’m a cop during the day and Nightwing at night. I am extremely busy.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t busy,” you replied. “You're just not as busy as me. Sometimes I just need to talk it out. Rant for a bit. But I don’t want to be that person. The one who’s always complaining about things that I don't have to be doing.”
"Your friends are great listeners. They're great girls who will listen you know that. "
“I know. And I do talk to them. I just don’t want to dwell on it and dominate the conversation. Because once I get going, it's hard to stop. Sometimes I rant so hard I look and sound insane. Tim helps a lot when we talk.”
"Tim," Dick recoiled as if you had said something ridiculous.
Tim. Tim. Tim??? Tim helped her. She talked to Tim about feelings?
Dick kept his posture relaxed, his expression unchanged, but something inside him shifted sharply, the way a compass needle snapped toward north.
He didn't resent it. There was no spike of anger, no flare of jealousy. He just recalibrated, the way he always did when someone got into his lane. Tim was good at listening. Others were good at different things. They had their own ideals, methods, and strategies to love you, protect you, and keep you. Dick knew that and knew where he stood.
Emotionally, you were his.
Dick made himself the easiest place to go to. He paid attention to what comfort looked like to you, how a joke eased your shoulders faster than advice, how warmth worked better than reassurance, how physical closeness grounded you when words ran out. He offered it quickly, consistently, before anyone else had time to react.
Not because the others don’t deserve to know, Dick just had to know first. Not because the others couldn't handle the emotional baggage, Dick just handled it way better.
He noticed who showed up late, who hesitated, who missed the moment entirely, and quietly recalibrated so he can be better the next time. He's more present and reliable. The one you never had to brace yourself around.
He changed affection from impulse to practice.
Dick moved to sit beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. After a moment, he slipped an arm around you. You eased into his side, good.
“Why don’t you tell me instead?” he said gently. “I know Tim can be good with this kind of thing, but you know I’ve got you.” His grip tightened just slightly, grounding rather than restraining. “We can handle it. You and I.”
He glanced down at you, expression open, steady. “Just talk to me, sis.”
The snow had been falling for hours by the time you got in the car. Your car idled at the garage, the engine humming softly as heat seeped through the vents.
You sat behind the wheel with your phone in your hands, scrolling through traffic updates and local alerts. Accidents dotted the map in uneven clusters—spinouts, stalled cars, lanes reduced to one. You frowned slightly, thumb pausing as you traced an alternate route.
Laura: Gate code hasn’t changed. Use the garage if you want.
Dani: Food is on the way but traffic is crazy!
Brooke: Because no one can drive in Gotham on a good day.
[Name]: It's a damn shit show out there!
Cass: Finding a safe route now! Keep the food warm!
Cass set her phone in one of her cup holders and focused her attention on you. You exhaled through your nose. Cass did the same. She noticed the way you paused before scrolling from unimportant information, the small tension in your body when a new alert appeared. She leaned closer to your phone a second after you did. When you shifted back against the seat, Cass did the same a millisecond later without thought.
Cass had been doing this long enough now that it no longer felt deliberate.
“You’re taking the side streets,” Cass said.
“Yes. Too many accidents already.”
She was grateful that your attention was elsewhere, because she couldn't help but smile. She had been right about the path you'd take. Her hard work had paid off. And the fruits of her labor show more and more each day.
A year of watching, adjusting, learning where to stand and when to speak. Matching your pace instead of forcing her own. Responding the way you did, not to replace you, but to make sure nothing about you ever felt unfamiliar. That when people were around Cass, they thought of you through her speech, reactions, and mannerisms.
If Cass moves like you, feels like you, responds like you, then she'll never misunderstand you. And you will never leave her behind.
Cass is not trying to become you. More like, you in a different font. She is trying to become compatible. Cass wants alignment. She believes closeness is achieved when two people are indistinguishable in motion, reaction, instinct, and thought. Becoming you was too much, but matching your frequencies was just right.
Now a year later you and your friends have welcomed her into your inner circle. Cass is in the group chat, the sleepovers, the shopping trips, the girls night, everything! She couldn't have achieved this if she didn’t take this route.
Cass sat beside you, aligned and content. None of her other siblings could come close to her level.
"Sorry I'm late."
Except him. Damian.
He slid into the back seat behind Cass and buckled his seatbelt. You glanced at him through the rearview mirror before whipping your head around to face him.
"What are you doing?"
“Buckling up to ensure my safety,” Damian replied. “The roads are atrocious today.”
Cass turned in her seat to look at him. “No. What are you doing in the car? You weren’t invited.”
“Brooke, Dani, and Laura stated that they enjoyed my company and that I was welcome anytime,” Damian said. “I am simply accepting that invitation.”
You raised an eyebrow. "Dami that doesn't apply today."
He folded his arms, posture stiffening. “Am I unwanted?”
“I didn’t say that,” you replied carefully. “It’s just…” You hesitated, searching for the least damaging way to finish the thought.
Damian’s eyes narrowed. Without another word, he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, selecting a contact and initiating a video call.
After a rings, Laura answered.
"Oh my gosh! Hi Dami!"
The camera jostled as movement erupted behind her. Dani and Brooke immediately crowded into view, their faces appearing at odd angles as they pushed toward the screen.
"Hi Damian," Dani squealed.
"How are you akhi," Brooke beamed.
Damian averted his gaze as Brooke called him brother and the other two gushed over the phone. But he managed to regain his composure. “I am well,” he replied. “I hope you are all enjoying yourselves.”
“We were just waiting on your sisters,” Laura said, glancing offscreen before looking back. “Are you coming too?”
Damian flicked his gaze toward you for a brief moment, then returned his attention to the phone. “Debatable.”
Dani frowned. “Debatable?”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “It seems that my presence tonight is uncertain.”
Brooke’s smile faltered. “Why would it be uncertain?”
“It shouldn’t be,” Dani said immediately. “You’re always welcome. You just have to ask.”
You smiled and rolled your eyes at your friends. "Well that settles it." You opened the garage door and put the car in reverse.
Cass smiled, but she couldn't bring herself to feel the same way you do right now.
Damian got comfy in his seat, accepting the confirmation. “Thank you. I just wanted to be sure.”
“You’re good,” Brooke said. “We'll split our food with you. We ordered some vegetarian things you can eat.”
“Thank you,” Damian smiled.
Damian ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He looked forward, satisfied.
The car rolled forward carefully, tires crunching through the thin layer of snow coating the street. You kept your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, slowing at intersections and scanning ahead for trouble.
In the back seat, Damian's smile didn't fade. He didn't see his presence beside you as optional.
It was not something to be requested or negotiated. From the moment he had decided you mattered, he had assigned himself to you. Staying close was part of that decision. Protecting that closeness was part of the same vow.
From the beginning he locked in the fact that you weren't like the rest of his world. You were not a test or a challenge. You did not require proof of loyalty or strength. With you, devotion was simple. You stayed. You showed up. You did not leave.
You were like sacred ground.
He didn't doubt you or question your intentions or your choices. If something went wrong, the fault would be his for failing to remain close enough. That was how he defined his loyalty. If he was present, nothing should be allowed to happen.
Yes he know Cass would be with you, and she was more than capable of protecting you if needed. Same for all of his siblings. But he was different. Damian believes none of them can guard you properly because none of them bind themselves completely.
Being here was not indulgence. It was obligation he was more than willing to fulfill.
And if he was ever kept away again, he would know something wasn't right. Something had been broken.
He would not allow that.
Tim's eyes shifted between the four computer monitors while his hands rapidly moved from mouse to keyboard to document everything from his bedroom. His screen was already open before your car reached the end of the block.
On one monitor was your car icon moving across a map. Two others showed the data collected from your driving. And the fourth was him documenting everything that happened.
Speed. Brake pressure. Steering angle. Blinker usage. Everything updated in real time, giving him a chance for him to watch closely.
You took the side streets tonight. He expected that. Your driving history supported it. You avoided highways in poor weather. Preferred routes with consistent lighting and passed by places that were safe to pull over in case something did happen.
He checked the current data against last winter’s records. No deviation worth concern. He saved the session and tagged it for a later review.
He adjusted the window to bring up the metrics inside the car. Seatbelt sensors engaged. Window rolled down, then back up. Your stereo volume dropped by two increments.
Weight shift in the rear seat. Damian. Passenger seat reclining. Cass. Tim marked it anyway.
Someone might question it later. Tim trusted records. They endured where memory faltered.
People liked to believe closeness came from being present. From sitting beside you, listening to you talk, reacting in the moment. Tim knew better. Presence faded. Memory blurred. People misremembered you all the time.
But Tim never would.
Tim believed that if he could prove he knew you better than anyone else, then he was closer to you than anyone else. Knowledge was key. It was a wall he can build, piece by piece, until no one else could penetrate it.
If you changed, he would see it first. If something was wrong, he would know from previous data. If someone claimed to know you better, Tim would know exactly where they were mistaken.
He saved the session and leaned back, eyes still on the screen.
As long as everything about you could be accounted for, he was calm.
And if something ever could not be verified, he would not let it rest.
"The tiger."
"The panda."
"Tiger."
"Panda."
"Tiger!"
"Panda!"
You meekly raised your hand like a nervous student in class. "I think the animal face masks are creepy."
Dani and Laura turned on you at the same time. "Shut up!"
“Okay,” you said mildly, taking a sip of your drink as they went straight back to arguing about which face Damian should wear for maximum cuteness.
After the three of you arrived at Laura's luxury apartment things got a little more louder and little more…silly.
The place was the same as always. Expensive, spacious, and designed for entertaining in a way that felt almost theatrical. Voices bounced off high ceilings as the six of you crowded around the dining room table, the food disappearing quickly as complaints about classes, deadlines, and general misery flowed as free as a raging river.
Halfway through the meal, Laura started passing alcohol around. Everyone except Damian ended up a little tipsy and a lot louder than before.
Damian was used to this. Being included in your hangouts had become routine enough that the groups shenanigans no longer bothered him. Like always he observed the group it with quiet amusement, especially when Cass began mirroring your posture, laughter, and mannerisms. Allowing herself to be silly in a way she rarely did anywhere else, just because you did.
He sat back with a can of soda while Cass demonstrated a simple pirouette. Brooke tried to copy it and immediately lost her balance, landing hard on the floor that sent everyone into a fit of laughter.
Later, you and Dani challenged each other to planks until failure. The contest ended when the others started stacking books on your backs "to challenge you." It took fourteen books and a badly timed joke to end the impromptu contest. When they slid off, no one bothered to pick them up right away. Instead Laura decided to see how many she could balance on her head. She made it to eight.
After a slow, uncoordinated, and giggly clean up everyone had settled down. You were the one to suggest watching a show when you felt Damian was looking a little left out.
That was how the argument started.
You half-heartedly tried to keep the peace, knowing it was a futile effort. Laura retreated to the kitchen to put some premade cookies into the oven. Damian and Cass sat on one of the adjacent couches scrolling through the various streaming services.
Damian felt at ease. He had his place with you. The surroundings and people didn't alert him. He was able to enjoy himself, content to observe and just be present.
Cass didn't move away from you entirely, only far enough to create space.
Still watching, just not mirroring for the time being. She learned when closeness needed distance to keep her behavior and intentions invisible.
Your phone rang on the coffee table. Cass noticed first and looked at the screen, then eased back into her seat. Damian looked a moment later and relaxed just as quickly.
"It's just Jason," Cass said casually.
You picked up the phone and moved a few steps away, stopping near the wall before answering.
“Hey,” you said.
"Hey," Jason replied. "I just got home and you're not here. You're not outside are you?"
“Are you insane?” you asked quietly. “No. I’m at Laura’s.”
"Doing what?"
"Hanging out."
"You drove there in this weather," he yelled, like it was the most ridiculous things he's ever heard.
You jerked the phone from your ear and moved to the other. "Yes, I drove. Because I've done it before and haven't had an accident once."
"I could have drove you. You know I don't mind. You're in my car more than your own nowadays."
"I know but you weren't home doing…I don't know, doing Jason things."
"[Name]," he said like you've already had this conversation multiple times. "I could be on the moon and if you need your shoes tied I would get back to earth and take care of you."
"I know that to. But I had it handled."
"Then I'll handle driving you back home. Unless you're planning to stay the night."
"No. We'll be back late but we're not staying over."
"We?"
“Cass and Damian are here too,” you informed. “You didn’t notice they were gone?”
"No," he said monotoned.
You exhaled slowly. “Okay. And how are you planning to get my car back home if you're coming?”
"I'll just swing by in Bruce's car and get yours later."
"Me and Bruce have the same car."
"Not that one."
You looked around for anyone listening and lowered your voice. "You're gonna have Batman drop you off in the Batmobile," you hissed into the receiver.
"Of course not. Bruce is doing his thing with the JL. I'm driving the Batmobile," he sounded confident. Like he just said the smartest thing ever.
"Jason! You can't just take the Batmobile, Bruce will be so pissed at you."
"I've taken the Batmobile six times, I've taken the tires eight times, and I've taken the Batcopter four times. And he still let me move back into the Manor. If that's not favoritism, I don't know what is," Jason tried to sound nonchalant, but you can tell over the phone he's so proud of himself.
You pressed your fingers to your temple. "Unbelievable…"
“So I’ll pick you up,” Jason continued. “We’ll come home. We’ll get your car tomorrow, once the streets are salted. It’ll be fine.”
He sounded so certain you actually found it hard to argue. Plus he'd just do it anyway, so why try to stop the inevitable.
"Fine. You know the address, come by in three hours. We'll meet you in the back alley of the building."
"Will do," he hesitated for a second. "Love you sis…I just want to take care of you."
You couldn't help but smile. "I know. I love you too Jason."
When you ended the call and joined the rest of the group.
Back at the Manor, Jason dropped his phone into his pocket and immediately caught Alfred watching him. He was using his teacup to hide the teasing smile on his face.
"Stop that," Jason demanded.
“Stop what, Master Jason?” Alfred replied smoothly. “I was merely enjoying my tea. And listening to a very attentive older brother.”
"Don't make fun of me," he groaned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alfred said. “I simply find it rather endearing. You move back into the Manor and spend so much of your free time looking after her. Which, I imagine, you have quite a lot of. I assume you are still unemployed.”
“I moved back because it made sense,” Jason snapped, already turning away. “And living life is my job. I’m very good at it.”
Alfred’s smile deepened as Jason stormed off towards the kitchen.
He turned on the lights and rolled up his sleeves. As he washed his hands he was mentally sorting the meals in his head.
Breakfast first.
He cracked eggs into a bowl and beat it with a whisk. You liked protein in the morning, something filling that would keep you full until lunch. He set a pan on the stove and reached for the cutting board.
He chopped vegetables for lunch, setting portions aside, already thinking about what would reheat well. You forgot to eat when you were busy. He compensated for that. He always had.
Dinner came next. Something simple. Something that would last. He set a timer, adjusted heat, cleaned as he went.
Jason did not hover over feelings. He had learned early that this was not where he would win.
Everyone had their thing, something they excelled at. He wasn't going to play a game he would inevitably lose. If they watched how you felt, he would watch how you lived.
Jason anchored himself in the physical and the practical. The part of life that kept everything moving. He made meals without asking. He made sure your snacks are always restocked. Your car was always maintenance and ready. He made sure all of your deliveries got to you in once piece.
Alfred took care of the house and the others. Jason took care of you. It took him a while to find a proper balance over this past year. You were independent, and you liked being independent. You weren't blind to him stepping in and taking over for you. So he did just enough for you to appreciate the help. Cross one more thing off the list.
Now if he was gone, you would feel it. All the small inconveniences that added up when no one handled them for you. By how little you had to think about the basics because they were already handled.
Tonight was a misstep. He didn't think you would go anywhere today. You hated driving in the snow. But that didn't mean you wouldn't do it. He knows he was pushy for the ride home, but it was a necessary push. He had to drive you home. You didn't need that stress.
He packed containers, labeled them neatly, and stacked them in the fridge where you would see them first. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Ready. Only then did he relax.
Once again he'd done his part.
The snowfall that morning and afternoon freeze didn't hit the Batcave. Despite the rocky walls everything was at a comfortable temperature. Bruce stood near the main console as the computer displayed Jon Kent's data analysis from the mornings examination. Clark Kent stood by him, looking at the papers from the results from last month.
Beside him, Jon hovered a few inches off the ground to peek at what his father was looking at, his brow furrowed in concentration, feet wobbling slightly as he fought to stay level.
“Slow down,” Clark said calmly. “You’re trying to correct too many things at once.”
Jon dipped forward, corrected himself, then dipped backward.
Damian watched from a short distance away. “You’re overthinking it again. You’re hesitating mid-adjustment. Remember, you need to commit.”
Jon scowled. “I didn’t ask you.”
“You didn’t need to,” Damian replied.
Bruce and Clark looked at them but didn't intervene. They're getting along more and more as they spend time together. It was nice, and a relief.
While Damian was trying to hold Jon steady you emerged from the elevator. A tray of different snacks and drinks neatly arranged balanced in your hands. Alfred had asked you to deliver them to the Batcave, and you didn't see a reason to say "no."
"Hey Bruce, Damian. Alfred said to bring—," you slowed your pace when you noticed strangers.
Clark was already looking at you, his super hearing alerting him to the secret fireplace entrance opening. He looked at you with a polite smile, but his eyes focused on all the little details on your face that matched Bruce's.
"Hello," he sat the documents down, not breaking eye contact with you.
You managed to find your voice, then continued forward. “Hi. Alfred asked me to bring these."
Bruce turned, his expression notably softened when he saw you. He smiled and nodded once. “Thank you.”
You set the tray down on a nearby table as Jon stared openly, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Are those for us?” he asked.
“Yes,” you replied. “Please don’t spill anything. Alfred will know.”
Jon ran and skidded to a stop in front of you, grinning bright and unrestrained. “Hi. I’m Jon Kent. Damian’s friend.”
"Oh," a small mischievous smirk spread across your face. "I didn't know Damian had any friends."
Damian was beside you the moment Jon said the word friend. “I have acquaintances.”
“I’m your friend," Jon countered.
You laughed softly. "Well it's nice to meet you Jon, I'm [Name]. Thank you for being Damian's friendly acquaintance."
“Nice to meet you, [Name].”
Damian put himself between you and Jon. "Thank you [Name] but you should really leave now."
"Why," you asked as Damian gestured towards the exit.
Damian didn't meet your gaze, "We're busy. Very very busy. And I'm sure you are also busy."
You small smirk grew wider as you took in Damian's demeanor. "Aw, you're embarrassed."
"No I'm not," Damian insisted, gently placing his hand on your shoulders to turn you towards the exit.
"Yes you are," you tensed your body so you can remain facing him
"No," he reached to grab your hands, but you caught him by the wrist and tightened your grip when he tried to pull them away.
"Yes. Why are you embarrassed to have your big sister around your friends? Are you trying to keep up your cool kid image in front of your friend, huh?"
"Shut up! I'm not!"
Jon looked from Damian, to you, then back to Damian. "You have another sister?"
Clark, who was watching the whole ordeal, jolted, like the words had physically hit him. Clark had known Bruce for years, professionally and personally. He's met every child that Bruce took into his home. He's went on missions with them, spent holidays with them, invited them to the farm for dinner, everything. How did he not meet [Name]?
"Am I a dirty little secret now," you ruffled Damian's hair.
He recoiled instantly, batting your hand away and crossing his arms over his chest. “I do not provide briefings on my personal life.”
“That tracks,” you said.
Jon’s eyes widened. “That’s cool. I don’t have any siblings. But mom and said that one day—"
“Jon,” Clark said.
Jon flinched. "Oops. T.M.I. My bad."
Clark shifted his attention to Bruce, who had returned his focus to the monitors. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, typing far more than the documents seemed to require.
“Bruce?” Clark said.
“Hm,” Bruce replied, eyes still on the screen.
Clark did not let it go. “Care to explain?”
Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard.
Explaining wasn't that simple. Bruce never told the League about you. He never had to. Even when you found out he was Batman he never saw a need to involve you in that part of his life. Even in this past year, having you meet the JL had only crossed his mind maybe twice before he dismissed it. There was no urgency or benefit. No reason to complicate something that was finally working.
He was enjoying everything too much. Everything was aligned. Everything functioned better when you were present. The family held together and was happier. Dick visited often and stayed longer. Hell, even Jason moved back into the Manor for you. Something Bruce had offered dozens of times in the past.
He told himself this was proof that he was doing it right.
Bruce believed that if he was a good father to you, then he was not the man who had failed before. That belief shaped every decision he made. It justified every boundary he enforced. It explained why he did not ask for your opinion when he was already certain of the answer.
He knew what was best. He was your father after all.
Your independence, in his mind, was demonstrated, earned, and managed. He corrected your course when he felt you drifting away. Not because he doubted you, but because he didn't want to create any kind of distance. He tracked your life quietly, thoroughly, and convincing himself it was his responsibility.
You didn't notice. You didn't notice anything anyone did. Bruce made sure of it. Becoming obviously overprotective would make you fight them and reject them. To you, Bruce had become a doting, albeit clingy and protective father who also happens to be Batman. And as far as your siblings go, they were just caring and attentive toward you in their own ways. Even if you really didn't know the methods and lengths they took to keep you.
When things were calm, he loosened his grip just enough for both of you to breathe.
When something threatened that calm, he tightened it.
Clark’s presence did that now.
Bruce finally looked at him, his expression composed. “There’s nothing to explain. I have a biological daughter."
Clark searched his face. “You have a daughter. That feels like something I should’ve known, considering everything we've been through. Why would you keep her a secret?"
“She wasn’t a secret,” he said evenly. “She isn’t tabloid fodder. She isn’t looking for attention. If someone wanted to find her, they could. I didn’t hide her. I protected her.”
"I saw her when she first appeared publicly in the news. But when I asked you about her you said 'It's nothing to worry about.'" Clark continued. "So I didn’t press you, none of us did. And when we didn't see her again in the media we dismissed it as some convoluted Batman/Bruce thing."
Bruce focused his attention back onto the monitors. “My responsibility is to her and my family. Not the League.”
“I'm not saying that. I'm saying why couldn't we meet her?”
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. “She didn’t need to be involved. She still doesn’t. The world you and I operate in isn’t neutral. It leaves marks. Demands expectations. And comes with brutal consequences.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I won’t let that be her burden.”
Clark watched him closely. “You don’t think she should have a choice?”
“I know her,” Bruce said. “I know what she wants, and what she needs. She doesn't have any interest in this life, and I respect it. If she changes her mind I'll make sure she's prepared and succeeds.”
Clark felt a shift in Bruce. Like the face of the man he knew had slipped, and Clark got a peek at a version of his best friend he's never seen before. He knew this wasn't Batman speaking. This was a father who had already decided the outcome and was arranging the world around it.
He couldn't finish the puzzle because he only has a few of the pieces from this conversation.
Clark had to be careful.
“You’ve thought this through,” Clark said carefully.
“Extensively,” Bruce replied without hesitation.
Clark nodded, accepting the answer for the time being. "I figured. You don’t do anything halfway.”
"Hey Dad,” Jon said, tugging lightly at Clark’s sleeve. “Can we invite [Name] for dinner? She's so cool and nice.”
Bruce turned from the console, surprised more than anything else. His gaze flicked briefly toward you sitting on a couch, then back to Jon.
“That’s kind of you to say,” Bruce said. “But she already has plans tonight.”
Jon’s shoulders dropped a little. “Oh. Well…maybe some other time? Please?"
Bruce thought for a moment, then reached out and ruffled his hair. “Sure. I’m sure she’ll love your mom’s cooking.”
Jon nodded. “Yes! Thank you Mr.Wayne!” Jon ran back to the couch to tell you the good news.
Bruce turned back to the console, the exchange concluded as quickly as it had begun. Clark watched him for a second longer, noting how easily Bruce allowed the boundary to bend when it felt appropriate.
"You can talk to her y'know," Bruce said not taking his focus away from the task at hand. "I had my reasons for not bringing her up. But I wasn’t' hiding her from anyone."
Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension he had braced for never came.
Clark followed Jon with his eyes as the boy spoke animatedly to you. Damian scolded him for speaking too loudly to you. You slung your arm around him and reassured Jon that it was no big deal.
“I appreciate you saying that,” Clark replied. “I’d like to get to know her. She seems wonderful.”
He stepped away from the training area and toward the couch.
“Hey,” Clark said, voice warm. “Looks like we owe you an invitation.”
Summary: You grew up in the shadows of Gotham’s most famous family — a Wayne by blood, but never by bond. To your father, Bruce, you were a responsibility. To your siblings, you were an afterthought. Alfred was the only one who saw you, who remembered your birthday, who asked about your day. For years, the Bat-family lived their lives while you drifted quietly on the edges of theirs.
But when everything begins to change, their distance turns to closeness… and their attention becomes something else entirely. The siblings who once ignored you now want to know everything about you — where you go, who you’re with, what you’re hiding. The family that left you out now insists you belong to them.
You spent your whole life wishing to be seen. But now that you finally are… can you keep both your family and your freedom?
Warning:
Neglect
Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Family Dysfunction
Possessive Behavior / Mild Obsession
Loss of Parent
Identity & Autonomy Struggles
Found Family vs. Biological Family
Violence
Injury
Intense Emotional Stress
Trauma/Disturbing Imagery
Disclaimer: Due to the comics having a ton of different ret-cons, continuity issues, a lot of questions unanswered, and messed up timelines not thoroughly explained in a lot cases I'm changing quite a few things in my story. Character iterations from different timelines, movies, and shows will be mixed in to serve the purpose of my story. I do research to keep things as accurate as possible but sometimes there is no solid answer for what I'm asking and I have to make it up or change some things as I go.
Character ages: Alfred Pennyworth (67), Bruce Wayne (45), Barbara Gordon (28), Dick Grayson (27), Jason Todd (25), Stephanie Brown (21), Reader (21), Cassandra Cain (21), Tim Drake (20), Duke Thomas (17), Damian Wayne (10)
Word Count: 14,459
💮Masterlist💮
The morning sunlight drifted through the curtains in a soft, golden haze. On any other day, it would have felt peaceful. A gentle invitation to stretch, to breathe, and ease into the day ahead. Sadly it only illuminated the bruises mapped across your skin.
The ache along your shoulder seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat. An annoying persistent reminder of the last forty-eight hours you endured. You’d always known being a Wayne came with its own gravitational pull for danger, but knowing a truth and surviving it were two very different things. The two carved two very different shapes into a person's psyche.
For a long moment, you considered sinking back under the blankets and letting the world wait for you a little longer until you were good and ready to face it. But you had to get up. Staying in bed tasted too much like defeat. Like letting what happened take more from you than it already had.
You were determined to learn from your experience and be better.
Maybe you’d pick up martial arts again. You'll take it seriously this time and not just as a physically demanding hobby. Maybe finally go with Alfred to the shooting range like he’d offered a dozen times. The specifics could wait for now. What mattered was reclaiming your forward motion.
You forced yourself up and about. First you walked over to your desk. In one of the drawers was an older model of your phone. Since your usual one was lost during your kidnapping, this one would have to do until you went to get a new one.
Next you stepped into your walk-in closet, lazily brushing your hand along the rows of hanging clothes. Soft cotton, smooth silk, firm leather. The familiar textures grounding you while your mind sifted through morning fog in your mind.
You were still staring at a pair of shoes when your phone lit up.
A message from Brooke’s mother popped up: She’s awake. You can call her when you feel up to it.
The tension in your stomach tightened. You hit "Call" and put your phone on speaker before you could second-guess it.
The line was ringing when Damian stepped inside your room without a word, his posture perfectly professional, and his expression neutral. He settled against the doorframe of your closet like he’d simply been assigned there.
You didn’t have time to address him because Brooke answered.
Her voice is thin and hoarse, but unmistakably hers. “Hey… You’re awake.”
The tension in your chest eased with a shaky exhale. “And you’re talking. That’s a good sign. You normally go quiet when your upset.”
A weak laugh came through the speaker. “Barely talking. I sound like a dying radiator. I feel like someone stuffed me in a blender and hit puree.”
She tried to sound light, but you heard the exhaustion anyway. "As long as you're okay."
“Are you okay?” she questioned. “Batgirl said you went straight home.”
“Yes. Alfred patched me up, and we had the family doctor check everything as soon as I got home. I'm fine.” It was vague but it should work.
Brooke blew out a slow, uneven breath. "I wish I felt better than I currently do. I feel so breakable and…stupid…so damn stupid…"
Your chest tightened at the crack in her voice. “Brooke—”
“I should have seen it,” she choked, her words cracking as if she were trying to hold them together with sheer will. “Mark’s been spiraling for months. I kept pretending he wasn’t. That he was just being dramatic. And now…” A whimper slipped through the receiver. “I just feel stupid.”
“Brooke. You shouldn't feel bad—"
“But I do,” she insisted. “I let it get this far. I let him get this close. If I had paid attention, or if I had asked more questions, maybe none of this would’ve happened. And the worst part? I got you in this mess. I put Laura and Dani in danger to. It's all my fault...”
You closed your eyes and sat on a plush ottoman, lowering your head as the weight of her pain settled through your body. “Brooke, listen to me. None of this was your fault. He made his choice. There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”
Brooke didn’t respond right away. You can hear the small pauses where Brooke tried to pull herself together, the breathless inhale, the wailing exhale. The way each breath shook as though she might collapse into another sobbing fit. But you were patient, and let her cry.
Her next breaths were slow and trembling. A small hum escaped as she calmed the tremor in her voice so she could speak again. “I hate that he did this...I fucking hate him.”
"I'm so sorry Brooke." You hated that you couldn't say something that could help. Your friend was going through mental turmoil and you could only mutter was a lame apology.
Another silence, but calmer this time.
“I’m glad you called,” she whispered. "I really am."
“I’m glad you answered," you smiled, hoping she could tell somehow.
"Will you visit soon?” she asked.
“Whenever you're ready.”
“I am so ready."
Her voice faded out with the soft rustle of blankets and her mother calling her name. You two said your goodbyes and then the call ended.
When you finally looked up, Damian was still staring at you. He exhaled sharply through his nose, an unmistakable sound of disapproval.
“Your friend is far too trusting,” he said, as if delivering a clinical assessment. “It borders on naivety.”
You glared at him. “Excuse you?”
“She ignored every warning sign,” he continued, voice clipped. “Her brother was unstable for months and she chose not to see it? That is not misfortune. It's pure foolishness.”
"You don't get it," you objected.
“I do,” he countered. “Her lack of awareness created more damage than necessary. It was a mistake that endangered her. And you.”
You stood up abruptly. “She was betrayed by her brother. Not a stranger. You don’t get to sit there and pretend you’d have navigated that perfectly.”
Damian met your stare without flinching. “I wouldn't have ignored the signs.”
“You don’t know what you would do.” You shot Damian a hostile glare, like he was a threat. “At the end of the day, you have a lot to learn about yourself outside of being an assassin and Robin. And you have a lot to learn about people.”
Damian didn't move, but his expression wavered slightly. Seeing you look at him like he's some kind of enemy wasn't what he wanted. He was merely giving his logical stance on the situation. But when he was trying to find his voice, you kept talking.
“You don’t even have any friends. You were surrounded by people who feared and respected you. That's it.” You didn't even bothering to soften your words. “When you love and trust someone, you don’t think they’ll betray you or hurt you. Brooke believed the person she grew up with wasn’t a danger to her. That doesn’t make her stupid. It makes her a victim.”
Damian tried to talk but you weren't done. “And you don’t get to speak about my friend like she's some incompetent dumbass that caused her own kidnapping. That is disgustingly ignorant, Damian. And it’s the last thing I expected from you.”
Damian didn’t move. He only watched you, something was manifesting inside him. A little guilt. A little shame. But mostly, the slow, dawning understanding that you weren’t challenging him out of anger alone. You had a line.
And he had crossed it because of his own ignorance.
He drew in a slow breath, his shoulders rising and falling in a controlled way. "I spoke without full understanding. That was… inappropriate.”
"Yeah it was," you crossed your arms over your chest, staring at him like a disappointed parent. “Now get out.”
For a moment he couldn't move. This is the first time he wasn't welcomed in your presence. A wave of hurt and confusion smothered him where he stood. The rejection from you of all people felt like a punishment he wanted to object to.
When he found his voice, there was none of the usual elegance in it. “I apologize. I was careless and you're right. I don't understand anything and I have a lot to learn."
"I'm glad you understand that. And I accept your apology." your voice was stern but softer this time. "But I still would like you to leave. You came into my room uninvited and I'm not okay with that."
You could see the tension in his face. He forced steadiness, the way he fought the instinct to argue, to defend himself, to demand clarity or fairness or anything at all.
Instead, he forced out the words: “Understood.”
He walked towards the door, carefully folding himself back into the version of Damian he knew how to inhabit — the disciplined, the unreachable one, the one built with training and walls.
When he closed the door completely you let out a slow breath, rolling your shoulders back to get rid of some tension.
It wasn’t pleasant to send him away, but you didn’t regret it. A boundary wasn’t cruelty; it was clarity. Damian could sit with his feelings, and you would sit with yours, which right now consisted mostly of the need to move on with your day.
You walked around the room, getting ready at your own pace, mentally sorting through your to-do list. Eat something. Check on your horses. Maybe do something artsy. Definitely get Brooke a get well gift. Normal things. Manageable things.
You were perched at your vanity, staring down an array of makeup brushes like they were weapons you weren’t entirely sure how to wield. Half of you wanted to cover every bruise until they vanished; the other half didn’t want to bother at all. You were still weighing which option annoyed you less when there was a knock at your door.
"[Naaaaame]," Dick sang cheerfully from the other side.
"Whaaaaaat," you sang back with less enthusiasm.
The door cracked open, and Dick spoke through the crack with the cautious excitement of someone entering a zoo enclosure. “You decent? Can I come in?”
“Yes and yes.” You didn’t look up as you picked up your phone, scrolling through the notifications you’d missed over the last few days.
A small, lopsided smile tugged at his mouth as he stepped inside. "How are you doing? Feeling any better?"
"I'm fine, I just wanna get my day started," you sat down your phone to focus on your reflection again, debating if styling your hair was actually worth it.
“Cool, cool,” Dick said, sticking his hands in his pockets as he wandered deeper into the room. “I’m happy my favorite sister is doing okay.”
You grinned at him through the mirror, "I'm telling Cass you said that."
He shrugged, unbothered. “She’ll be okay with it. I know I'm not her favorite brother, so we're even.”
He would’ve said more, but the room had already pulled him in. Dick’s attention drifted across the space, lingering on the tiny details you barely noticed anymore: the matching furniture, the little knick-knacks on your shelves, the half-organized chaos that made the room unmistakably yours.
But it was the large cluster of photos on your wall that caught him.
He drifted closer, hands still in his pockets, studying each picture with a quiet reverence he didn’t voice. Snapshots of your horses, beautiful scenery, you with your friends, with Alfred, with a few classmates from years past. Laughing. Blurry. Candid.
His chest warmed with this quiet longing, but then froze at the next photograph.
The scenery lit by the festivities of a New Year's countdown. And some guy — some stranger, some nobody — was kissing you full on the lips while confetti and streamers blurred the background. And not just a casual kiss either. Your bodies were molded against each other, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and your hands tangled in his hair.
His heart made a strange, unpleasant jolt against his ribs. Not heartbreak. Not pain. More like someone jabbed his temper with their finger.
Why is he kissing you? Who gave him permission? Who even IS this guy?
Dick plucked the photo off the wall. He brought it closer to his face, glaring at the photograph as if he could intimidate the image into giving him answers. Because there was no universe in which this photo belonged here. Not with his sister.
He cleared his throat once, then again, a little louder, trying to reset whatever had gone wrong inside him.
You glanced in the mirror. “You okay?”
“You, uh…” He took one step toward you, trying to be casual, but hid movements were strained. “You never mentioned you dated anyone.”
You raised a brow, "It's hard to mention that kind of stuff to someone I only talked to five times a year."
Dick held up the offending photo like it was Exhibit A. “Well there’s this picture of you kissing some dude like it’s the end of a romcom.”
You swiveled in your chair to get a proper look. “Oh. That’s just my high school boyfriend.”
Something in him shifted. A photograph. A kiss. A fragment of a life he had never known you lived. You had laughed with someone else, trusted someone else, leaned on someone else because he had not been there.
It wasn’t jealousy that consumed him. It was guilt, it was his own absence, staring back at him from a picture he had never seen.
You grew in places he never stepped foot in. You found support where he had not existed. You had been shaped by memories and decisions he had never witnessed, never guided, never protected you through.
He hadn't been there for anything.
Not as a brother.
Not as anything.
“Right…” he said, suddenly taking interest in his shoes. “Right. That’s… certainly something.”
You narrowed your gaze at him. “You look weird. You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not looking or acting weird,” Dick insisted, then gesturing at the photo again. “It’s just…you let random guys kiss you at parties?”
You rolled your eyes, quick and unimpressed. “He wasn't some random guy. And it was New Year’s. Everyone kisses someone when the countdown ends.”
Dick stared at you like you’d just casually admitted to committing a felony. “Everyone? No. No, that’s not—people don’t—"
"So you don't kiss Kori on New Years," you dramatically clutched your chest like he personally hurt you. "How could you deny her such a romantic Earth tradition!?"
"No we do! Okay, people do that…but you—why would you—”
Your teasing expression changed into confusion. “Dick. What exactly are you implying?”
His hands lifting like he needed to defend himself from the look you were giving him. “I’m not implying anything! I’m just…asking.”
“Asking what? What does it matter to you?” you asked, trying to untangle the knot in his behavior.
"It matters because I should have known,” he said, finally admitting a truth that clung too tightly to his pride. “I should’ve known who you trusted. Who you cared about. Who was close enough to be part of something important.”
You exhaled, the tension in your shoulders reshaping into disappointment. “Dick, not everything I’ve done is a secret that needs to be confessed.”
“You’re right,” he said. His fingers pressed into the edges of the photo trying to ground himself. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there. You were navigating things you shouldn’t have had to do alone.”
You shook your head as your irritation spiked. “I wasn’t alone. I had friends. I had people who cared and looked out for me. I was fine.”
His laugh was short and humorless. “Friends who let you date someone like that?”
You frowned. “Someone like what!? You don't know him!"
“Not like that. I'm saying someone who had access to you,” he said, and the phrasing was so strange, so clinical, that it gave you pause. “Someone who could make choices that affected you when no one was there to protect you from them.”
“Dick,” you said slowly, “he was my boyfriend. We were together all throughout high school, and broke up senior year because he went to school out of state. He wasn’t a threat.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His voice hardened in certainty. “Anyone who could influence you at that age is a threat.”
Your disbelief heightened. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Perfectly.”
You slowly stepped closer to him. “You’re acting like the existence of one high school relationship is some catastrophic mistake I made.”
“I’m acting like someone who realizes he should have been there,” he said, and for the first time he didn’t bother hiding the frustration driving him. “You were figuring out who you were without any guidance. Without me. And meanwhile some boy got to take up space in your life that should never have been his to take.”
“Space?” you repeated. “Dick, I don't belonged to you!”
“You’re my sister. I should have been part of your life. I should have known. I should have—”
“You should have what?” you demanded. “Monitored my dating life? Examine people my age? Decided who was allowed to matter to me?”
His expression darkened with conviction.
“You don’t know what people are capable of,” he said quietly. “I do. And the idea that someone had that kind of access to you without me even knowing—” He cut himself off, running a hand over his mouth. “It doesn’t sit right. Because it's not right.”
You stared at him, taken aback by his honesty, and his desperation beneath it.
“Dick, you’re talking like you want to rewrite my entire childhood.”
“If I could, I would.”
You just looked at him, you really looked, and suddenly the real issue started to become clearer. This wasn’t about the boy. Or the kiss. Or the photograph. This was about everything Dick wished he could undo, everything he thought he should have been. He was trying to retroactively correct without permission.
He wasn’t angry at you. He was angry at the past. And he wanted control in the one place he still could reach — the present and the future.
But you weren't going to let him do as he pleased. Past, present, and future, you control that.
“Stop,” you said. “you do not get to rewrite my life because you don’t like the parts you missed.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do—”
“It is exactly what you’re trying to do,” you said, cutting him off. “You’re looking at one photo and can't stand the fact that I had a normal upbringing. Like I was supposed to wait for a family I didn’t know or trust back then.”
He took half a step toward you, the protective instinct rising again.
“No,” you held up your hand, not wanting him any closer, “You weren’t there. And that isn’t something I’m going to let you punish me for.”
“I’m not punishing you,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be the brother I should have been.”
“Then stop trying to control me,” you replied. “Because that’s not what a brother does.”
You didn’t soften it. You didn’t meet him halfway. You didn’t cushion the truth to protect his feelings. You held your ground.
“You can't edit my past,” you said. “You can't criticize every choice I made before you decided to show up and give a damn.”
You can tell he wanted to argue, but you didn't let him. You were far from done.
“I’m not going to stand here while you dissect my teenage years,” you said. “I lived my life. I made decisions. Some good, some bad. But they were mine. And they’re not something you get to police because you feel some type of way. Whatever is going on in that head of yours, you deal with it. It's far from my problem.”
Dick stared at you like you hit him. He was wrestling every instinct that told him to argue, to cling, to correct, to insist he was right. His eyes lingered on yours, not angry, not pleading, but wounded in a way he didn’t know how to hide.
You saw his inner conflict, but you couldn't give in. You give him an inch, he'll take a mile.
So before either of you could break, you crossed the room without looking back. Your fingers gripped the bedroom doorknob and you pulled the door wide open, no room for interpretation. You were giving him his exit, and you were asking him to take it.
Dick stood still, rooted to the floor of your room, the open door framing the invitation he didn’t want. The consequences he had unknowingly pushed himself toward.
He took slow steps towards the open door, silently hoping you would give in. Maybe he might try again — one more argument, one last plea, one step over the line you had drawn.
But the hard look on your face told him otherwise.
Without a word, he stepped through the doorway. He had barely crossed the threshold when you slammed the door behind him.
The air in your room felt clearer without Dick’s presence. As if the space had been reclaimed.
You're tired, but definitely not guilty. You had drawn two lines for two brothers, and they needed to be drawn. You were proud of yourself.
You exhaled slowly and pushed away from the door, moving back into your room with more clarity. The familiarity of your space grounded you: the faint scent of your candles, the soft clutter of your makeup on your vanity, the morning light shining through your window just the way you like. All reminders that your life — your choices — belonged to you.
You weren't being unreasonable. You weren't being cruel. You had enforced a boundary your family had somehow convinced themselves didn't exist. And enforcing it didn’t make you heartless. It made you an adult with a backbone.
They all wanted to close the distance now. Good. But they were going to learn how to do it properly. All on your terms.
You took a steadying breath, gathered your things, and prepared to continue your day.
Whatever came next, you would face it head on, the same way you had met Dick’s intensity and Damian's ignorance: standing firmly on your own ground.
By the time you actually left your room, it was nearly eleven. Far later than you wanted. Dick and Damian had derailed your day before it even began. But you were determined to reclaim it.
You called Dani and Lauren, and told them the situation. You were relieved no one had gotten to them and they returned to Gotham safely. But they were worried about Brooke and the three of you decided to get her gifts and have a surprise sleepover. She always loved those and some normalcy with her friends would do her good.
You exhaled slowly when you stepped into the vacant kitchen. It was blissfully quiet. One of your sanctuaries to comfort you after the emotional gymnastics that took place prior.
The cold air of the refrigerator washed over you as you scanned its abundant contents, looking for something simple and filling. Shakshuka came to mind immediately. It was quick and flavorful, perfect for resetting the rhythm of your day.
You gathered the onion, garlic, tomatoes, eggs, and bell peppers and lined them neatly on the counter. When you turned away to get your seasonings but collided with something solid.
Or, someone solid. Jason's hands softly gripped your shoulders to steady you.
“Easy there, sis,” he said, amusement laced in his voice.
You stepped back, more surprised than anything. “You’re quiet for someone built like a brick house.”
Jason grinned, casually leaning his hip against the counter. “I can be stealthy when I wanna be.”
You let out a small chuckle. "Good to know. If I ever need help breaking into the neighbor's house I'll call you."
"Sounds good," He smiled. “You cooking?”
“Trying to,” you said, setting the knife on the board. “Shakshuka.”
“Fancy,” he said genuinely sounding impressed. "Want help?"
You handed him the bell pepper. “Cut this.”
“Can do.” He took the pepper and a knife while you turned your attention to the tomatoes.
But before you knew it, Jason had completely dismantled the pepper. He worked with the kind of confidence that could only come from someone who’d spent a suspicious amount of time with knives.
One clean slice down the center, seeds scraped out, the pepper diced into perfect uniform cubes before you’d even finished halving your tomatoes.
Jason put the peppers in a bowl and reached for the onions before you could. He quickly peeled them, slicing them thin without tearing up even once.
You set your knife down to reach for the garlic, only to find Jason had already crushed and minced it with the flat of his blade.
He nudged the bowl of perfectly chopped aromatics toward you. “Here. Less strain on your shoulder this way.”
“My shoulder is fine. It doesn't even hurt anymore," you insisted.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look convinced.
You picked up your knife again, determined to contribute something. You sliced through the first one—slow and careful.
Jason held out his hand. “Give.”
“No.”
“Your cuts are uneven.”
“They’re getting crushed in the pan anyway. Cutting them just makes it easier.”
He held out his hand, palm up. “Hand ‘em over.”
You narrowed your eyes, clutching the tomato like a territorial squirrel. “I can chop produce.”
"Two minutes ago,” he said evenly, “you ran into my chest on accident.”
You pointed your knife at him. “You were standing behind me like my shadow.”
“Still happened.”
“Jason!”
Jason snatched the knife and tomato from your hand and held it high above his head in an immature game of keep away.
“Give me my tomatoes Jason! I'm not joking!”
He hesitated only a moment before slowly dropping his hands. “Fine. But if you slice yourself, I’m taking over.”
“I won’t,” you got two tomatoes in before Jason leaned over your shoulder.
“Your angle’s off.”
“Jason.”
“You’re sawing instead of slicing—”
“I'm cutting just fine!” you snapped, dropping the knife on the cutting board.
“No need to get snippy,” he said. “I’m just… supervising. Making sure you're okay.”
You threw your hands up. “Is this a fucking joke? Some bizarre sibling hazing ritual? Where are the cameras?” You twisted around, quickly scanning every corner of the kitchen, half-joking, half-convinced someone had placed hidden spy equipment to document this circus.
Jason didn’t laugh. Instead, he stepped in and placed his hands gently on your shoulders again, annoyingly sincere. “It’s not a joke,” he said softly. “I came here to make sure you’re taken care of. I can cook for you. You don’t have to worry about it.”
Your shook your shoulders making Jason release his hold on you. “I wasn’t worried about it because cooking is not a big deal for me. I've been cooking since I was a kid.”
“You don’t have to push yourself,” he said gently. “Not while I'm here.”
“I’m not pushing myself. I'm fine and I'm capable,” you turned your back to him to resume cooking.
But Jason didn’t budge. “I know all of that. I just want to take care of you sis. Make sure you're needs are met and—”
“Oh my GOD,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re supposed to be cooking with me, not for me.”
Jason lifted a brow. “So I can keep going?”
“No,” you said instantly.
He picked up the pan anyway, spinning it lightly on the stove like he was warming up for a performance. “Too late. You already let me in the kitchen. That’s consent.”
“That is not how consent works.”
“Feels right, though,” he said with a shameless grin.
You groaned dramatically and retreated to one of the chairs at the island. Jason hummed to himself as he sautéed the vegetables. Some low tune that didn’t match the energy of a man who had just forcibly taken over your meal prep. He moved around the stove with infuriating ease.
Well, if he wanted to cook, fine. Let him. You refused to let another sibling ruin your day any further. You picked up your phone and ordered food from The Blue Orchid Café, scheduling it for pick up. The café was near the mall, so you could get a new phone, and pick out gifts for Brooke in a matter of a few hours.
Easy.
You slipped off the chair quietly, easing your weight onto the balls of your feet so the stool wouldn’t scrape against the floor. Jason didn’t even glance back. He was too focused, humming and stirring like some domestic menace who believed wholeheartedly that he was helping you.
You crept around the island, slow and smooth. Jason didn't sense a thing. Soon you successfully retreated to the garage, bag on your shoulder, keys in your hand.
You slid into the driver’s seat, buckled in, and finally let a small, victorious smile creep up your face.
Freedom! One simple, delicious afternoon without any emotionally constipated, overbearing siblings.
The drive to The Blue Orchid Café gave you exactly the amount of breathing room you needed. Twenty-eight minutes and seventeen seconds of open road, good music, windows cracked just enough to let the morning breeze slip through. No ringing phone. No judgmental or controlling siblings. No one micromanaging your existence.
Just you and the promise of a nice breakfast that someone else couldn't ruin.
The café sat in a quieter part of Gotham, tucked between an antique bookstore and a florist. The Blue Orchid had always stood out, though. Not because it was flashy, but because it radiated the kind of warmth that made people gravitate toward it like moths to a welcoming lantern.
You pushed open the door, and the familiar scent hit you immediately: freshly ground coffee, warm cinnamon, toasted bread, and whatever floral décor that was in that season.
Exposed brick walls were dotted with framed vintage ads, sepia-toned travel posters, and mismatched porcelain plates hung like art gallery pieces. Wooden rafters crossed the ceiling, decorated strings of soft Edison bulbs weaved between them, casting a golden glow over everything.
None of the tables or chairs matched, but that was part of its charm. A chalkboard behind the counter announced the specials of the day in looping cursive, with doodles of pastries and little doodles scattered across the black surface. A vintage radio sat on a shelf behind the barista, playing soft rock from another era.
And like always, the place wasn't loud, it wasn't bustling, just alive and human.
“Morning!” the barista called. Her back to you as she hurried to put on a pot of fresh coffee. When she was finished and actually looked at you, her small smile turned into a bright grin from ear to ear. "Hey there stranger! Long time no see!"
"Hey there Ellie," it was impossible for you to not match her energy. Her hair was growing in a dull grey, but she radiated warmth the same way the café radiated coffee beans. Despite being in her in her early sixties, Ellie still ran the family business as well as Bruce ran his.
Ellie wiped her hands on her apron and leaned forward on the counter like she was settling in for a chat. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us. You disappear for months and then wander in like you didn’t leave me here missing your pretty face.”
You laughed. “I’ve been busy.”
“Mhm, that’s what they all say” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically.
Before you could give a real answer, Ellie spun on her heel and marched a few steps toward the swinging door that led into the kitchen. “Carl! [Name] is here!”
You heard the clatter of metal against metal, a muffled curse, and the low rumble of a man who’d clearly been startled mid-task. A second later, Carl emerged, pushing the door open with his shoulder while wiping his hands on a towel.
He looked the same as always — late fifties, built like someone who had never lost a fight with a cast-iron skillet, shiny bald head still protected by a hair net. His expression softened the second he saw you.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Carl said, his voice warm and gravelly. “Where’ve you been?”
"Oh y'know. Here. There. Everywhere," you shrugged.
Carl chuckled and slowly shook his head. "Ah. Being young and busy, I don't miss it."
"Ha, you said it," Tim said, stepping beside you. "I'm just about ready to retire."
Your shoulders slumped as you let out a heavy exhausted exhale.
Tim stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’d just wandered in off the street. He looked way too comfortable in the space, already adjusting to it and claiming it by proximity alone.
You turned your head slowly to look at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting coffee with you,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Ellie’s brows knit together as she looked him over. “Do… I know you?”
Before you could answer, Carl leaned over and nudged her gently with his elbow. “We’ve seen him on the news, honey. He’s one of those Wayne kids, remember?”
"Correct." Tim smiled. He rested his arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer to his side. "Which means I'm [Name's] brother. Her favorite brother to be exact."
"Debatable," you countered flatly.
Tim recoiled, clearly offended. “How am I not your favorite!?”
“Because you all piss me off equally,” you replied, shrugging his arm off your shoulders and stepping out of his reach. “How did you even find me?”
He leaned closer again, lowering his voice just enough to keep the conversation between the two of you. “I noticed your phone pinged off the house Wi-Fi when you left the manor. So I used the network to hack into your phone and track your location through the phones location settings.”
You stared at him in disbelief and irritation. “That is not normal, Tim.”
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “It is for me.”
Ellie cleared her throat, sensing tension but not understanding it. “Here's your order [Name].”
She slid the bag and your drink across the counter with a small, polite smile. You accepted them with a polite thanks, forcing your expression into something neutral, to avoid inviting any questions. Tim stayed right at your side, entirely unapologetic, as if showing up uninvited and crossing lines was simply part of the routine.
You turned and quickly headed for the door. The bell over the door chimed as you stepped out into the parking lot, a far too cheerful reminder that your attempt at a peaceful day was not going to happen.
Tim followed immediately, the door closing behind him as he caught up within seconds. "Wait [Name]!"
“Go away, Tim,” you snapped, not slowing your pace.
But Tim fell into step beside you anyway, long strides matching yours with infuriating ease. “Look, I get that you’re upset, but you shouldn't have left without telling me.”
You balanced your meal in one hand as you fumbled with your key fob to unlock the door.
“I am not on house arrest! I went to get breakfast and get shit done. That’s it," you shot back. "I didn’t need an escort, or a tracker, or a surprise sibling popping up.”
“I worried,” he said. “I noticed—”
“I don’t care what you noticed,” you cut in. The car unlocked and you yanked the door open, hurriedly making your way inside. “You hacked my phone and followed me you fucking creep!”
“I safeguarded your location in order to accompany you.”
“You violated my privacy to stalk me.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Yes it is asshole! You can't just try and rebrand your freakishly overprotective overbearing criminal behavior into some innocent family friendly bull shit and expect me to think it's okay. I'm not stupid!"
You slid into the driver’s seat and locked the doors just as Tim reached for the passenger handle. You shut your door and turned the ignition without bothering to buckle in, adrenaline already pumping through your veins.
The sooner you were gone, the better.
Tim knocked and shouted through the window. "I just think that it'd be better if I was with you."
You rolled the window down just enough to be heard. “And I think you should watch your feet.”
Then you pulled out of the parking space and drove. In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of Tim standing there staring at you as you sped down the street and disappeared into traffic.
The mall sat on the street like a high end glass-and-marble cathedral. Smoothed walls, polished floors, and soft white lighting. The entrance framed by towering neat planters and tall doors that felt like it opened to a world people only read about.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed, carrying the blended scents of luxury—fresh leather, expensive cologne, warm pastries drifting from an artisan café tucked near the atrium. Sunlight poured in through the skylights overhead, shinning on the polished storefronts where mannequins stood draped in shiny jewelry and tailored outfits.
This was the kind of mall you and your friends frequented without thinking twice. It was high-end but comfortable, indulgent without feeling excessive. A place built for wandering if you wished, for lingering if you pleased, for pretending the world outside didn’t exist if you wanted.
You dropped your new phone in your bag, letting the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls from a nearby stall ease your body and focus your mind.
Brooke needed something that felt thoughtful. Something comforting. Something that said you’re loved and everything will be okay.
You headed deeper into the mall, already scanning storefronts for the right place to start.
A few stores back, just beyond the edge of your awareness, Cass followed.
She kept her distance, tracking your pace and blending in with the background.
You stopped at a display of scarves, lifting one free to feel the fabric between your fingers. Cass slowed too, pretending interest in a nearby window while watching the way you tested the weave, the way your brows drew together in concentration. You picked a color, set it back, then reached for another. Cass noted how careful and thoughtful you were.
You smiled faintly at something the shop attendant said. You were so polite and sincere, and Cass felt a small bit of warmth settle in her chest. You were so gentle when no one was demanding anything of you. She took note of that to.
She stayed behind a column as you crossed the atrium, counting your steps and timing your pace. She wasn’t there to interfere. She wasn’t there to redirect.
She was learning. Learning about you, from you.
How you moved when you weren’t cornered. What you gravitated toward when no one was steering you. Who you were when you were simply unapologetically yourself. If she can incorporate these things into her own personality, she'd be a better sister, one who will never misunderstand you.
You disappeared into another store. This one was louder and brighter. Those walking by could hear the soft but cheerful pop music blasting through the speakers. Three stories of open space felt like stepping into another world. Escalators crisscrossed in the center of the store. Displays were arranged with careful consideration and deliberate elegance. Beauty, clothing, home, and more, all in careful gradients of colors, textures, and brands.
The kind of store that was only overwhelming to the poor and unfashionable.
But that wasn't you. And soon that wouldn't be Cass.
You didn't break your stride as you headed passed a flawless display of lipstick towards the women's section deeper into the store. Your pace was relaxed but purposeful. You weren't browsing aimlessly, you seemed to know what you were looking for and where it was.
Cass still followed a few paces back, easily matching your pace so she wasn't going too fast or too slow. Avoiding mirrors and other things that were too reflective so you wouldn't see her reflection. Cass mentally noted the way you adjusted your stride to avoid collisions before they happened, how your attention briefly caught on patters rather than labels, how you dismissed entire sections with a single glance.
You stopped at a display of knitwear. You lifted a folded sweater, turning it forward and backwards, feeling the texture on the inside, then shook your head faintly and turned sharply to the right, drawn by something further down in another aisle.
When you turned to walk back towards her, Cass reacted on instinct.
She pivoted and slipped sideways into the nearest circular rack of hanging coats, parting the fabric just enough to conceal herself as you passed within arm’s length, completely unaware. Wool and cashmere brushed against her shoulders making her freeze in place.
Someone else was already there.
Damian Wayne crouched inside the rack with her. His alert eyes shifted into annoyance when he realized who he was looking at.
'You,' he signed stiffly.
Cass tilted her head . 'You,' she replied, equally confused.
His eyes narrowed. 'You're following her!'
Cass’s gaze slid past him to peek through a narrow gap in the coats. You had stopped a few steps away, lifting a large ceramic mug from a display, turning it slowly in your hands.
'Yes,' Cass signed. 'So are you.'
'I'm observing,' Damian corrected.
'Inside a rack?'
His hands signed again but slower. 'She made an abrupt turn. I had to hide.'
'So did I.'
They fell silent as you lingered nearby, browsing a small display of travel sized items. You hummed softly to yourself, unaware that two of your siblings were hiding less than ten feet away, communicating in silence.
Damian's eyes narrowed at you as he watched you through the coats. 'She's unguarded.'
Cass’s eyes never left you. 'No she's not. She has us.'
Damian felt his shoulders relax, Cass's words building his confidence. If only you knew how close he was, how much he's looking out for you. Maybe then you would forget all about what happened that morning.
He paused his thoughts as you turned to walk towards the escalators.
Cass and Damian slipped out of the rack, their movements barely disturbing the coats. They smoothly separated into two separate paths. They didn't need to say anything, they were in sync, two separate shadows, both following the same person.
You stepped onto the escalator and rose toward the next floor, still believing you were alone.
The second floor opened into a quieter part of the store. Home goods and soft furnishings arranged in carefully curated modeled show rooms. You drifted toward a display of throws, lifting one to test its weight and softness.
That was when the feeling settled in. This feeling of…uneasiness. You couldn’t really put your finger on it, why it was happening. But after the kidnapping, you knew that doubting your instincts wouldn't be a smart move.
You adjusted the throw back onto its shelf and kept walking, keeping your pace slow and casual. You skimmed the displays and the people, while your senses did something else entirely. You listened for anything unusual. You watched for anyone looking at you too long.
You stopped at the end of an aisle and pretended to consider a stack of folded blankets. In the mirrored panel beside the display, something moved. A rack of hanging jeans but no one there.
You forced yourself to focus. If you were in danger you need to be smart and move swiftly.
You turned left. Footsteps followed.
A sharp turn to the right. Someone corrected course.
You took three more steps, then pivoted sharply into a narrow aisle between two shelving units. When you were sure you were hidden, you stopped and waited.
Cass emerged first, too startled to keep her composure once you were looking directly at her. A second later, Damian appeared behind her, shock then plastered across his face when your eyes locked onto him.
“Well,” you said emerging from your hiding spot, “this is a lovely surprise.”
Cass and Damian could only look at each other, silently begging the other one to say or do something so salvage the situation.
“How long,” you continued, glancing between them, “were you planning on playing mall ninja before I noticed?”
“You are mistaken,” Damian said quickly, which told you everything you needed to know.
“Mm,” you replied. “So you're going to tell me you haven't been following this whole time?”
Cass struggled to meet your gaze. She gave a small, honest nod. "We were. We're sorry."
That made you more upset than Damian’s denial.
“I didn’t ask for company,” you said, frustration bleeding through despite your best efforts to contain it.
Damian’s shoulders squared. “You didn't tell anyone where you were going.”
“And yet,” you said through clenched teeth, “here you are. Me shopping for get-well gifts. You two doing… whatever this is.”
Cass shifted, something uncertain flickering across her face. “Watching,” she said quietly.
Damian scowled at her, then back at you. “Ensuring your safety.”
“Well stop it,” you snapped, much louder than intended.
A few other shoppers and an employee looked at the three of you curiously before they pretended not to stare.
You took a deep breath. Then again and counted to ten. You tried to talk to everyone with logic, but apparently logic was a make-believe social construct, a fictional courtesy.
There is no talking. There is no reasoning. There is no listening!
Just the same unspoken conclusion, that you are a weak and fragile. Someone that needed to be managed and coddled. An incompetent little kid that can't handle their own trauma without supervision.
“I. Am. Fine. I’ve been fine,” you said glaring at them now. “And I will continue to be fine. And if not I'll see a professional."
Cass looked at the floor. Damian opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when he couldn't think of anything to say.
Then a polite voice cut in from your left.
“Excuse me.”
You turned to find a store employee standing a careful distance away, hands folded in front of her. The already tense situation drew even more attention, nearby shoppers were suddenly very interested in folded blankets they’d already passed twice.
“Miss [Name], but I'm going to have to ask you and your companions to leave,” she said gently. “We’ve had quite a number of complaints.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks—not from the sting of being seen like this. Cornered and corrected. Reduced to a disturbance. It was beyond embarrassing!
The employee’s smile didn’t change. “The staff have noticed two of you weaving in and out of the circular racks. The customers are uncomfortable with your sneaky behavior. If there’s a disagreement, I’ll need you to take it elsewhere. This isn't a ban, but you just need to leave for the day.”
The silence that followed was worse than the argument.
Cass looked at you, something apologetic flickering across her face. Damian’s mouth pressed into a thin line, frustration radiating off him like a heatwave.
You exhaled slowly and nodded once to the employee. “We’re leaving.”
Damian turned toward you, clearly ready to object, but you shot him a look that stopped him cold.
“Shut up. Whatever you're going to say, I don't care,” you hissed.
You stepped past them without waiting, weaving through the racks toward the exit of the department store. Your pace was brisk but controlled, it was fast enough to end the interaction but steady enough not to invite more attention.
Thankfully no footsteps followed you. The last thing you wanted was to go off on them and get embarrassed even more.
The only thing left for you to do is go home.
The house was blissfully quiet when you got home. No voices carrying through the halls. No footsteps shadowing yours. No one asking if you were okay in a way that meant prove it.
You quickly headed straight to the home gym. The lights flicked on, bright and sterile, illuminating steel and rubber and order. No one else was there. Perfect!
The farther away you were from people, the better. But after having your day derailed by your siblings you needed to let out some steam.
You changed your clothes, wrapped your hands, secured your hair, and unleashed your frustration on the heavy bag.
The first punch landed solid, a soft vibration going up your arm and into your shoulder, a sharp reminder that you were still healing. You ignored it and hit it again.
Breath in. Strike!
Breath out. Strike!
Again and again!
You let the anger bleed out through your pores and evaporate on your skin. Every punch and kick chipped away at the emotional pressure you had built up. But this wasn't enough.
You moved through the gym with ruthless focus. Squats until your legs burned, planks until your arms trembled, lifted weights until your muscles screamed for mercy.
By the time you finally stopped, sweat clung to your skin and your lungs burned in a satisfying way. The storm of rage had subsided, you felt as calm as the ocean.
You wiped your face with a towel and checked the time. 5:19pm. You had a few hours before sunset.
The next activity came to you instinctively.
The horses.
Diamond and Scarlet didn’t care about what happened at the mall. They didn’t care about the boundaries that were overstepped. All they cared about was spending time with you.
And a quick ride is exactly what you needed.
The short drive to the stables calmed you further. The farther you got from the house, the lighter your body felt. The cool breeze flowing through your open window. When you pulled into the lot, you expected the usual sounds — the soft nickers and the quiet shift of hooves against straw.
Instead, you heard mayhem before you stopped the car.
A long panicked whinny cut through the air loud enough to echo off the barn walls. It was followed by the firm thud of a hoof striking wood, then another, faster this time. Metal rattled violently, the sound of a latch or bucket being knocked loose.
You didn’t bother shutting your car door and sprinted into the barn.
Diamond had retreated near the back of her stall, her ears flattened, her eyes wide and alert. Scarlet paced inside of her stall, her mane and tail swishing aggressively. Both horses were keyed up, breathing hard, whinnying and stomping whenever someone got too close.
Tim stood just outside the stall door, hands raised in what he clearly thought was a calming gesture. Cass lingered a few steps back, tense and ready, her head turning constantly between the horses and Tim.
“This is fine,” Tim was saying, far too loud. “They just need time to acclimate. Horses sense hesitation—”
Diamond slammed a hoof against the stall wall. Scarlet reared on her hindlegs before slamming her front hooves hard on the wooden floor.
"What the fuck are you two doing," you hollered.
Tim and Cass looked at you at the same time. Both horses reacted instantly.
Diamond furiously tossed her head and paced her stall. Scarlet bucked the walls and continued to whinny, clearly begging you for help.
“What are you doing here?” Tim asked, startled.
You didn’t answer him.
“Hey,” you said, voice low, steady, familiar. “It’s okay. Easy.”
You stepped forward, your movements steady and calm. Diamond huffed, tension easing just a fraction. Scarlet’s pacing slowed, her head lowering slightly as she focused on you.
"Both of you go outside," you commanded Tim and Cass. "You're a threat to them, the sooner you're out of sight, the sooner they'll calm down."
Cass moved first. She backed away slowly, her steps light so she wouldn’t spook them further.
“Cass—” he started.
Cass didn’t stop. She reached the barn doors and stepped outside through the backdoor. But Tim lingered.
“Tim,” you said again, firmer now. “Go.”
His jaw tightened. “I was trying to help.”
“Well you didn’t. Get out.”
That finally did it. He backed away, and the moment he crossed the threshold and he disappeared from view.
You stayed inside, letting the horses read your body language. You murmured softly, calming words layered with reassurance. When it was safe, you let them out of their stalls.
Diamond lowered her head enough for you to rest your palm against her neck. Scarlet crept closer, nudging your shoulder with her nose like she was checking that you were really there.
“That’s it,” you whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You stayed with them a moment longer. Murmuring soothing words as your hands moved in slow pats along warm muscle and sleek coats. The last of the tension eased beneath your touch, as your horses bodies settling and their breaths evening out.
When you opened the door to the field, Scarlet surged forward first, hooves pounding earth as she burst into open space, a streak of motion and freedom. Diamond followed a heartbeat later, the two of them tearing across the field together, manes and tails flowing as they ran hard and fast, burning off the last remnants of stress.
Unfortunately for you, whatever calm you’d poured into them didn't follow you.
You stormed toward the back door, shoving it open and stepped outside where Cass and Tim were waiting. They froze immediately when they saw your expression.
"WHAT IS YOUR MENTAL MALFUNCTION YOU ASSHOLES!?"
Tim opened his mouth but you cut him off.
“I mean seriously are you fucking insane!?” your unchecked fury pouring out of you. “You think you can just wander into my barn, into their space, without permission!? That you can just stroll in and play farmhand like this is some kind of game!?”
Tim raised his hands in defense, "I-"
You jabbed a finger back toward the open field, where Diamond and Scarlet were still running hard. “Do you have any idea how badly fear and stress can hurt a horse!? All of that thrashing in their stalls can break bones and tear ligaments! Horse bodies are really fucking fragile!"
Cass flinched. "We-"
“And the worst part?” you continued, voice body with the rage you tried so hard to purge yourself of earlier. “You didn’t scare them because you’re cruel. You scared them because you were arrogant and stupid enough to think your intentions mattered more than their trust!”
Tim finally found his voice. “We were trying to help you—”
“STOP TRYING TO HELP ME,” you shouted. “You don’t get to use my traumatic experience as an excuse to ignore what I say. You don’t get to wrap control in concern and expect me to take it.”
Tim shoved his hands into his pockets. “We just didn’t want you dealing with everything alone.”
"Funny how ‘not alone’ keeps feeling exactly like being cornered.”
You looked at Cass then. “And you,” you shouted gain. “You knew better. You saw how they were reacting and you ignored it!"
Cass nodded, shame flickering across her face. "I'm sorry…"
You turned back to Tim. “And you — stop treating my life like a system you can monitor and adjust. I am not a project. I am not a variable. And I am not something you get to manage.”
You didn’t wait for a reply. You stormed to your still running car and got in, slamming the door so hard the vehicle shook.
You leaned out of the window just far enough to be heard. "Come near my barn again and I'll lobotomize you with a pitch fork!"
You put the car into gear, and peeled out of the driveway, gravel spitting behind you as you left them standing there in stunned silence. You on the other hand, screamed in your car the entire way home.
The rest of the night passes quietly…for real this time.
You shut yourself inside your room and stayed there. The lights were dimmed, the door locked, your phone face-down and ignored. No one knocked. No one called. No one sent a messenger bat to your window.
Just you, curled up on the bed and finishing the book you’d been halfway through. The words blurring and blended once or twice when your thoughts drifted back to the barn. But you forced yourself to keep reading anyway, clinging to the story until the last page.
You glanced at the time. 10:13pm, late, but not late enough for patrols to begin. That was fine. You didn’t need the house dead silent, you just needed to avoid the people in it.
You wanted the next book in the series before your good mood slipped away again.
You swapped your slippers for socks to avoid making any noise when you walked. As you slipped out of your room and padded down the hall, you consciously kept your steps light. When you reached the corner that headed toward the library, you peeked around the corner.
Tim and Alfred were there. Tim's back was to you, but you can tell he was unsettled. His hands moved wildly as he spoke in agitated whispers. Alfred stood composed, but his face showed he was genuinely listening and taking in everything Tim was saying.
You didn't want to get involved. But you wanted your book.
You turned silently and headed the other way towards the billiard room. There was an entrance to a secret passage that lead to the back of the library. You just had to go down some extra hallways, but your book and peace of mind is worth it.
You slowed your pace as you passed your art room. The doors were open and the lights inside were on. Something you would never do, especially since you haven't been there in weeks.
Then the crash happened.
A heavy hollow crystalline crack that splintered into multiple fractures at once. Whatever it was gave way and broke apart on impact with a sound that rang briefly before collapsing into a scatter of smaller pieces skidding across the floor.
You stepped closer to the room. Your heart pounding as every instinct screaming that something important had just been destroyed.
Jason and Dick stood inside the art room. Your art room. Another safe space of yours that has been invaded.
Jason was near the worktable, one hand still half-raised like he’d reached out too late. Dick stood a few steps from him. His body was frozen, his expression caught somewhere between shock and panic. At their feet, pale fragments littered the floor, long shards and powdery splinters scattered across the floor.
You tried to speak, but a weak breath came out instead of words. The pitiful sound caught their attention.
“Hey-” Jason started.
"That was a brand new sculpture I finished." you said staring at the shattered remains on the floor.
Dick shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t—”
"That was made from true selenite," your voice was distant and hollow. You couldn't stop staring it. Every time you blinked you hoped the singing angel you made was fixed somehow.
"It's extremely fragile," your throat tightened, your words shook. "Carving it was…hard. I-I can't find the words for how difficult it was…"
Your gaze finally landed on Jason and Dick. Your eyes burned, watering despite your bests efforts to keep yourself together.
“That was for a charity auction,” you said quietly.
The anger was still there, simmering deep inside of you, but on top of it, consuming you was the ache of loss. Weeks of patience, and focus and care. Something you’d poured yourself into with steady hands and intention, reduced to fragments at your feet.
Saying its broken wasn't right. It was gone.
“H-How?” you whispered, the word breaking apart as they left you. “How did this happen?”
Tears slid freely down your face now, blurring everything in front of you.
Dick and Jason exchanged a panicked look.
They’d been in the art room for hours.
Dick had come in first, drawn in by curiosity more than anything. He’d wandered slowly as if he was in an actual art gallery. He was careful not to touch anything at first, just taking it all in. The half-finished canvases, the sketches pinned to corkboards, the chipped jars of brushes stained every color imaginable.
Jason joined him later. Drawn in by the same curiosity, staying for the idea of getting to know you more and admiring a big part of you.
At first, it had been harmless and civil. Low voices of admiration. Jason picking things up just long enough to test weight before setting them back down. Dick brushing his fingers along any interesting looking textures.
Then came the snide comments and offhanded remarks. Jason teasing Dick for speaking like some kind of art connoisseur when he couldn't tell a Warhol from a Basquiat. Dick teasing Jason for being all soft and sensitive despite his big bad boy persona. Then both of them scolding the other for touching something —before promptly touching something else themselves.
Nothing serious. Just brothers being brothers — restless, territorial, finding a place in a space that wasn’t theirs.
You’d placed the singing angel sculpture against the wall, deliberately putting it out of the way once it was finished.
But Dick had moved it a few feet to the left, right next to a large plant so he can get a better look at the painting behind it. He hadn’t considered the plant unstable. Hadn’t thought about vibration or proximity. He’d only been focused on seeing more.
Jason hadn’t noticed the sculpture move at all. What he had noticed was the wooden stool. It looked old but didn't look unstable in anyway. Jason sat down without checking, mid-complaint about something trivial. Then the broken stool collapsed under him, the seat snapping sideways. Jason went down hard, instinctively throwing out an arm to catch himself.
His fall knocked into a narrow side table. The table fell and hit the edge of the supply cart beside it. The cart rolled hard and fast straight into a tall stack of boxes. The boxes fell and knocked over a three legged plant stand.
The plant tipped. The pot struck the floor with a heavy thud and broke, spilling soil everywhere. The thick branches and leaves caught on one of the arms and wings of the statue, taking the statue to the ground with it.
You didn't know what to say or how to move.
Your arms hung at your sides, but your hands clenched and unclenched relentlessly. You started to kneel, the motion half-formed, then abruptly straightened again as if your body couldn’t decide what posture was appropriate for this kind of loss.
You took a step toward the corner and reached for the broom but stopped halfway there.
Your hand shifted toward the overturned plant stand before pulling back. Then you looked from the side table to the broken pot, then back to the side table. You turned and reach for the broom again, but froze.
You were caught between too many wrong choices at once. So many messes you shouldn't have to clean up.
Fix the mess.
No, pick it up.
No, don’t touch it.
No, move that.
Your thoughts tripped over each other in a useless and frantic jumbled mess.
You tried to swallow but your throat was dry. The air felt too thick to breathe properly. When you tried to move again, your legs felt heavier, like gravity had doubled without warning, pinning you in place one second at a time.
Everything was broken. Everything was wrong.
Tears came fast after that. Hot, relentless, blurring the room into color and shadow. You pressed a hand to your mouth, like that might stop it, but it didn’t. Nothing did. You couldn't help it.
Your chest heaved and your shoulders shook as the sobs finally broke free. It was ugly and impossible to control. Your forehead dropped against your knees, and you hugged your legs as you curled into a ball.
You were thinking about weeks of careful work and planning. About steady hands and intense focus. About the doubt you fought away when you thought you were in over your head. About something fragile that you’d handled gently, over and over again, only for it to be shattered in seconds.
Jason hadn’t moved. He stood frozen a few steps away, eyes fixed on the floor.
But Dick moved. He stepped toward you slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something wounded.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, it’s—”
“No,” you choked out.
He didn’t stop. He crouched slightly, reaching for you, trying to gather you up before you collapsed completely.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me—”
"No no no," you wailed as you pushed him. Your hands slipped against his jacket, your strength uneven and desperate.
“Get out,” you sobbed standing up on your shaky feet. “Get out, get out, get out—”
Dick flinched but didn’t let go immediately. He stood and reached for you instinctively. “You’re not okay,” he said quietly. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
That was the wrong thing to say, you just fought him more. Your hands pushing at his chest, at his arms, at his shoulders, anywhere you could reach. Your movements were uncoordinated, fueled by grief and panic and the overwhelming need to be alone.
“Don’t touch me!” you cried. “I don’t want— I don't —just goooo!”
You shoving him again, much harder this time, until he stumbled over his own feet and he had no choice but to retreat through the doorway.
Your chest hitched violently as you turned back into the room. Jason was still there, still frozen, eyes wide now as he finally looked at you. You crossed the room and grabbed his arm.
“Out,” you said hoarsely.
You hauled him toward the door, dragging him with a strength born entirely of desperation. He didn’t resist. He let himself be pulled, guilt weighing him down more heavily than any shove could.
You pushed him through the doorway and slammed it shut and locking it tight.
Your back hit the door as your legs finally gave out, and you slid down to the floor, crying so hard it felt like your ribs might crack under the force of it.
This room—your room—felt wrong now. What had once felt safe and private was now unfamiliar and exposed.
You curled inward, arms wrapping around yourself as if you could shield what was left. Your fingers dug into your sleeves, searching for something solid, something unchanged, but everything around you felt tainted by noise and movement and hands that weren’t yours.
You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing that when you opened them, the room would feel like it used to. That is would look like it used to.
But it didn’t.
After today, your body felt like the shattered pieces scattered across the floor.
By the time night settled over Gotham, none of them had spoken to you again.
Not because they didn’t want to.
Because they’d all failed you twice in a single day.
Dick just wanted to get to know you more but ended up offending you and breaking something. And when he tried to comfort you, somehow, even that had turned into another violation.
Jason couldn’t shake the image of the shattered sculpture scattered across the floor. He hadn’t touched it, yet the guilt sat heavy in his chest anyway.
Tim told himself he was being logical. That he’d acted out of concern. That he’d been trying to anticipate problems before they happened. All to make your life easier. But he just stressed you (and your horses) even more.
Cass just wanted to become the best parts of you. The careful, considerate, and beautiful side of you. Trying to get closer to you. But now you viewed her as a stalker and a nuisance.
Damian hadn’t said much at all. He sat rigid and silent, replaying every word you’d thrown at him earlier that day. He’d wanted to be right. Wanted to be useful. He hadn’t wanted to be unwanted.
Originally, patrol had been simple and routine. Dick and Damian only, keep the city quiet, come home.
But one by one, they all silently suited up. A good patrol was what they needed. They needed to feel like they weren’t total screwups. Like they could still do something right tonight, even if it wasn’t with you.
Bruce emerged from the elevator in a robe instead of his suit, hair still damp, eyes alert despite the hour. He took one look at them and slowed his walk to a full stop.
“You’re not scheduled like this,” he said calmly. “What’s going on?”
No one answered immediately.
Dick glanced at the others, then at the floor. Jason shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Tim adjusted his gloves when he didn't need to. Cass played with the pointy bat ears on her cowl. Damian crossed his arms, trying to look stoic.
"Well," Bruce asked again in his stern Batman voice. "What did you break or blow up or accidentally poison?"
Dick shook his head and took off his mask. “We messed up,” he said simply.
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Messed up how?”
“Today,” Jason added, voice rough. “With [Name].”
Bruce took a seat in one of the large desk chairs. “Explain.”
Damian spoke first. “I spoke harshly about someone important to her. Someone who was already traumatized.” He hesitated, then added, “I thought I was being logical. But I was just being ignorant and insensitive.”
Bruce nodded once. “Is that all?”
"No. I also followed her to the mall." He mumbled this time. “I thought keeping her in sight would keep her safe. But I ended up being…a nuisance."
Cass stepped forward next. “I followed her to the mall to. I wanted to learn more about her through her shopping habits and the things she bought. But she was shopping for someone else, so it was a pointless endeavor.”
Damian put on his hood in attempt to hide the shameful look on his face. "We got caught and we got her kicked out of the store."
Bruce softly grunted and shook his head.
Tim drew a slow breath. “I tracked her phone,” he admitted. “I followed her to a café because I thought knowing her location would help me protect her. But I ended up scaring her."
Cass continued, “I also went to her barn. Without asking.”
Tim nodded. “So did I. We frightened her horses…like, really badly.”
Bruce’s expression hardened slightly at that. "Horses are very fragile physically. They could have seriously hurt themselves."
"We know," Cass ran a hand through her hair. "We researched horse anatomy and injuries for hours!"
Dick spoke next, his shoulders tense. “I confronted her about a relationship she had before us. And I overreacted.”
Jason groaned. "I tried to take over something she was doing earlier, cooking breakfast. I thought I was helping. But I was just micromanaging.”
Dick spoke again. "And later I went into her art room without her permission."
"I was with him," Jason continued. "We touched things that weren’t ours. And…we broke a statue she made for a charity auction. And we made her cry."
Bruce said nothing at first.
He analyzed each of his kids. Five guilty looks. Five tense postures. Five people who wanted to fix something, but broke it more. He got more details from them. Had each of them fill in the blanks and ask more questions. Once he got the whole puzzle and not just a piece like earlier, he understood everything completely.
“You all want to fix this,” he said. “But that desperation and impulse, is exactly why today went the way it did.”
Dick opened his mouth, then stopped when Bruce lifted a hand. “You were loud. You were obvious. You crowded her. You made up your own rules that she had to follow blindly.”
His gaze moved across them, not as a group, but individually. To an outsider they're the same, but Bruce sees them differently. They all wanted control.
Dick's control through affection.
Jason's control through care.
Tim's control through knowledge.
Cass's control through mimicry.
Damian's control through vow.
“If you keep moving at this pace,” he went on, “you will create more days like today. And if that happens often enough, she won’t just shut a door. She'll leave."
The thought of you leaving didn’t register as a possibility, it registered as a threat. It left a sense of sadness, regret, and terror that gutted them, leaving them hollow. A suffocating certainty that attached to them, sinking it's claws into their skin, refusing to let go. A death sentence would be easier for them to take than you moving out and turning your back on them.
“So this changes,” Bruce said firmly.
Tim frowned faintly. “Then what do we do?”
“You let me handle it.” Bruce’s mouth curved into a calculating smile. "I'm her father. I'll be the constant without being overwhelming. I will give her space without making it feel like abandonment. Support without pressure. Stability without spectacle.”
Cass narrowed her eyes. “And us?”
“You learn,” Bruce replied.
“Learn what?” Damian asked.
“How to want her without frightening her.”
Confused silence followed.
“You don’t stop caring,” Bruce explained. “You don’t stop watching. You don’t stop wanting to protect her.” His gaze sharpened. “You simply stop letting her see the part of you that scares her.”
Damian stiffened. “You’re asking us to lie.”
Bruce met his eyes evenly. “I’m asking you to be smart. You dial it back, a lot. You let her believe today was a bad day caused by mistakes and not obsession. You keep the rest to yourselves.”
Jason raised a brow. “And if something happens?”
Bruce answered immediately. "We'll cover each other. We are a family."
The tension eased in small, visible ways. Shoulders loosened. Breathing evened out. No one pressed for clarification. Bruce's confidence and certainty did the work for him. Smoothing out the jagged edges that the shame and guilt had chipped away at them.
Whatever came next, it would be handled.
Bruce left without another word and headed for the elevator. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Behind him, the reassurance he’d offered washed over them, settling into their bodies.
Dick adjusting his mask in the mirror, winking at his reflection. Jason rolled his neck and shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Tim tightened his boots and grabbed his Bo staff. Cass put on her cowl and loaded her batarangs. Damian examined his katana one last time before returning it to his sheath at his side.
As one, they left for patrol.
The Batmobile’s engine thundered to life, motorcycles following close behind, their lights streaking across the Cave as they disappeared into the night. The noise faded quickly, leaving only the low hum of machinery behind.
Bruce had just reached the main hallway when he encountered Alfred near the foot of the stairs, a metal tray held in his hands. Resting atop it was a large tub of your favorite ice cream, surrounded by smaller bowls of toppings.
Alfred smiled. “I thought it might help,” he extended the tray towards Bruce. "Though maybe you giving to her would help more."
Bruce accepted it without hesitation. “Thank you, Alfred.”
“She’s had a difficult day.”
"So I've heard. Thank you Alfred."
He turned and made his way down the hall, heading towards your art room. The door was cracked slightly, the bright light pouring into the dim hallway.
Bruce shifted the tray to one hand and opened the door slowly.
"Alfred was supposed to bring me that," you said softly.
Bruce’s gaze moved to the couch. You were curled in on yourself, wrapped tightly in a knitted blanket, your eyes tired and red. You looked small there, not fragile just worn down, like the day had finally caught up with you.
"He figured you could use your dear old dad more," he replied just as softly. "And I couldn't agree more."
He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed the space slowly and set the tray down on the coffee table within easy reach.
“Is it okay if I sit?” he asked.
He didn’t move until you shifted the blanket, just enough to clear space beside you. When he sat it was close enough to be present, but far enough to give you space.
"The others told me what happened," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had a day like this."
"I just don't understand why they're treating me like this," you absentmindedly tugged at a loose thread on your shirt.
“They’re trying to make up for lost time,” he said. “And they’re doing it badly.”
"Badly is an understatement," you reached for the ice cream tub and metal spoon. "They don't think of me as anything more than my kidnapping. They don't care about what I want, just what they think I need."
“They’re acting on fear,” he continued. “Fear of losing you. Fear of not being enough. That doesn’t excuse what they did, but it explains why it all came at you at once.”
You took a bite, staring down at the bowls of toppings as if they might give you answers. “I’m still here. I didn’t disappear. But they’re acting like I did.”
“You’re allowed to be more than the worst thing that ever happened to you,” he continued. “And you’re allowed to remind them of that on your terms.”
You looked at him and grinned. "Like you?"
"Like everyone," he gently and playfully shoved you.
You nodded, quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “I just don’t want to be handled. Or watched. Or managed. Or coddled.”
“I know,” he said, without hesitation. "I spoke to them. And I can't guarantee immediate change all at once. But they know what they've done, and they feel bad about it."
"I can forgive everything but what happened at the barn and with my sculpture. I take my horses very seriously. And I have nothing for the auction, my work was headlined Bruce, I can't just pull out."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, attention fully on you. “You’re right to be upset about that. Both of those things mattered. They still do.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, attention fully on you. “I understand. I know they're eager to apologize.”
“I don’t want apologies that make them feel better. I want it fixed.”
Bruce considered that for a moment.
“Then we focus on what can actually be done,” he said. “Not tonight. Tonight is for resting and ice-cream. But tomorrow, we’ll look at options for the auction and for the barn. I’ll help you figure it out.”
You glanced at him. “You?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “Me. I’ll handle the logistics. You decide what you’re willing to do.”
"And the others?"
“They’ll also make it right where they can. When you’re ready for that. Until then, I’ll make sure they don’t add to your plate.”
You watched his face, searching for cracks that weren’t there.
“And if they slip,” Bruce added, “I’ll correct it.”
You nodded slowly, the tightness in your shoulders easing another notch. You took another spoonful of ice cream.
“Okay fine,” you said. "But I won't make it easy."
Bruce reached over and gave you a gentle pat on the back. “That’s all you need to decide tonight."
You let out a long, dramatic groan, tipping your head back against the couch. “Ugh. Why do I have to work through issues?” you muttered. “Why can’t everyone just cooperate and not piss me off?”
Bruce laughed and before you could overthink it, he shifted closer and pulled you into a gentle side hug. You tensed for half a second out of habit, but slowly relaxed against him. Huh. You didn’t hate it.
“Because,” Bruce said, amusement still soft in his voice, “if everyone cooperated all the time, you’d have nothing to complain about.”
You snorted despite yourself, leaning just a little more into his side. “Tragic.”
“Truly,” he agreed.
The moment stretched comfortably, the quiet settling comfortably around the two of you. Bruce’s gaze drifted through the room, going from one thing to another, until it caught on something resting on the coffee table.
A statue, so small he can wrap one hand around it if he held it, a bear. Carefully carved, its surface catching the light in small deep red flashes. Bruce leaned forward slightly, attention drawn to it without meaning to be.
“This one’s nice,” he said.
Bruce reached for the statue with care, lifting it from the table like it was something that could bruise if handled wrong. He turned it slowly in his hands, angling it toward the light so the deep red caught and fractured into softer tones. His thumb traced along the carved lines, taking in the details—the curve of the shoulders, the tension held in the body even at rest.
Your head lifted immediately. “Oh that one?” You shifted on the couch, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah. It’s Thai ruby.”
"I didn't know rubies had nationalities," he joked.
You snorted at his bad joke. “There are eight main types. They’re categorized by geographical origin.” You thought for a second. “I saw one of Martha’s rings once. That one was a Madagascar ruby.”
Bruce raised a brow. “How can you tell? Did you have it examined?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I just looked at it. Here, I’ll show you.”
You set your ice cream aside and slipped off the couch, walking into your storage room. When you came back, your arms were full of several small jewelry boxes stacked carefully against your chest.
Bruce shifted to make room as you sat, placing the boxes on the table one by one.
“These are extras from my stash. It’s better to show you than try to describe it,” you said, already opening the first box. “This one’s the Madagascar.”
You opened another box, angling the next gem in the light. “This is Thai. See how the Thai is more of a deep dark red with purplish undertones? The Madagascar is pinkish-red with pink undertones.”
Bruce leaned in, studying them quietly. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
You smiled widely. “Most people miss it. But once you see it, you can’t really unsee it. But these two…"
You opened another box and tilted it toward the light. “This one’s Burmese, Mogok specifically.” The ruby caught softly, its red clear and even. “And this is Mozambique.”
You set them side by side, close enough that the difference was almost impossible to spot at first glance. “These two are actually really similar,” you said. “Both have strong red saturation. Both can look vivid without leaning too pink or too dark.”
You nudged one box slightly. “Mogok rubies tend to have this glow people romanticize, and Mozambique ones are usually cleaner, more uniform. But if you don’t know what you’re looking for, they can pass for each other easily.”
You looked up at Bruce. “That’s why people argue about them. On paper, they’re different. In person? They’re almost twins.”
Bruce picked up the Mogok ruby, holding it carefully between his fingers as he studied the color. “I actually bought Harley a Mogok ruby necklace for her birthday once,” he said. “From a jeweler downtown. It's called Heirloom & Co.”
Your froze and looked at him immediately.
“Oh,” you said, then winced just a little. “Yeah… I know that place.”
Bruce glanced at you. “You do?”
You nodded. “They’re not great. In fact you should get a refund. All of their rubies are actually red spinel. They just pass them off as rubies because they're way cheaper."
“Spinel?”
“Mm-hm. I have some of that to.” You quickly ran back to your storage and emerged a minute later with another box. Inside was a bright red gem that looked almost too perfect. “Spinel’s been called the Great Imposter for a reason. For centuries, people thought famous rubies were rubies when they were actually spinel when they actually examined it.”
You glanced up at him. “The Black Prince’s Ruby in the British Crown Jewels? The one that's over 600 years old and worth over $400 million? Spinel.”
Bruce blinked once. “…You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” you said. “Spinel is usually cleaner than ruby. Fewer inclusions. Brighter, glassier shine. And way cheaper.” You tapped the box lightly. “If someone doesn’t know what they’re looking at, it’s an easy swap.”
Bruce listened. Really listened.
One question turned into another. Then another. The ice cream melted and was pushed to the side to make room for more boxes.
By the time the others returned from patrol just before five in the morning, Bruce could tell morganite from rose quartz at a glance. Citrine from yellow topaz easily. Aquamarine from blue topaz without hesitation. He knew which cuts emphasized brilliance and which ones favored depth, which shapes were meant to hide flaws and which ones were honest about them.
He even let you go on a forty-seven–minute rant about how wildly overrated white diamonds were.
“They’re not rare,” you’d said, waving a small specimen wildly for emphasis. “They’re just marketed aggressively. People confuse clarity with value and forget color, forget personality. Give me a stone with color and character any day!”
Bruce hadn’t interrupted once. He enjoyed listening to you. How smart you are. How passionate you are.
By the time you finally finished, you were a little out of breath, but your eyes were brighter than they’d been all day.
“We should get some sleep,” he said gently.
You glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. “Yeah. Probably.”
He helped you put your things away and gather the boxes, gentle and careful with each one. He didn’t move toward the storage room until you did, following your lead without comment. He matched your pace, unhurried, clearly content to let the moment with you stretch just a little longer.
You let him walk you to your bedroom, unhurried, with your blanket wrapped around you.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For teaching me.”
You shrugged, suddenly feeling shy again. “Thanks for listening.”
He gave a small nod, then stepped back, letting you go inside without lingering.
You closed the door, got into bed, and finally get some rest.
Sorry for being M.I.A. the New Year is always busy for me. My Birthday is January 5th and that is a holiday for me. No work, no school, no responsibilities, no exceptions 😌. But I have friends and family who are January babies (18 people in total) so lots of planning and celebrations.
I also quit my old job and started a new job. My cat had surgery. My sister gave birth a month early (so yes another January baby). And I started reading the Odessy and finally started the Apothecary Diaries.
So yeah...I've been a busy bitch. But I'll post 2 chapters of Found in the Silence on Saturday January 31st.
But I have been cooking up some new ideas.
I've been thinking of writing for Twisted Wonderland and Love and Deepspace since those are the only fandoms I think I can write for long term. So I'll post slowly and see how it goes. Not sure when yet sadly. I don't wanna half ass anything so things take me a little longer compared to other writers because of my perfectionism.
ANYWAY! Thank you to all who read this. Happy New Year to all and Happy birthday to my fellow January babies!
Sorry this is so late I hosted Christmas for the first time and still have my busy work schedule so this didn't get finished when I wanted it to. But enjoy and I hope you guys had a wonderful holiday season. And if not I hope this makes you smile at least.
Word Count: 4,117
💮Masterlist💮
Banner from @chateaubarnes
The bonfire crackled nice and steady in the backyard at Wayne Manor. It bathed everyone in a warmth that protected them from the chilly November air. Someone had dragged out blankets. Someone else had brought marshmallows. The chocolate bars and graham crackers soon followed.
It had been a good Thanksgiving day. No emergencies. Just full plates, fuller bellies, and lots of laughs and reminiscing. It was comfortable. Comfortable enough for trouble to show up.
Dick leaned back in his chair, metal skewer held in one hand, his marshmallow hovering over the fire. “Man,” he said, grinning, “I cannot wait for Christmas this year.”
Jason snorted. “That’s because you treat gift-giving like an Olympic event.”
Dick threw his graham cracker at Jason like a frisbee. "Shut up! I do not."
Damian didn’t even look up from carefully rotating his marshmallow. “You assigned us color-coded wrapping paper.”
“That’s called presentation," Dick countered. "Timmy over there makes a whole spreadsheet for the next three Christmases and birthdays."
Tim halfheartedly rolled his eyes, thumbs still tapping out Thanksgiving messages to his team. “I like planning in advance. And my gifts are nice and simple. Unlike yours.”
Dick pointed at him. “You’re just mad because my gifts slap.”
“They do,” Duke agreed. “Aggressively.”
Bruce watched the fire. “Excessive and aggressive gifting isn’t necessary,” he said mildly.
Dick turned toward him immediately, eyes wide. “Oh? Says the man who gives everyone matching designer clothes and accessories like we’re a Wayne-themed crime syndicate.”
Steph burst out laughing. “Oh my god, he’s right. It's like if he doesn't, people will suddenly forget who his family is."
Damian scoffed. “At least Father’s gifts are efficient. Todd's are emotionally stunted.”
"I prefer simple. I don't go big like that." Jason said.
That statement almost made Cass knock over her marshmallow tower. "You say simple but all of your gifts don't have a price tag under $500."
Jason shot her a look. “Simple can be expensive. Plus I have the money. We all do.”
Tim nodded. “Yeah that's true. We all give each other expensive gifts. None of us can do simple, cheap, or homemade.”
Damian blew out his flaming marshmallow. "I don't do cheap, but I can do simple and homemade unlike the rest of you."
Duke squinted at him. “No you can't! You're a nepo-baby on your dad's side, and royalty on your mom's side. Buying something expensive is the only way to keep your pride intact."
Steph grinned. "You're talking as if you're poor. We all know the allowance Bruce gives you and how you hoard it like a greedy racoon."
Duke pointed his metal skewer at her. "You may not be part of this family biologically or legally, but you haven't told Bruce to cut your allowance either."
Alfred smiled softly from his chair. “What I’m hearing is that neither of you are any better than the rest when it comes to expensive gifts.”
Bruce exhaled slowly. “There's nothing wrong with it. We all have the funds earned through hard work. And buying expensive things aren't going to break the bank. So who cares? Let's just enjoy the night. Gift-giving doesn’t need to be a competition."
Dick pouted. “Then why does it feel like one every year?”
Steph bit into her smore. "Because we make it one. Competition is basically our love language. Outdoing each other is our way of bonding."
“But,” Duke said carefully, “what if we didn’t try to outdo each other?”
Steph’s eyes lit up. “Like a challenge?”
Alfred immediately looked suspicious. "Sounds like it."
Cass leaned forward. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Dick snapped his fingers. “How about an actual limit.”
Bruce stiffened. “No.”
“A money cap,” Steph said. “A hard one.”
Jason grinned wider. “Yeah. A bunch of rich people putting their money where their mouth is.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
“Twenty dollars,” Steph blurted.
Tim froze. “That’s not reasonable.”
Jason ignored him. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
Bruce looked around the circle. At the grins. The challenge. The complete lack of foresight.
“…Fine,” he said at last. "But it's going to be Secret Santa to make it easier."
Tim crossed his arms. "Yeah. We all know who would give decent gifts to everyone, but be petty and give one person a stick of gum or some dumb shit like that and say: It's in the budget isn't it?"
Jason raised his stick in salute. “You’re all gonna regret this when I completely dominate this challenge.”
Alfred leaned back in his chair. "This will be interesting."
Bruce looked at Alfred. "Mind keeping watch over this one. Make sure the rules are being followed and no one is cheating."
"Certainly. I'll start preparing the strips now."
Christmas morning at Wayne Manor arrived quietly.
Beams of sunlight came through the tall windows and bounced off polished floors and catching in the ornaments on the tree. Festive music was playing quietly to fill the space. The smell of coffee and the devoured breakfast drifted in from the kitchen.
The living room looked exactly how it always did on Christmas.
The only difference were the gifts underneath tree.
Normally the gifts were plentiful, in various shape sand sizes and had to be stacked in a certain way so they wouldn't overtake the living room. They were smaller, and neatly lined up next to each other.
Dick clapped his hands together like he was about to host a game show. “Alright! Everybody gather around. How are we feeling?"
Jason stretched out one of the couches, arms folded behind his head. “I feel great. I’m definitely not about to be humiliated.”
Steph plopped down cross-legged beside him. “Bold words from someone who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.”
"My insomnia is normal thank you very much."
Tim brushed his bangs out of his face and reached for his mug. “I just want it on record that I hated this idea from the beginning.”
“You were just as pumped as the rest of us” Duke said.
“Peer pressure through shared energy. It's a thing. Look it up.”
Bruce sat near the fireplace, composed as always. “Everyone agreed to the terms.”
Alfred appeared and took his seat in one of the chairs. “I've approved all of the gifts and checked that the terms were met. Shall we begin the exchange?”
Damian spoke up immediately. “Let’s do it. I want to see who cracks first.”
Alfred picked up a gift. It was nightly wrapped in red with black polka dots and a black bow stuck to it. He silently handed it to Tim. "From Master Jason."
Tim looked at the gift then back at Jason. Jason showed no signs of nervousness. Just a casual smile from a man with nothing to lose.
He carefully tore the paper to reveal: a hard cover book titled Green Light Avenue.
It was by a famous crime author both he and Jason liked. This was the authors first book and the hard covers were rare. The spine wasn't torn, the cover wasn't dented or softened. Jason watched him closely now, trying to read his face.
“A book.” Dick leaned forward. “That’s' nice.”
Jason shot him a look. “You got a problem with books?”
Tim wasn't listening to Dick weakly defend himself. He opened the book and began thumbing through the pages. He knew he had this exact book and lent it to Jason, and just never got it back. But he just had to be sure.
And sure enough on page 192, there it was.
A tiny smiley face in the margin, drawn in pen four years ago when he’d been bored out of his mind. He flipped through the other pages but none of the others showed any signs of damage. Jason had kept it in good condition. Great condition in fact. He was genuinely touched.
“Oh,” he said.
Jason stiffened. “That a good ‘oh’ or—”
“It’s good,” Tim said immediately. He looked into Jason’s eyes. “I like it.”
Jason studied him, clearly expecting more. Jason knew the book was Tim's but he hoped Tim forgot about it. “You sure?”
Tim nodded and sat the book down in his lap, one hand resting over the cover. “Yeah. I really mean it.” He glanced up, then tilted his chin toward the pile. “Open that hot pink one, Jason. It’s from me.”
Jason grimaced. “Hot pink feels aggressive.”
Steph grinned. “That’s how you know it’s yours.”
Jason grabbed the gift and tore into it with zero patience. The paper revealed revealing a Wonder Woman thermos underneath. There was a scratch on the bottom of it, so small you had to be looking for it to see it.
“…Huh,” he said. “This one’s good.”
Dick leaned in. “High praise, congrats Tim.”
Jason ignored him, eyes still on the thermos. He turned it once more, slower this time. It had been cleaned and maintained. Not replaced. He forgot this at the Manor three years ago and just kept forgetting to ask for it back. Tim had been using it this whole time and kept it in great condition.
Tim watched from the corner of his eye and said nothing. He knew that was Jason's thermos. It's part of the reason he didn't complain about the book, because he was also regifting something.
Jason opened the thermos and filled it with the coffee from his mug. “Yeah. This’ll work.”
Cass tilted her head. “That’s it? No roast? No dramatic complaint?”
“No need. I like it.” Jason took a long sip. "Who's next?"
Alfred reached for the small gift bag with little snowmen on it, and passed it across the circle. “This one is for Master Damian. From Master Dick."
Damian straightened immediately. “Finally.”
Dick grinned far too confidently. “Ohhh, I’m excited about this one.”
Damian took out the tissue paper and reached inside, and a long scarf unfolded into his hands. It was thick and soft, knit in dark green and black stripes, the stitches slightly uneven in a way that made it unmistakably handmade. Damian’s fingers paused against the yarn.
Dick leaned forward, already talking. “Okay before you ask, yes, it’s handmade. There’s this old woman in Blüdhaven who knits these and sells them near the pier. She yelled at me for ten minutes about the weather and then gave me a discount.”
Damian stopped listening. He had seen this before last Christmas. He was staying with Dick to meet his puppy Haley. When they took her for a walk along the pier Damian hadn't been wearing a scarf to protect him that cold October day.
Dick being an older sibling teased Damian about being cold, which Damian adamantly denied. The two of them spotted the old woman yelling at another customer about her knee pain, but also saw all the scarves she made and sold.
Dick bought Damian a scarf against his wishes, but Damian ended up loving it. He remembered wearing it a few times before accidently spilling paint on it. No matter what he did he couldn't get it cleaned. He hid it in his closet, certain that Dick would be mad if he saw it ruined.
He rubbed his new scarf between his fingers, admiring high quality yarn and careful craftsmanship. He shot Dick a genuine smile. "Thank you."
“Nailed it.” Dick leaned back in his seat completely satisfied. "Now who has my present?"
"Me," Duke retrieved one of the smaller gifts wrapped in baby blue.
Dick took it eagerly. “Okay, okay, this feels light.”
Jason smirked. “Manage your expectations Dickie.”
Dick ignored him and tore open his gift. His grin widened the moment he saw what it was. “No fucking way!
He pulled the small yellow box free from the torn paper, turning it over in his hands like he couldn’t believe it. The packaging was old-school, sun-faded, the edges softened with age, the familiar blocky lettering of a brand that hadn’t changed in ages.
A KODAK FunSaver 35mm Single Use Camera.
Dick laughed while he was prying the box open. “Oh my god. I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
He popped the camera out, testing the weight, thumb brushing over the winding wheel like muscle memory kicked in on its own. He pointed it at Jason, squinting through the tiny viewfinder.
Click.
Jason groaned. “Absolutely not.”
But Dick just laughed harder. “This is perfect! No previews. No deletes. No filters. Just vibes.”
Duke tried, and failed, to look casual. “I found it at a garage sale for $2. Brand new.”
But Dick wasn't even listening, he was already on his feet, ready to document everything.
Click. Steph with a big smile.
Click. Cass making a silly face.
Click. Tim throwing up a peace sign.
Dick spun the winding wheel, gearing the camera up for another picture. "Okay I used four out of the twenty seven pictures I can take. Let's get the next gift opened."
Alfred reached for a flat purple wrapped package and handed it to Duke. “From Miss Cain.”
Cass watched him closely, her hands folded in her lap and her posture relaxed but inside she was buzzing with excitement.
Duke peeled the paper back slowly. Inside was a vinyl record. He stared at the cover for a moment without moving. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to speak.
“No way,” he whispered so quietly only he heard himself.
The album was an unmistakable piece of history. Prince – The Black Album. The infamous one. The one that had almost vanished after Prince himself tried to erase it from existence. One of the hardest vinyl to find in the world.
Duke looked up, stunned. “Cass… this is—you-”
It was hard for Cass to contain her excitement but she somehow managed. “I saved a music historian from a black market collector who wanted to steal from him. He let me have one thing from his collection. So technically your gift was free.”
Duke’s hands trembled slightly as he held the record, like he was afraid it might run away if his thoughts were too loud. “You didn’t even want it? Or something for yourself?”
Cass shook her head. “I couldn't pass up that opportunity.”
He rubbed his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. “Sorry—sorry. I just—” He shook his head, unable to find the words. “This is… I don’t even know how to say thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
Duke cradle the record like it was something sacred.
Dick lifted the camera again. “Hold that pose.”
While Dick was capturing Duke's moment, Steph reached under the tree and handed Cass her gift. The Cinderella wrapping paper smiled back at her, but Steph was absolutely beaming.
Cass accepted the gift carefully, afraid she might disturb whatever was inside.
Inside, nestled in a perfectly fitted box, was a journal.
The cover was a soft earthy green. The soft leather felt as smooth as silk under Cass’s fingertips when she brushed them across it. Cass opened the journal, inside were thick pages, held together by a set of gold-toned ring. Beside it was a matching pen. It was firm and slightly heavy in her hand. She tested it on the discarded wrapping paper. It was incredibly smooth and fine, and the ink didn't smudge.
"It's wonderful," Cass gushed. "But why a journal?"
Steph's hands clasped behind her back, watching Cass’s face like it held the verdict of a trial. “I noticed you’ve been writing a lot lately. I just thought… you know. You might want one that’s nice.”
"I didn't know you journaled Cass," Bruce looked fondly at her, visibly pleased to learn more about his child.
Cass closed the journal and set it on her lap, fingers resting over the cover. "Yes. I don't mind if people know I do it, it's just something I don't talk about."
Jason leaned forward in his seat. "What do you write? Juicy secrets about your crush?"
A crush would be tame. But no one could know that most of what Cass wrote down was absolute nonsense. Entirely fabricated missions, ridiculous conflicting accounts, ludicrous events that never happened, written with complete sincerity. All of it mixed in with real things that actually happened. A carefully curated mess, designed so that one day after she's dead and buried, someone would read it and never be entirely sure what was true.
A final joke from beyond the grave, waiting patiently in ink.
But for now Cass just gave everyone an innocent smile and a soft, "Something like that. Thank you Steph."
Steph grinned, bright and relieved. “Anytime.”
“For Miss Brown, from Master Bruce,” Alfred held out the smallest box under the tree. The wrapping paper was metallic purple and only showed her excited face for a second before she ripped it off in one go.
Inside the box was a single LEGO Barman minifigure. It was tiny. It was blocky. The black cape, the molded cowl, the little printed scowl and all.
Then she made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a delighted gasp. “No. No, you did not.”
Bruce shifted slightly. “I was given several items like that over the years from people I've saved” he said, measured as ever. “I thought with your latest LEGO obsession you might appreciate it.”
“Oh my god,” she breathed, lifting the minifigure reverently. “He’s perfect!”
She set the LEGO Batman on the arm of the couch, bent slightly at the waist like he was mid-prowl, and cleared her throat.
In a gravelly, overdramatic voice: “I am Batman. I only work in black. And sometimes… very, very dark gray.”
Steph made the minifigure take two stiff, jerky steps across the cushion. "I don't talk about feelings, Alfred. I don't have any, I've never seen one. I'm a night-stalking, crime-fighting vigilante, and a heavy metal rapping machine. I don't feel anything emotionally, except for rage. 24/7, 365, at a million percent. And if you think that there's something behind that, then you're crazy."
Dick doubled over with unrestrained laughter, one hand braced on his knee like he needed the support. Duke was pointing at Bruce between breaths like this was somehow his fault. Tim made a helpless, strangled sound and covered his face, shoulders hitching despite his best effort to stay composed. Jason let out a laugh that echoed off the walls.
Damian pressed his lips together starring very hard at the floor, doing everything in his power to keep it together. But the faint tremor of his shoulders ruined his efforts completely.
Cass let out a muffled chuckles through her hands as she watched Steph march the tiny figure across the furniture. Alfred’s shoulder shook from the gentle laughter and a fond smile he didn’t bother to hide.
Steph turned the tiny figure toward Alfred. “Father.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stephanie—”
LEGO Batman pointed accusingly at Bruce. “You’re not my dad. Alfred is my dad.”
Jason choked mid-laugh, bending forward with his hands braced on his knees. “P–please—” he gasped, trying and failing to breathe, “—stop—”
Steph had fully abandoned the act, wheezing as she slid halfway off the couch, clutching LEGO Batman to her chest like it would actually save her life.
The laughter lingered for a few more minutes before tapering off as people caught their breath and wiped at their eyes.
Tim finally managed to straighten, dragging in a shaky inhale. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Okay. I’m done. I’m done.”
Alfred cleared his throat before he reached beneath the tree and drew out the final gift.
“For Master Bruce,” he said, and handed it over. "From Master Damian."
Bruce accepted the package, nodding once in thanks while Damian sat very still.
Bruce undid the wrapping carefully. Inside was a leather-bound sketchbook, dark and unassuming.
“Thank you,” Bruce said automatically, already opening it.
On the first page was a drawing that made him freeze. A drawing replicated a photograph but translated into graphite and charcoal rather than color.
At the center stood a tall man in a dark suit, jacket. His posture tall and formal. Damian had paid close attention to the way the fabric sat on his shoulders and how the suit hung straight down his frame. His expression was calm and neutral, eyes forward, features shaded lightly instead of exaggerated.
Seated beside him was a woman in a dark dress, her figure angled slightly inward. The folds of her dress were drawn with layered strokes, her necklace rested at her collarbone, each pearl carefully outlined. Her expression and posture were composed relaxed.
Beside her stood a boy, facing forward with a small smile on his face, dressed in a light-colored suit. The contrast between the child’s clothing and the darker attire of the adults was emphasized through cleaner highlights and softer shading. The man's hand rested on the child’s shoulder.
The background wasn’t left blank. Furniture, plants, and a round mirror were sketched in enough to give the scene structure without pulling focus from the figures. Everything was clean and intentional.
It looked immaculate, accurate, balanced, and drawn by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Bruce closed the notebook for a moment, then opened it again, slower this time, as if to be sure it was really there. Damian had captured the family portrait of Thomas, Martha, and a young Bruce exactly.
“It’s very well done,” Bruce said, the words came out raspy despite his best effort to keep them steady.
Alfred stepped closer, peering over Bruce’s shoulder. “Master Damian has an exceptional eye. The composition is faithful to the picture. You captured them as they were.”
Damian looked at his hands in his lap as he felt his face heat up. "Thank you."
That was all the opening the others needed.
“Ohhh,” Steph said immediately grinning. “Damian this is so touching!”
Jason leaned back, smirk firmly in place. “Didn’t know you were into sentimental portraiture.”
“It is not sentimental,” Damian snapped. “It is documentation.”
Dick snapped a picture of Damian. “You hid a secret drawing of Bruce with his parents in a notebook and gave it to him for Christmas.”
Tim ruffled Damian's hair. “That’s aggressively soft.”
Damian used his fingers to comb his hair back into place. “You are all so dramatic. Father deserves nothing but the best.”
Bruce closed the notebook carefully.. He didn’t join the teasing. He only rested the notebook in his lap.
Alfred cleared his throat lightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Shall we wrap this up before Master Damian is teased into fleeing the room?”
Damian rose immediately. “I am not fleeing.”
Jason laughed. “Sure thing, Van Gogh."
The room filled with cheerful noise again, More teasing, laughter, warmth settling back into place while the notebook remained exactly where Bruce had set it.
By the time evening crept in, the festivities had quieted down as everyone turned in for the night.
Dick never put the camera down. He burned through the roll with reckless joy. It sat on his nightstand, ready to be developed the very next morning.
Jason kept the thermos within reach all day. It followed him from room to room, constantly being refilled throughout the day.
Tim's book never left his hand once he started reading it, the spine cracked open, marking his slow progress.
Damian wore the scarf when he took Ace and Titus for an evening walk. When that was done he wasn't ready to take it off, so he enjoyed one last cup of hot chocolate on the back porch watching the stars.
Duke handled the vinyl like it was fragile glass, holding it up to the light more than once before carefully setting it somewhere safe, where no one could accidentally knock it over. Every time he looked at it, he couldn't help but smile.
Cass opened her journal later and filled the first page with one of many stories, then closed it again and tucked it away, not wanting to have anyone spoil the surprise.
LEGO Batman migrated throughout the Manor as quick and swiftly as the real Batman. From the coffee table, to the mantle, to Bruce’s desk. Every time Bruce noticed it, he chose not to say anything. Even mentally thanking the figure for a good job patrolling the Manor for any danger.
Bruce carefully tore out the portrait. It hung on a wall in the Batcave in a nice frame. A beautiful reminder of why he does what he does.
Alfred had spent extra time finding a place for all of his gifts from everyone. But like always he managed.
When everyone finally went to sleep the Manor's lights were dimmed low, the wrapping paper was cleared away.
Hey girl, I’m sorry to bother you but are you okay for me to write girl dad!bruce Wayne headcanons? I’ve had them in my drafts since October and I came across your fics and I wanted to ask if your okay with me publishing it because I don’t wanna copy you
I loook forward to your response!!
Go ahead! I don't mind at all. Just tag me so I can read them.
Y'all I promise I'm writing stuff. I got a new job and it's DOMINATING most of my time. The few times I have to write my brain won't work. The ideas are all RIGHT THERE but I just can't... make... words... appear....
But trust I'm doing my best and I got something planned for the holidays and I'm gonna post something else before New Years. Just be patient🙇🏽♀️🙏🏽💖
The Wayne Manor’s private theater was never quiet.
On any given day it hosted chaotic movie nights, Tim's latest elaborate conspiracy theory presentations, Damian's detailed nature documentaries, or you and Dick’s karaoke duet disasters that somehow turned into Alfred’s favorite concerts.
The summons came in a group text at 11:03 a.m.
Bruce: Theater. Ten minutes.
By 11:10 a.m., the boys filed into the manor’s private theater like reluctant jurors. The popcorn machine was off. The velvet curtains were drawn tight. The lights had been dimmed to a level that suggested someone was about to be interrogated rather than entertained.
Jason dropped onto one of the plush couches. “What’d we do this time?”
“If this is about the mission reports, I already submitted mine,” Tim said his brows pinched together.
Dick offered a placating half-smile. “Relax. It’s probably another one of Bruce’s communication exercises. We’ll do some trust falls, talk about feelings, maybe hug it out.”
Damian scoffed. “Father doesn’t hug. He embraces with intent.”
Duke slid into another couch and held a plush pillow to his chest. “Somehow I don't think this is a cute little exercise?”
The boys fell silent as Bruce emerged from the shadows at the front of the theater. He was dressed in full billionaire-at-home attire — a sleek black sweater, neat slacks, coffee in hand — and carried himself with the composure of a marble statue ready to judge anyone who breathed too loudly. Behind him, the projector screen casted a glow across the room, displaying an interesting title:
“Evidence of Hypocrisy.”
Duke tilted his head, visibly confused, as if the title was a trick question. “Um, what is this?”
Bruce picked up the remote off the podium. “For weeks, I’ve heard my sons insist that I am a total pushover who spoil my daughters. For the past several months, I ignored it at first. But after hearing the claim in multiple rooms of this house and, apparently on an open comms channel to the Watchtower”—his eyes cut pointedly toward Dick, who suddenly couldn't meet his father's eyes—“I’ve decided the narrative requires a slight correction.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, completely unimpressed. “You really made a whole PowerPoint presentation just to prove you're not a total girl dad?”
"No, I definitely am." Bruce picked up the remote. “And I don't care.”
Damian crossed his arms. "Well if you don’t care then what is this?”
“This,” Bruce began, “is about accountability.”
He clicked a button on the remote. The title slide flickered to life, bold and damning.
Jason Todd: Exhibit A – Weapons Customization
The projector flared to life behind Bruce, revealing two photographs: Cass’s knife set, sleek and black with a subtle blue luminescence, and yours—pale pink with rose-gold handles, each blade resting in a velvet-lined case embossed with your initials. Both sets looked less like weapons and more like luxury items sold to assassins with impeccable taste.
Bruce looked directly at Jason. "Care to explain what these weapons are?"
Jason slouched as far as gravity would allow. "Those aren’t weapons. They’re works of art.”
“This art was forged on the black market,” Bruce said flatly. “By a man on the FBI watchlist.”
Before Jason could respond, the screen shifted to grainy security footage—just the first of many incriminating clips…
…Rain hammered against Jason’s apartment windows in the video. Inside, you and Cass stood around his kitchen table, a tarp spread across the surface like you were preparing for either a craft project or a murder. Jason gently set down two long black cases like he was presenting sacred relics.
“You guys are gonna love this,” he said, wearing the kind of grin that usually preceded some kind of explosion.
You groaned. “Half the time you say that, something explodes.”
“Well not this time,” he said. "Not tonight at least."
He opened the first case. Cass leaned forward, her eyes brightening at the sight of the knives. A set of twelve, sleek, balanced, and absurdly beautiful.
Jason gently handed her one. "I know I said no when you first asked, but once I met the guy who makes these? No way I was walking out without a couple sets.”
He turned to you, flipping open the second case. Your set shimmered gold under the light, delicate etchings winding along the blades.
“Hope you don't mind, I made them a matching set,” he said proudly. “Nice and lethal, and very sparkly.”
You twirled one experimentally. “They light up in different shades under the light. Just like we wanted!”
Cass tilted hers to watch the silver shine trace the edge. “Jason, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”
Jason smirked. “You can thank me by telling everyone I’m your favorite brother.”
You carefully rubbed your thumb along the blade, feeling the metal without cutting yourself. “Does Bruce know about this?”
Jason hesitated. “Bruce knows a lot about a lot of things, but he doesn't need to know everything.”
Cass snorted. “So no.”
You shook your head but failed to hide your amused smile. “He’s gonna get you for this if he finds out.”
Jason shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “He won't. Trust me.”…
…Back in the theater, Bruce folded his arms. “You paid six figures for glowing blades.”
Jason shrugged, but his body was too rigid for him to come off as nonchalant as he wanted to look. “They asked for them Bruce. And it's not like I emptied my bank account. I mean c'mon, a crime lord filing for bankruptcy, how lame is that?”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. “These are not legal purchases.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “Neither are half your gadgets, old man. Would the GCPD be okay with you having a batarang if you were just a regular civilian?”
“This isn’t about me.” Bruce took a long, judgment-flavored sip of his coffee. “Moving on.”
Jason Todd: Exhibit B – Banned Breakfast Run
Bruce pressed the remote, and the next slide appeared: a grainy late-night security photo of you, Cass, and Jason, squeezed into a cherry red vinyl booth at Rudy’s 24-Hour Diner. The waitress—hairnet, bright smile, decades of diner-wisdom—handed you a mug of hot chocolate almost the size of your head, topped with a mountain of whipped cream, as Jason smiled like he’d just gotten away with something.
“Surveillance footage, one-thirty a.m.,” Bruce said evenly. “Reported gunfire three blocks away.”
Jason lifted his chin, wearing arrogance like armor. “That gunfire had nothing to do with us. We were refueling.”
“On coffee and waffles?”
Jason’s grin widened. “You clearly never had Rudy’s waffles.” ...
…It had been a long patrol that night—cold rain, slick rooftops, and freezing winds didn't make the night any easier.
Cass's voice crackled through comms: “Patrol complete. Mission accomplished. Time for phase two.”
Jason frowned from his perch on the edge of a rooftop. “Phase two?”
You smiled, already knowing. “The phase where we get waffles and hot chocolate.”
Jason exhaled through the comms, half-amused and half-disbelief. "We need to head back to the Batcave and give Bruce a status report. So no late night waffle run this time."
Seconds passed when Jason heard soft footsteps behind him. When he turned, he found you and Cass standing side-by-side, masks adjusted just enough for him to see your eyes. Wide, hopeful, pleading, and devastating.
It was a coordinated, silent assault. The infamous duo puppy-dog-eye attack. Jason has survived gunfights, assassins, and vindictive younger brothers. He can survive this. He won't be defeated.
Nope.
No way.
Not happening.
Twenty minutes later, you were tucked in the corner booth of the greasiest diner in Gotham, still in costume. Cass pouring a generous amount of syrup on her chocolate chip waffles, Jason poured half the sugar jar into his coffee, and you tried to use your tongue to tie a knot with the cherry stem that topped your hot chocolate.
“Intel gathering,” Jason said. "We'll just tell Bruce we are gathering extra intel."
“Right,” Cass nodded. “Gathering syrup intel.”
You nodded once, sharp and serious, fully committed to the bit. “High risk. High reward. Very important.”
The waitress brought another stack of waffles. You leaned back against the booth, the hum of the city fading into background noise…
...Bruce planted a hand on his hip, the posture of a man clinging to the last thread of patience. “That establishment is routinely raided by the GCPD for numerous illegal activities.”
Jason lifts both his hands up like he's a hostage . “They said Rudy's serve the best waffles in Gotham. I had to taste for myself."
Dick laughs under his breath. “That's an interesting way of saying that you surrendered to a pair of puppy dog-dog-eyes.”
"It is an effective weapon I'm telling you!"
Bruce exhaled slowly, muttering something that sounded vaguely like counting to ten. "Let's just…move on."
Tim Drake: Exhibit A - Retail Therapy
The screen behind Bruce filled with rows of order receipts, a spreadsheets of pure financial havoc. With each click of the remote, more spreadsheets appeared, each slide showcasing a new cluster of purchases. And with every slide, the dollar amounts climbed higher.
Amazon, Etsy, TikTok Shop, luxury jewelry, high-end fashion, and dozens random websites — all neatly itemized under a single billing name:
T. Drake.
Duke leaned forward, eyes widening. “Look at all those plushies.”
Bruce's remained locked on the screen. “Plushies. Candles. Skin care. Clothing. Art commissions. A handmade night-light shaped like a bat.”
Dick grinned. “That’s kind of sweet.”
Bruce turned his head. “It cost two hundred dollars.”
“Damn! Less sweet.”
Tim sat frozen, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “It’s not what it looks like…?”...
…Large beams of sunlight shined through the window as you were curled up on the couch with Cass one day, the two of you deep in your sacred ritual known as online retail therapy.
Cass has been dancing until her feet bled because of an important ballet performance. Over three hundred girls tried out for the part of Princess Odette in Swan Lake, and Cass was the one who got the part. She was ecstatic of course, but she put a ton of pressure on herself to perform excellently. Suddenly even basic moves like a jeté, fondu, and changement were off and imperfect.
You weren't much better. You were nose deep in your studies for the Bar Exam. The one last obstacle in your way of becoming a lawyer. You were desperate to pass the exam on the first try. Yes, New Jersey didn't have a hard limit on the amount of times you can take it like other states did. But no one wants to take the Bar Exam six times to become a lawyer. Especially since you studying for the first attempt had cost you food, sleep, and sanity.
Eventually Tim came along. Like the good brother he is he sat you both down and gave you the reassurance you both needed. Even suggesting some sister time since that always put you both in a good mood. And generously offering up his credit cards and bank account numbers to fund it.
Well, who could say no to a shopping spree on their kind billionaire brother's dime?
Cass showed you her laptop. “This candle says ‘Sunset Lover.’ It's corny and I like it.”
You nodded. “Add to cart. Oh—look at this shark plush.”
Cass grinned “Therapeutic. Approved."
Three days later, the front hall of Wayne Manor resembled a shipping distribution center. Boxes were stacked shoulder-high, arranged with the chaotic precision of a natural disaster. Alfred signed for the last delivery with the expression of a man who’d seen too much. Tim took in everything like he was in a museum.
"Master Tim," Alfred walked around towers of boxes, careful not to knock anything over and cause an expensive avalanche. "Care to explain the reasoning for such an excessive haul?"
Cass appeared in the doorway holding a tapestry twice her size. “We decorate now.”
"Never mind," Alfred said expressionless.
Just as Alfred left the room, you came in, arms full of boxes labeled with a multitude of different shops printed on them.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “You two could bankrupt a small country.”
Cass smiled sweetly. “And it's all thanks to you.”
You dropped your boxes and came up behind Tim, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders. "We're going to take our stuff now. Thank you Tim."
A small smile crept on his face. "You're welcome."…
…The screen froze on a receipt for a $200 hand-knitted blanket.
Bruce folded his arms. “Your personal corporate account shows 312 transactions this quarter.”
Tim abruptly stood up and yelled, “I was optimizing workflow!”
Damian narrowed his eyes. “For who? The plushie-economy?”
"[NAME] AND CASS CAN'T FOCUS UNDER PRESSURE," Tim declared, dropping back into his seat and crossing his arms with all the anger of a wronged Victorian child. "If a shopping spree is what they want, a shopping spree is what they get!"
Dick chuckled. “You’re basically a subscription service now.”
"SHUT UP!"
Bruce took another slow sip of coffee, silently relishing in his point coming across. And he wasn't even half-way done. “Next.” Bruce clicked the remote.
Tim Drake: Exhibit B – The Drone Incident
The next slide appeared with a soft click: grainy rooftop footage of you and Cass mid-patrol, bubble tea in hand, while a sleek black drone hovered above you. Its single red lens glowed, and one mechanical claw held a small pink box and a drink tray like a waiter with impeccable balance.
Dick's jaw dropped. “Are you serious!?”
Bruce didn’t hesitate. “The B-D Seven prototype. A Wayne Enterprises drone. Whose purpose was for agricultural tasks, is being used for simple deliveries.”
Tim winced. “It was for data analysis.”…
…It had started on an unusually quiet patrol night. Gotham’s skyline stretched wide and glittering, the city humming far below. Cass stood at the roof’s edge, mask up, dark eyes scanning the streetlights. You sat next to her, casually swinging your legs as if the boredom of the night wasn't getting to you.
“I want tea,” you said simply.
Cass nodded. “Me too. Tea and donuts.”
Over the comms, Tim’s voice came through. “Stay put. I’ll handle it.”
You frowned. “Handle it how?"
He didn’t respond—but fifteen minutes later, you got your answer. A compact black drone zipped over the rooftop, and gracefully hovered in front of you two. Its claw lowered, presenting two perfectly sealed cups of boba and a pink pastry box.
Cass studied it. “You stole the Wayne Enterprises prototype drone.”
Tim’s voice carried a hint of pride. “I'm optimizing it's response time and speed capabilities. ”
Cass laughed, taking a donut. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I'm efficient,” Tim corrected.
You noticed the small camera lens pivot towards you. “Is it taking pictures?”
“For documentation,” Tim said. "We need to know if it's working. Obviously."
The drone clicked softly—then projected a live preview on your comm display: you and Cass, perfectly framed against Gotham’s skyline, boba and donuts in hand, looking like a mysteriously well-funded indie magazine photoshoot…
…Back in the theater, the image on the screen lingered—you and Cass mid-sip. Two masked vigilantes enjoying boba like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Damian shook his head in utter disappointment. "Weak and shameless. Blatant favoritism is unacceptable."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Is that so Damian?"
Click
Damian Wayne: Exhibit A – Taking the Blame
The theater screen lit up with a blurry, crazy freeze-frame: Dick Grayson mid-fall, flailing through the air in perfect Nightwing panic, illuminated by security footage as he plummeted off a four-story rooftop.
Duke snickered in to his palm. “Is that—did he fall into a dumpster?”
Jason leaned forward. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Bruce cleared his throat. “Footage: Tuesday night. Downtown. Four-story drop. Resulting in one dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, and—according to the EMT—‘the most offended expression they have ever seen.’ ”
Dick whined. “We’re really doing this...”
Another frame appeared. It as an image zoomed in on you and Cass, crouched behind an air vent, hands over your mouths, eyes wide with the exact level of panic reserved for realizing a joke went a little too far.
Tim whispered, “Oh my god. What did they do?”
Bruce didn’t bother answering. He simply pressed play…
…It had been supposed to be a harmless prank. A simple scare.
You and Cass had spent the entire afternoon planning it—testing tripwire angles, timing the hologram projector, arguing whether the jump-scare should be a clown, a ghost, or a giant spider. You both settled on an angry pigeon.
Night had fallen by the time Dick arrived for rooftop patrol, humming to himself, escrimas spinning as he landed on the roof.
“Alright, team,” he said into comms, “who’s ready to—”
The motion sensor triggered.
A gigantic luminescent pigeon erupted from behind the air-conditioning unit, wings flapping with unhinged fury and a speaker blaring an ungodly honk.
Dick screamed, it was high-pitched, girly, deeply embarrassing. He backflipped so far he overshot the ledge.
“Oh shit,” you yelped, scrambling forward.
Cass lunged too late, fingers grabbing empty air as Dick disappeared over the ledge. A metallic thud echoed from the alley below. You and Cass peered over the edge and saw Dick lay in an empty dumpster.
He groaned. “Why… does everything smell like cabbage?”
Cass squeezed your arm. “We run?”
You nodded. “We run.”…
…Back in the theater, the video replayed Dick’s miserable dumpster fall at multiple angles on a loop.
Dick didn’t fall so much as he cartwheeled into disaster.
He hit the metal bottom face-down. His head and shoulders went straight into the dumpster first, his spine curving backward leaving his legs hanging over his head like a scorpion's tail.
Jason wheezed. Tim wiped tears from his eyes. Duke looked physically pained from trying not to laugh.
Dick’s jaw dropped. “Those two did that!?”
Damian, who sat perfectly straight. Perfectly composed. Not at all guilty.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You told everyone you set the trap.”
Damian looked at the floor. “I did.”
Jason barked a laugh. “We just watched those domestic terrorists build a holographic murder pigeon.”
Dick looked personally betrayed. “Damian. You let me believe you tried to assassinate me with a holographic bird.”
Damian folded his arms, voice cool and clipped. “I merely allowed you to assume.”
Duke wheezed. “You blatantly took the blame.”
Damian exhaled sharply, cheeks warming in the faintest, tiniest way possible for him. “They felt remorse because you were injured. They didn't want you to be upset with them."
Dick stared at his younger brother, eyes softening just enough to be visible. “Damian… you didn’t have to cover for them.”
Damian huffed. “They are—” His jaw tightened—then relaxed. He corrected himself. “—family. They should not endure your wrath over a prank that went awry.”
Jason snorted. “Translation: he’s a big softie.”
Damian shot him a death glare sharp enough to slice through Kevlar.
Tim shook his head, grinning. “This is actually the nicest thing you’ve ever done.”
Dick let out a sigh equal parts impressed and exasperated. “I wasn’t going to yell at them, you know.”
"Oh we know," Bruce said. "Because you're one of the biggest spoilers in the house. But we'll get to that after Duke."
Duke sat up in his seat. "Say what!?"
Duke Thomas: Exhibit A – Joyride
The projector flickered, revealing a crisp security photo of the Batmobile zooming through empty streets for ten minutes before parking beneath a garish neon sign that read Gotham Night Market.
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “I know a joyride when I see one.”
“Repeated joyrides and food stops over the course of a week,” Bruce confirmed. “Under the guise of testing the new GPS calibration.”
Tim immediately lost it, laughing so hard he had to brace himself on the armrest. “Testing! Oh, that’s what we’re calling joyriding and late-night snacking now?”
Damian squinted his eyes at Duke, clearly judging the poor boy. "The Batmobile has thirteen gears and this is what you do with them?"
Bruce clicked again. A voice recording played this time—the Batmobile at a curb in an alley…
…Patrol had wrapped early. You, Duke, and Cass were still pumped up from the adrenaline, too restless to call it a night just yet. You spun the Batmobile keys on your finger and grinned.
“Alright,” you said, “The Batmobile's new GPS needs to be tested. Wanna ride along?”
Cass jumped into the passenger seat through the open window. "I'm in."
Duke raised an eyebrow. “Again? We've done that four times this week."
“But this is the best time to test,” you replied. “Less traffic, more scientific accuracy.”
“Navigation responsiveness,” Cass said quickly through the window. “And maybe brake control. It's standard maintenance.”
"I still say we just head back to the Batcave," Duke argued.
You dangled the keys inches from Duke's face. "What if I let you drive this time?"
Duke's eyes stayed on the keys as they quickly swung back and forth, desperately trying to resist it's reckless temptation.
But your impromptu hypnotisms worked, because for the next thirty minutes Duke expertly maneuvered the car around tight corners, weaving and dodging anything that came in his path. Gaining more confidence and tossing any insecurities as you, Cass, and any excited civilians watching cheered and encouraged him.
Soon the city's lights disappeared behind you as the Batmobile rolled into a quieter strip of neon market lights. Locals talked and laughed freely, music buzzed through cheap speakers as late night partiers danced without a care, and the steam and smell of sugar and spices from the food stalls ran through the streets like a fog.
The three of you stopped and ended up walking through the night market—still in costume—eating skewers and ice cream while the Batmobile sat in the background like a bodyguard. You all paid in cash, waved off the confused looks, and proudly declared the “field test” a success...
…Tim shook his head in disappointment, like he wasn't in the hot seat earlier. “Every drive is recorded. But you logged it as calibration data.”
Dick grinned. “You’re lucky Bruce didn’t send an airstrike.”
Bruce looked at Duke, voice perfectly even. “Next time I won't let you off so easily.”
Duke's shoulders slumped in guilt and defeat. "Understood."
"Now," Bruce announced slowly. "We've come to the worst offender."
Everyone's eyes shifted to Dick. His eyes were wide with fear. The same kind of fear that a kid gets when they know they messed up, and their parents know.
Dick Grayson: Exhibit A – Training Vacation
The screen shifted to a slideshow of suspiciously scenic photos.
The first showed Dick on a tropical beach, sunglasses perched in his hair, smiling with a bright pink smoothie in his hand. The second featured Cass in yoga gear, mid-stretch, the ocean shimmering behind her. The third one of you, coming out of the ocean, surfboard in tucked under your arm, casually moving your hair out of your face like you were starring in a tourist commercial.
Jason glared at Dick. "A vacation in the Maldives? And you didn't invite the rest of us big bro?”
Bruce’s tone was dangerously calm. “According to Dick, it was a ‘physical conditioning retreat.’ ”
Tim tilted his head. “With smoothies?”
Bruce continued, “The vigilante expense log includes resort accommodations, private instructors, and spa treatments—all filed under 'Tactical Training and Endurance Recovery.' "
Dick raised both hands. “Okay, hold on—context matters!”
Jason snorted. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”…
…It began with Dick leaning over the Manor breakfast table, a brochure in hand and his most disarming smile, loaded and ready.
“Alright, ladies,” he said, sliding the glossy paper between your plates. “How do we feel about a weekend retreat?”
You looked up from your food. “Retreat?”
Cass leaned closer, reading the brochure cover. “ ‘Ocean breeze and holistic balance?’ ”
Dick nodded eagerly. “Don’t let the branding fool you. It’s cross-disciplinary conditioning. Improves balance, coordination, inner focus, and much more. Very essential for combat.”
You narrowed your eyes. “So… yoga.”
“Combat yoga,” he corrected instantly. “It’s a thing, look it up.”
Cass smirked. “Do the others know?”
Dick hesitated. “They will… eventually.”
A week later, the three of you were standing on a sun-bleached deck overlooking turquoise water. A serene yoga instructor bowed politely. “Welcome, Mr. Grayson and guests. Drinks are this way.”
Cass turned to Dick. “This is not training.”
He shrugged, slipping off his shades. “We’re building endurance. Emotional endurance.”
You stood beside them, the ocean wind in your hair. “Endurance feels like vacation.”
“That's a good thing,” Dick said brightly. “We don't have to suffer to learn.”
For the whole weekend, Dick tried to justify room service as “nutritional recovery," but how nutritional can Mai Tais and Mojitos be? He added “aquatic acrobatics” to the itinerary, which was really just swimming and stealing towels shaped like manta rays.
Bruce called once, voice clipped. “Status report.”
Dick grinned at the phone. “Flexibility at 110%. Morale excellent.”
Bruce paused. “Are you on speakerphone?”
Cass answered immediately. “Yes. We are stretching.”
“Stretching for what?”
“An intense nature hike,” you said confidently. "Which we're late for. Love you!"
Dick hung up the phone and dodged any calls from Bruce for the rest of the weekend…
…The silence in the theater carried weight. The image on-screen—the three of you posing with a dolphin—did all the damage for him.
Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You turned a tropical resort into a deductible expense. And now you're trying to spin the story in a way that makes it seem like a business investment, and not a way for you to mess around on the vigilante credit card."
Dick shrugged, feigning innocence. “They needed rest. I needed a tan.”
Bruce didn’t blink. “You submitted an invoice labeled ‘Rehabilitation and Strategic Breathing.’”
“Which,” Dick said smoothly, “was very strategic.”
"Not as strategic as the next offense," Bruce glared at the screen.
Dick Grayson: Exhibit B – Gala Getaway
Bruce pressed the remote once more. The screen lit with a still from a Wayne Enterprises security feed: an empty ballroom entrance, doors swinging wide, and the faint blur of three figures slipping out into the night.
Duke groaned. “I remember this gala. It was the most excruciating gala we've went to!”
Damian rubbed his temples. "It was as if every infuriating socialite on planet Earth attended that night."
Bruce spoke up. “A Wayne Enterprises charity gala. Formal attire required. Attendance mandatory.”
Tim frowned. “And what did everyone's one and only Boy Wonder do?”
“They lasted twenty-seven minutes,” Bruce said. “Before Dick decided to make a hasty retreat.”…
…The ballroom had been suffocating—blindingly bright gold chandeliers, polite laughter echoing in forced waves, and donors discussing quarterly earnings like it was a competitive sport.
Bruce was cornered by greedy businessmen and benefactors. Tim was answering a barrage of unwanted tech questions. Damian was intimidating a senator’s son into tears. Jason was trying to outrun a trio of drunken socialites who kept calling him “mysterious and broody.” Duke was nodding along to an elderly veterans long and nonsensical war story, occasionally trying to recruit Duke into a regimen that no longer existed.
You and Cass lingered by the far wall, trying to look awake. You both managed to scare away anyone attempting to speak to the two of you with uninterested glances and sharp glares.
Cass swirled her drink in its glass, it was the only thing entertaining to her right now. “This is boring.”
You exhaled slowly. “Bruce told us it builds character.”
She frowned. “Character is tired.”
Before you could respond, Dick drifted to your side like a well-dressed phantom, grin sharp and dangerous. “Ladies,” he whispered, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I have a proposal.”
Cass raised a brow. “A proposal?”
“Think of it as a tactical maneuver,” Dick said, leaning closer. “Operation Sanity. High-value objective: escape. Preferred outcome: freedom. Extraction window opens in thirty seconds.”
You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you actually suggesting we ditch the gala?”
“I’m not suggesting,” Dick corrected, “I’m initiating. Blüdhaven is thirty minutes from Gotham and Kori made cookies. So it's either stay here and suffer in heels with your bobby pins pulling your hair, or dress in comfy pjs at my place while eating cookies and watching movies."
The choice was beyond easy. Five minutes later, the city lights blurred past as Dick drove through Gotham with the windows down. Your heels lying abandoned on the floor, while the music from the speakers blasted.
You rested your bare feet on the dashboard. “Target achieved.”
Cass pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and dropped it on the seat next to her. “Bruce will notice the absence.”
Dick waved that off with a flick of his wrist. “Please. He’s swimming in donors. He’ll be busy until dawn.” ...
…Dick smiled faintly at the memory. “Best decision I made all year.”
Jason gripped the armrest as he shot his brother a dirty look. “You ditched the rest of us without so much as a warning?”
Dick shrugged, palms up. “I extended a private invitation. They looked like they were seconds away from a spontaneous boredom-related collapse.”
Tim's voice jumped an octave. “We were all seconds away from collapse, Dick! Misery was a group project.”
Bruce kept his expression neutral, but his tone sharpened. “I was in the middle of giving a speech when the three of you disappeared.”
Damian snapped. “You ditched father alone with the board members? The board!? Dick, those people eat feelings for breakfast!”
Dick shrugged again, entirely unapologetic. “He’s Bruce Wayne. I assumed he could handle a room of people.”
Duke gestured wildly. “Handling them isn’t the point! You could’ve at least signaled us to follow. Thrown a rope. Sent a bat-shaped smoke signal!”
Damian crossed his arms. “Father was humiliated.”
Bruce deadpanned. “I was not humiliated.”
Jason gave him a sympathetic look. “Bruce, my man, you looked so miserable I considered calling for medical assistance.”
Bruce shot him a flat look. “We were all miserable. The gala was a success financially, but truly unfortunate emotionally.”
Dick leaned back, hands behind his head, fully satisfied. “Exactly. Which is why our strategic retreat was the right call.”
Bruce's jaw locked, his cheek muscle twitched. "This one we all know. A blast from the past if you will."
Dick Grayson: Exhibit C – Birthday Overkill
Dick threw his hands up at the screen, genuinely offended. “Another one? Come on—there’s no way I'm this bad.”
Tim gave him a smug, knowing smile. “You gave him material for a full trilogy, Dick. This is your fault.”
The photo on-screen could have easily been stolen from a luxury event planner’s portfolio: balloons cascaded from the ceiling, tables overflowed with catering trays, string lights crisscrossed the garden, and an avalanche of confetti blanketed every visible surface.
Bruce clicked through multiple slides from that night. “That was a joint birthday celebration for your sisters, since they were born so close together. The same ‘small get-together’ I was promised, had escalated into renting a whole circus, a fireworks permit, and a live DJ in the garden.”
Dick smiled faintly. “In my defense—”
“Don’t even try with your bullshit!” Jason yelled. “You threw a Wayne-scale spectacle in the backyard!”...
…It had started quietly—like every major Dick Grayson scheme. Two weeks before the birthday, he’d overheard you talking to Alfred in the game room.
“It’s just another day,” you said, waving it off. “Seriously, no fuss. No big deal.”
Cass nodded, completely engrossed in her video game. “Birthdays…are…overrated.”
Dick paused in the doorway with a protein bar halfway to his mouth frowned. Overrated? No big deal?!
Incorrect. Unacceptable. Sacrilegious.
Three hours later, he was on speakerphone with five vendors, pacing the gym while muttering in a low, decisive voice:
“No, I said a temporary stage. Yes, it needs confetti cannons. At least two. Preferably three—mm-hmm—yes, synchronized pyrotechnics are essential. Bring all the elephants ya got, i'm good for it."
By the night of the party, the manor looked like a festival had invaded the garden. Circus performers entertained and delighted all who watched them. Colorful lights made the even look like a dream. Dessert tables bent under the weight of finger foods and pastries.
You and Cass stepped onto the patio…and immediately froze.
“Dick,” you whispered, staring at the spectacle, “what did you do?”
He held up a pair of sparklers and beamed. “Surprise!”
Cass gave him a flat stare. “This looks like carnival.”
“Exactly!” Dick declared, utterly triumphant. “You both deserve joy. Uncontrollable, over-budgeted joy.”
The fireworks launched mid-sentence, erupting over the gardens in a colorful spectacle. Cass was actually startled—then slowly relaxed, a small smile forming. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your drink.
Halfway through the event, Bruce appeared in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides as his body barely managed restraint.
“Richard.”
Dick turned, completely unfazed. “Hey, Bruce! Want a cupcake?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “How did your small get-together turn into a Disney sized theme park at our house!?”
Dick grinned like a child. “Resourcefulness. You always said it was one of my strengths.”…
…The final photo lingered on the screen: the three of you in motion—Cass smiling with frosting on her cheek, you biting into cotton candy, and Dick glowing with the self-satisfaction of a man who had absolutely committed a crime he would absolutely repeat.
Damian frowned. “The Batcave alarms went off from the noise.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose in a long, irritated breath. “The party caused three security alerts, four noise complaints, and a brief power outage on the east side.”
Dick leaned back, still smiling like this was all complimentary press. “And yet—they had fun.”
Duke whispered to Tim, “He’s not even remotely ashamed.”
“I know,” Tim muttered. “It’s horrifying.”
"Not as horrifying as the last one," Bruce stated grimly.
Dick Grayson: Exhibit D – Concert Fiasco
A hectic video played on the screen: a packed arena pulsing with laser lights, confetti raining down, thousands of fans screaming. The video zoomed in on you, Dick, and Cass front row center, waving lightsticks as the performance went on.
Jason pointed so hard he nearly dislocated his shoulder. “Hold up—is that NewDenim? You took them to a NewDenim concert!?”
Bruce's gaze lingered on Dick. “He claimed it was a tactical exercise in crowd navigation.”
Tim lunged over the seats and grabbed Dick by his collar. “You know we love NewDenim in this house! It's one of the few things we agree on!”
Duke looked genuinely betrayed. “We made a pact. A blood oath. We promised to go on their tour together. And. You. Lied. To. Us!”
“He bought them merch and the official glowsticks,” Bruce added dryly. “Observe.”…
…Dick strolled into the Manor’s living room holding three concert tickets between his fingers like they were top-secret mission orders.
“Team bonding,” he announced. “High-energy environment. Great for situational awareness.”
You gave him a long, incredulous look. “By going to… a concert?”
“Yes. An immersive tactical experience,” he corrected.
Cass leaned in to examine the tickets. The moment she read the print, her eyes widened. “NEWDEMIN. FRONT ROW.”
You snatched the tickets so fast you nearly airbent them out of his hand. Holding them inches from your face, you hissed, “Dick, if this is a joke, I will personally feed you to the bats in the cave.”
“It's not a prank. They're one hundred percent real.” Dick said proudly. “This will be the perfect vantage point to observe crowd behavior, light synchronization, and rhythm-based coordination. Super necessary and beneficial to our mental health.”
Cass plucked one ticket from your hand. "Sounds like a plan!"
The night of the concert, you and Cass followed Dick into the arena, the noise and lights hitting like a physical force. People screamed. The floor shook. Dick was dressed as Nightwing, he talked his way past all of the starstruck security until ended up backstage, with the members.
Cass held up her phone, displaying the selfies with the band members triumphantly. “Evidence of the greatest night of our lives.”
“For the report,” Dick said with a straight face.
You held your light stick close to your heart, like it would disintegrate if you didn't. “Best mission ever!"
When the concert started, Dick put on his civilian clothes and met you and Cass at the front row. When the lights shut off, the energy changes. None of you move. None of you spoke. You just soaked it all in. Then the beat dropped, and lights flashed. Your screams and cheers fused with the crowds as you sang every lyric of every song until your voice cracked.
Between songs, Cass leaned over. “This good training.”
You grinned. “Yeah! Endurance and happiness achieved as planned.”
Dick wrapped his arms around your shoulders. “Exactly what I wanted.”
The three of you spent the rest of the night dancing, laughing, and pretending it was all for “field coordination.”
When Bruce called an hour later, Dick silenced the phone without even looking. “We’ll debrief in the morning,” he said. “After the encore.”
"Because you know if the others found out they'll never forgive us," you called out.
Dick shrugged his shoulders and immediately started dancing to the next song. "Good thing they won't find out." …
…The room was silent for all exactly seven seconds.
Then Tim lunged. “You absolute traitor!”
Dick dodged him with practiced acrobat reflexes. “Whoa—easy! No need for violence—”
Jason grabbed a couch pillow and swung it like a medieval weapon. “Violence is EXACTLY what’s needed!”
Damian stormed forward, brandishing a printed photo of the concert like damning evidence. “You secured front-row seats!”
“They were for research!” Dick shouted, dodging sideways.
Dick barely dodged as Tim tried to smack him with the nearest throw pillow. Jason immediately joined the assault, grabbing another pillow with a war cry.
Duke came from the side, swinging his slipper at Dick repeatedly. “You got the light sticks, Dick! THE OFFICIAL LIGHT STICKS!”
“They were necessary!” Dick insisted, weaving between blows.
“Were they?!” Damian yelled. “Were they, Mr. Tactical Confetti?!”
Tim swung again. “We promised we’d all go when they came to Gotham! You're dead Grayson!"
Tim swung his fist at Dick but connected with the back of a couch cushion when he dodged, and another shout erupted as Jason vaulted up, pillow already in hand. Duke lunged in next, now wielding both slippers in each hand. Damian launched himself off the arm of the couch with zero hesitation and full intent—tackling Dick straight to the floor.
They hit the carpet with a thud that shook the projector stand.
“Get off me!” Dick wheezed, trying—and failing—to roll free.
“Face your consequences!” Damian barked, knees digging into Dick’s ribs like he was restraining a war criminal. “You betrayed familial trust!”
Jason swung his pillow at both of them. “Move over, Demon Spawn, I want a piece of him too!”
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Damian snapped as he struggled to wrestle Dick into total submission.
“Everyone stop!” Bruce shouted, stepping forward. But he might as well have said it into a wind tunnel. No one listened.
Tim jumped onto one of the chairs, using it as a launch pad. Duke ducked beneath him, slippers flailing in a blur of fuzzy vengeance. Jason went for another swing but hit the back of Tim's head instead, knocking him to the ground.
“Ow! Man fuck this. I'll just hack all his tech. It hurts less.” Tim grumbled from the floor. He ducked between the chairs and began furiously tapping his phone screen. "What's the meanest thing I can say to Kori that won't get someone killed…?"
“Enough!” Bruce’s voice boomed, but his kids were already in a full-scale battle. He waded in, trying to physically separate them. One hand caught Jason’s arm; the other yanked Damian backward by the collar. Dick twisted free choking on carpet fuzz.
Bruce hauled Damian off him like a furious housecat—only for Damian to immediately turn and latch onto Bruce’s torso, and attempting to climb over him to reach Dick again.
“Damian! Stop that!” Bruce gritted out, trying to pry they furious boy off his back while keeping Jason in place.
“I won’t until justice is served!” Damian barked, one hand braced on Bruce’s head, the other reaching for Dick’s hair. Bruce grabbed one of Damian's legs and pulled, but Damian wouldn't budge.
“Justice?!” Dick yelped from the floor, scrambling backward. “You’re five foot nothing, get off your dad!”
But Dick, too busy trying to swat Damian’s hands away, he didn’t see Jason got out of Bruce's grip.
“Gotcha,” Jason growled, swooping in like an eagle catching prey. He caught Dick from behind, locking him in a full nelson before Dick could blink. Taking advantage of the newfound closeness Damian grabbed a fist full of Dick's hair and relentlessly yanked on it.
“Hey! No!” Dick struggled, flailing his arms, feet kicking helplessly. “This is unnecessary roughness!”
Bruce put Jason in a headlock with his one free arm, trying to subdue Jason but the man was stubborn, and Damian wasn't easing up on his assault.
Duke raised both slippers dramatically. “Justice comes in pairs!”
He lunged forward, slippers swinging in fast, ridiculous arcs. Dick shrieked—an actual, undignified, high-pitched shriek—as he kicked his legs wildly to block the onslaught.
Jason tightened his hold, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “Keep struggling, it’s making it funnier!”
Tim popped his head up from his hiding spot. Seeing the fight he couldn't help but record it all on his phone. “This is the most violent group hug I’ve ever seen.”
Damian finally lost his grip on Bruce's head and fell backwards onto the ground, releasing Dick's hair in the process. But he wriggled his leg free of Bruce’s grip and stalked forward, fists balled.
“Don’t you dare,” Bruce warned.
But Damian dared.
He dove back into the fray and held down Dick's swinging legs, just as Duke’s slipper connected with Dick's shoulder and the mayhem increased. Duke's slippers flying, Dick yelling, Jason cackling, Tim filming, Damian cursing, and Bruce in the middle of it all like he’d forgotten whatever the hell peace ever was.
“I. Said. ENOUGH!” Bruce thundered, attempting to peel his children apart with the effectiveness of someone trying to separate five rabid angry raccoons.
Among the disarray, the theater door opened.
Cass stepped in first, a small duffle bag hanging from her shoulder. You were right behind her, setting down the grocery bags in your hands. You both of you gawked at the human disaster unfolding before you.
Bruce had Jason and Duke in a double headlock, but it didn’t stop them. Jason had his arms locked around Dick’s waist locking his arms at his sides like a wrestling champ, while Damian clung to Dick’s legs, both refusing to let him escape. Duke, using both of his trusty slippers to repeatedly smack Dick on the head, shoulders, and back.
Tim stood at a safe distance near the snack bar, phone out, recording the entire thing. “This is incredible,” he said cheerfully. “Finally, evidence that we’re a functional family.”
“Timothy!” Bruce barked. “Stop filming!”
Tim grinned, completely unbothered. “For posterity, Bruce. The people deserve to know.”
"Are we interrupting something?” you asked.
Just like that, all of the commotion stopped.
Duke froze mid-swing, one slipper still raised above his head. Damian paused with both arms clutching Dick’s legs. Dick's eyes wide and hair sticking out in every direction. Tim lowered his phone, still recording but pretending not to. And Bruce looked like he’d just aged ten years.
Cass giggled, the sound is soft but it cut through the tension like a bell. “You guys look like Titus when he got caught in the pantry.”
Bruce released his hold with a long, tired exhale. The abrupt motion sent Jason, Duke, and Damian collapsing in a tangled heap on top of Dick, who let out a muffled groan from underneath the pile.
“Did you need something?” Bruce asked, tying to sound soft and welcoming, but his tone dry enough to sand wood.
Cass pointed to her duffle bag. "I want someone to take me to ballet practice."
“And I’m meeting Ivy at her lab. She said I can help her feed her new carnivorous plant.” You nudged one of the bags with your foot. “She said it likes steak. The expensive kind."
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. Unfortunately I'm in the middle of a lesson. Can't you girls take your own cars."
"They're at the shop for maintenance," Cass said. "And Alfred is still out running errands."
Jason untangled himself from the pile and groaned. “I can take Cass.”
Tim propped himself up on an elbow. “No, you can’t. You’re banned from the ballet studio after last time.”
Jason glared. “It's not my fault the owner can't take rejection!”
Duke pushed himself upright, one slipper still in hand. “I’ll take her. I can drive.”
Bruce gave him a look. “You’re grounded from driving after the night market incidents.”
Duke dropped into one of the chairs with a huff. “I brought the car back in one piece, didn’t I?”
Dick opened his mouth to add something, but his phone began buzzing relentlessly, the screen lighting up with message after message. He frowned, swiped once…and visibly paled.
“Uh… I have something to take care of.”
Jason leaned over. “Is that Kori?”
Dick didn’t answer. He just bolted upright and sprinted out of the theater, zooming passed you and Cass.
Tim sauntered up to Cass, a huge grin on his face. "Well since Duke is grounded, Dick is in trouble, Jason is a heartbreaker, and Damian is a child, that leaves me. I'll take you to practice Cass."
Bruce turned to you next, eyes narrowing at the grocery bags full of meat. “And you are not going anywhere near Poison Ivy’s lab alone. I'll go with you to monitor things."
You smiled. "That's works for me. Now you can help Ivy if she needs help carrying stuff with your big Batman muscles instead of me."
Bruce sighed, long and heavy, like he was expecting the universe to personally apologized to him. "Fine, let's just go. Tim, Cass, make sure your back in time for dinner."
Tim straightened his jacket, grinning. “You got it, Bruce. We’ll even bring snacks.”
Cass gave a small wave as the four of you headed out, duffel over her shoulder. The moment the door shut behind the two of you, the theater went quiet again.
Jason looked at Duke and Damian. "Wanna eavesdrop on Kori cursing out Dick?"
Duke was already running towards the exit, Damian and Jason running right behind him. "I became fluent in Tamaranean just for moments like this!"
This part took too damn long but she's finally completed. I don't really have any other ideas for Spoiled Batgirls so if y'all have any ideas I'd love to hear them, requests are still open.
Fairy Queen [Name] sends Adventurer Martha and Fairy Knight Conner on a very important quest, for a very important cure. What begins as play, soon weaves real magic through the manor—where even the smallest hands can bring light back to the world.
Word Count: 3,629
💮Masterlist💮
The Fairy Queen sat on her fountain, sunlight gilding her hair like a blessing from the realm itself. The garden shimmered around her — roses swaying in respectful silence, lilies bowing to her under the soft breeze. A crown of hibiscus rested on her head, not as decoration, but as declaration.
This was her kingdom. The Realm of Wayne.
Fairy Knight Conner stood at her side, a loyal soldier in gleaming armor. His cape fluttered behind him with noble purpose. He watched the horizon of trimmed hedges as if an enemy could emerge from the rosebushes at any moment.
“Your Majesty,” he murmured, scanning the garden. “The perimeter is clear. All is well.”
You — the Fairy Queen — smiled, dipping your fingers into the fountain’s cool water. “Not yet, my brave knight. One still lurks within the walls of the neighboring kingdom. King Bruce has warned me of a troll most terrible. ”
Conner’s expression turned grave. “The one called Tim?”
“The very same,” you confirmed, voice soft but full of mischief. “He has fallen to the ancient curse of perpetual grumpiness. With King Bruce's domain so close to ours, the vicious troll can come any day."
The Fairy Knight placed a hand over his chest. “What will we do my queen? If we don't do something, Timmy the Troll's curse will spread throughout the land.”
“Indeed. But the cure cannot be brewed with ordinary means. It requires the rarest of magic.” You leaned closer, whispering as though the flowers themselves might eavesdrop. “A crown woven from blossoms of joy, peace, and kindness — gathered by the purest heart in the realm.”
As if on cue, the back door creaked open. Little seven year old Martha Wayne-Kent cautiously stepped into your realm. Her eyes wide with wonder as the plants seem to watch her every move. But still she pressed on. What a brave little adventurer.
Your smiled. “Ah. An adventurer has arrived. Fetch her please my brave knight."
"Yes my queen."
Conner bowed before slowly flying away, his armor catching glimmers of sunlight. Martha waited at the edge of the garden, tiny fingers clutching her satchel of supplies: a pink hand shovel, a magnifying glass, a snack sized bag of trail mix, and a Chococat notebook and pencil.
When Conner landed, he knelt before her, lowering his voice into a dramatic hush, she straightened up with the dignity of a soldier.
“The Fairy Queen requests your presence, young adventurer,” he said. “A great quest awaits.”
Martha’s gasp was immediate. “Is it scary?”
“Only for the weak,” Conner replied.
Martha lifted her chin, the picture of courage. “I’m ready.”
“Then follow me,” he said, offering his hand. She took it, and together they crossed beneath the archway of climbing jasmine, sunlight catching in her hair, dusting it gold.
When they reached the fountain, you were waiting — still and serene amid the flowers. The water sparkled behind you, your hibiscus crown glowing in the light.
You smiled as they approached. “Ah, the adventurer has arrived.”
Martha’s eyes went wide. “Fairy Queen Mommy,” she breathed, awestruck.
You extended a hand, letting her step closer. “There is a curse upon this land. The Grumpy Timmy the Troll within the manor walls has lost all joy.”
Martha clutching her satchel. “Uncle Timmy?”
You nodded gravely. “Only a crown woven from the rarest blossoms — flowers of joy, peace, and kindness— can save him. And I need a smart and brave adventurer. One who loves flowers and have a vast knowledge on them.”
Martha straightened, already scanning the garden for clues. “Me! I learned a lot about flowers from mommy. She's a florist. I’ll find them and bring them back. I promise!”
“Okay. But Fairy Knight Conner will guard you on your quest,” you said softly. “The Realm can be full of surprises.”
Conner saluted, completely serious. “I won’t let her out of my sight, my queen.”
“Good.” You touched Martha’s cheek, voice dropping to a whisper meant just for her. “Be brave, little adventurer. I'm counting on you."
You pointed down one of the paths. It seemed peaceful at first glance—lined with tall, leafy trees whose branches arched gracefully overhead, forming a natural tunnel of green. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting soft shadows on the ground.
And with that, the Fairy Adventurer and her loyal knight set off down the winding paths — toward the many flora, the hidden fauna, and the waiting magic only children can truly see.
The Fairy Adventurer marched further into the Realm of Wayne with her knight in tow. Every petal, every fluttering leaf seemed to turn toward her. The garden, after all, always knew a true hero when it saw one.
Conner stayed a respectful step behind, scanning for invisible danger with exaggerated caution. “You sense anything, Adventurer Martha?”
She crouched low to the earth, examining a bed of colorful blooms. “Hmm… no troll tracks yet. Do you Fairy Knight Daddy?"
"No. Nothing. That's good. We don't want to run into trouble on our mission."
“Fairy Knight Daddy,” Martha whispered, crouching dramatically behind a hydrangea bush. Conner followed her lead, effortlessly using his height to peer over her tiny form.
“Look at that,” she said, pointing toward a bed of flowers at the edge of the garden.
There, nestled in the warm sunlight, were the Transvaal Daisies. Their petals were an intense orange at the center, fading out to a soft pink at the edges. Their stems were sturdy and straight, holding up the blossoms with pride. The flowers shimmered in the breeze, their bright colors almost glowing against the greenery, like they were laughing at the very thought of being overlooked.
Martha’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “There they are! The joy flowers!”
The way she said it—full of awe, like she’d just spotted a mythical creature—made Conner’s chest tighten with quiet amusement.
“They’re beautiful,” Conner murmured.
“We have to get them. But they’re shy,” she warned. “They only come out for happy people.”
He crouched beside her. “Good thing we brought one.”
Martha frowned thoughtfully, then broke into a bright grin that could have powered Gotham for a week. “Okay. Let’s make them laugh!”
“What’s your plan, Adventurer?”
She pressed a finger to her lips, then started humming—soft, silly nonsense that grew into a tune. She wiggled her shoulders, stomped her feet, spun in a small circle, repeat. A dance meant purely for the flowers.
Conner joined in, copying her dance moves while snapping his fingers off-beat, his cape fluttering dramatically behind him making Martha giggle.
Soon enough, the daisies seemed to sway with them, nodding in rhythm to the tiny display of joy in their honor.
“They’re smiling!” Martha whispered. “They like us!”
She plucked a few carefully, holding it up to the light. “Transvaal daisies for joy,” she said with reverence. Then she leaned in and gave one of the blossoms a little kiss. “Thank you for your magic.”
Conner gave a mock salute to the flower bed. “Mission one: complete. Let's bring these back to the Fairy Queen."
With careful steps, the pair made their way back through the garden, the sound of their footsteps soft on the dirt path. When they reached the fountain, you sat there, hands resting on your stomach, as serene as the garden itself. You looked up as they approached, your gaze falling on the flowers Martha carried, the joy and hope in her eyes nearly as bright as the petals in her hands.
“Well done, brave adventurer,” you said softly, a smile curving your lips.
Martha’s chest puffed with pride, and she held out the flowers. “Transvaal daisies for joy, Fairy Queen Mommy!”
You took the flowers gently, meeting Martha’s eager eyes. “Now, dear adventurer, you must continue your journey. The next flower—the flower of peace—lies ahead. Follow the path to the far side of the garden.”
You pointed to a path that led deeper into the garden, where tall, stately trees created a natural arch over the trail, the air seeming still and calm.
Martha’s expression grew more serious, but the excitement never faded from her eyes. “I’ll find them! Thanks, Fairy Queen Mommy!” She spun on her heels and began marching down the path, Conner following closely behind.
The path curved into a quieter corner of the garden, where sunlight fell in thin beams between the leaves. The air was cooler and heavier with the scent of damp dirt and wild mint.
Soon Martha’s face lit up. “The peace flowers! We found them!” she whispered, her small hand tightening around her satchel strap.
They reached a clearing where the light changed into something softer. Filtering through willow branches that swayed like curtains. At the center grew a small field of white poppies, their stems thin and graceful, their petals pale as milk. They looked impossibly fragile, almost translucent, like they’d been created from the morning fog.
Each flower held a heart of golden dust, glowing faintly when the sun touched it. The poppies swayed together with slow, unhurried movements, as if breathing in unison. The air around them felt gentle.
“They look like they’re glowing,” Conner said quietly. “Guess that’s what peace looks like.”
The stillness wrapped around them, deep and soft, until a harsh caw and a sudden flutter of wings broke the silence.
Crows burst from the treetops, sweeping low across the garden with harsh, echoing cries. They circled above the poppies, their dark feathers flashing in the light, a storm of shadow against white petals.
Martha froze, clutching Conner’s leg. “They’re guarding them,” she whimpered.
Conner placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Looks like it.” His eyes followed the birds as they tilted their heads, their caws echoing across the clearing. “They must really like these poppies.”
"I counted eight of them Fairy Knight Daddy. We're outnumbered!"
One particularly bold crow strutted to the center of the patch. It pecked at the ground, then looked directly at them—as if daring them to come closer.
Martha frowned, thinking hard. “They won’t let us near them.”
“Then we’ll have to get creative,” Conner observed as the crows pecked at the flowers, trying to eat them. "It looks like they're hungry."
She dug through her satchel, rummaging past her magnifying glass and notebook until she found a small plastic bag. She held it up triumphantly. “Trail mix!”
“You packed snacks for the quest?”
She nodded proudly. “Always. Adventurers get hungry. But birds like snacks too.”
Her plan came together fast. “Here,” she gave Conner the bag. “You use your strong Daddy arms to throw the mix. Then I’ll get the flower.”
“Strong Daddy arms, huh? That’s a lot of pressure.”
Martha placed a gentle hand on one of Conners biceps. “You can do it. You’re a knight.”
He smiled, stepping into position. “Alright then. Watch the precision of a seasoned warrior.”
He tore the bag open and waited for the right moment. The crows had gone still, all eyes locked on him. The air tensed. Then, Conner hurled the handful of trail mix across the clearing.
The crows erupted in a whirl of feathers, chasing the snacks in a noisy, flapping storm.
“Now, Martha!” Conner called loudly.
Martha dashed forward and knelt before the poppies. She reached out carefully and plucked a handful. “White poppies for peace,” she said softly, holding it up like a treasure.
When she turned, Conner was already smiling. The crows were busy with their prize and the tension dissolved.
“Nice throw, Fairy Knight Daddy,” she said.
He winked. “All in the arms.”
They returned down the winding path, the sunlight soft again now that the crows had gone. Martha walked a little taller, her prize clutched in both hands.
Upon seeing Martha and Conner, a smile heartwarming smile graced your face.
“You’ve returned,” you said. “Tell me, brave adventurer—what treasure have you brought me?”
Martha stepped forward and held out the bloom, its white petals trembling slightly in the breeze. “White poppies for peace,” she said proudly. “The crows were guarding them, but Fairy Knight Daddy used his strong Daddy arms to save me.”
Conner flexed his arms and shot a wink your way. "Only the strongest knights for our Fairy Queen."
You took the flower gently from Martha's hands, trying to ignore your knights flirtatious antics.
Conner crossed his arms, trying to keep a straight face. “She handled it like a pro. Didn’t even flinch.”
Martha smiled up at him, beaming. “I wasn’t scared. Just smart.”
“That,” you said, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, “is the mark of a true adventurer.”
You turned, gesturing deeper into the garden, where the sunlight pooled bright and golden at the farthest edge. “One final flower remains. They grow where the light is warmest.”
Martha followed your gaze, eyes wide with wonder. “You can count on me!”
Martha giggled, clutching her satchel close as she turned toward the glowing path ahead. “Come on, Fairy Knight Daddy. The flowers are waiting.”
Conner gently took your hand from your stomach and gave your knuckles a tender kiss. Then off they went again.
The path opened into the sunniest corner of the garden.
Before them stretched a patch of daffodils blooming in a sea of yellow. Their petals flared open like tiny trumpets, catching the light and throwing it back brighter. Each flower’s center was a deeper gold. Some stood tall and proud, others bent gently with the breeze, nodding as if greeting whoever entered their corner of the garden.
The scent was clean and faintly sugary. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, the silent buzz blending with the quiet rustle of leaves in the bushes surrounding them. It was the gentlest place in the garden—soft light, soft air, soft sounds—exactly where kindness would grow best.
Martha stopped at the edge of the patch, her small face glowing. “They look like sunshine,” she whispered.
Conner smiled, voice low. “Yeah. The Fairy Queen planned it that way, when she planted and grew them many many years ago."
Her head tilted, as she stared up at him. “Many many years ago?” she echoed, voice hushed like he’d just said some ancient secret.
Conner crouched beside her, lowering his voice as though the daffodils were listening. “Yep. Before you were born, before Damian the Terror moved into the castle, when she and Timmy the Troll were young. The Fairy Queen planted a lot of these flowers and took care of the garden.”
Martha gasped, clutching her satchel to her chest. “That long ago. Wow. Fairy Queen Mommy must be old.”
Conner bit back a laugh. " Yes…but don't tell her that."
“Ohhh,” she whispered, nodding gravely. “Right. Grown-up old stuff.”
“Exactly. Ancient magic only sounds nice when she says it.”
Martha jumped up and down, unable to contain her big excitement in her little body. "Fairy Queen Mommy is the coolest! Maybe I can ask her how she did it. Maybe she used sparkle dust or—” she gasped, “—moon water!"
“Could be,” he said, pretending to think. “But she might not share the recipe. Fairy Queens are mysterious like that.”
“I can keep secrets,” Martha promised, crossing her heart with tiny fingers.
“I know you can.” Conner cupped Martha's face in one of his large hands. Squishing her chubby cheeks, making her giggle.
A gentle breeze swept through the clearing then, rippling the daffodils around them. The flowers seemed to laugh quietly too—golden heads swaying like they’d heard everything.
Conner glanced at the patch ahead. “Alright, let’s see if the guardian of kindness will let us through.”
Martha tilted her head. “Guardian?”
He nodded. “Every part of the Realm has one. But this one… has claws.”
The daffodils parted with a soft rustle. A low growl rolled through the air.
Martha straightened, clutching her satchel again. “Oh no.”
From the golden flowers, Alfred the Cat emerged, stepping into the light like he owned it. His greying fur gleamed in the sun, and his long tail flicked behind him, a warning more eloquent than words. His eyes narrowed, sharp and unimpressed, locking immediately on Conner.
Martha squealed in delight. “It’s Alfred the Cat!”
Conner straightened slowly, hands raised defensively. “Guardian,” he said carefully, “we come in peace.”
Alfred’s tail lashed again. The cat’s eyes didn’t waver.
Martha tugged on Conner’s sleeve. “He doesn’t like you.”
“Yeah,” Conner murmured. “He’s made that pretty clear.”
The cat gave a low mrrrow, deep and throaty, as if issuing a decree of disapproval.
Martha looked between them, concerned. “What happened?”
Conner sighed, his voice full of the regret of a man who had learned this lesson the hard way. “I stepped on his tail once. A long time ago. He never forgave me.”
Alfred’s ears flattened briefly, another long mrrrow in confirmation.
Martha crouched down slowly, her voice soft and full of calm. “It’s okay Alfred the Cat. We just need a few flowers. We’ll be quick, promise.”
The cat blinked once. Then again. He seemed to weigh her sincerity. Finally, he sat down, curling his tail neatly around his paws.
Martha beamed. “He understands!”
Conner whispered, “You. He understands you.”
But Martha was already moving forward, tiptoeing between the daffodils. She reached for the ones that stood a little taller than the rest.
She plucked it carefully, “Daffodils for kindness.”
Behind her, Alfred the Cat stood and stretched, the sunlight bouncing off his salt and pepper fur. He padded forward, brushed his head against Martha’s knee, and purred—a sound so soft it seemed to melt into the warm air.
Martha smiled down at him. “Thank you for sharing, Mr. Alfred the Cat.”
The cat blinked once, slow and approving, before turning away and slowly walking back into his golden patch of flowers.
With the daffodil in hand, she turned back toward the fountain gleaming in the distance. “Let’s go, Fairy Knight Daddy! Fairy Queen Mommy's waiting!”
Martha walked proudly at the front, her satchel full of treasure, while Conner trailed behind with the relaxed posture of someone who’d survived yet another feline skirmish.
Like always you sat at the fountain, waiting. The moment Martha saw you, she broke into a run.
“Fairy Queen Mommy!” she called, the words bubbling with excitement as she rushed towards you.
You smiled. “You’ve returned,” you said, your tone light but reverent, as though greeting a true hero.
Martha held out her hand. "Daffodils for kindness!”
Conner stepped forward, offering a playful bow. “All gathered safely, my queen. Some minor negotiations with one angry guardian, but no casualties.”
You arched a brow, amused. “You didn’t provoke the cat again, did you, Fairy Knight?”
From somewhere behind the garden wall came a faint mrrroww, as if Alfred the Cat had answered for him.
You hid your smile and knelt to Martha’s level. “You’ve done wonderfully."
You gathered the flowers in your lap, smoothing each stem across your knee.
Martha scooted close, sitting cross-legged beside you. Her satchel spilled open at her side. She rested her chin in her hands, watching every move you made with wide eyes.
From a few steps away, Conner watched. His arms were folded loosely, his expression caught somewhere between awe and peace.
His eyes lingered on Martha, it was bittersweet watching her grow up so fast. His chest tightened from the excitement of seeing her grow up smart, strong, and beautiful, like you. But these moments where she was just his playful little girl will always be his favorites.
Then his eyes landed on you. The way your hands gently maneuvered the flowers into place. His gaze lingered on your stomach for a bit, before landing on your face. He knew from the moment you first met, that he would be yours. This moment right now, and the ones you planned in the future, were worth it all. Every embarrassing moment, every cringy pick up line, every life threatening situation. He'd do all of it all over again if it lead to the life he has with you now.
His wife, his daughter, surrounded by the world they’d made together.
Martha finally broke the silence. “Do you think it’ll work?”
You turned the finished crown so she could see it, petals shimmering. “There’s no way it can’t.”
Conner sat behind you. He smiled down at the crown, then at the small face staring up at him. “You two,” he said quietly, “you could heal the whole world.”
Martha giggled, but her voice stayed gentle. “We’re just gonna fix Uncle Timmy first.”
Inside the manor, the magic shifted shape. The setting sunlight dimmed into the softer gold that always found its way through Wayne Manor’s tall windows, painting the wood-paneled office in quiet authority.
Tim sat behind his desk, surrounded by neat stacks of folders and the faint hum of a laptop. The scent of coffee hung in the air—third cup, maybe fourth. His tie was loose, his patience even looser.
Across from him, Bruce stood near the window, reading a report with the same expression he used for crime scenes and balance sheets: grim focus.
“…the quarterly numbers are solid,” Tim said, rubbing his temple, “but if R&D keeps burning through that prototype budget, we’ll—”
Bruce didn’t look up. “I approved that budget expansion.”
Tim groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I noticed. You also approved three more PR initiatives and a new satellite office in Central. You planning to retire into bankruptcy, or just make me chase every meeting?”
Bruce’s lips twitched—his version of amusement. “You’re too young to sound that tired.”
“Tell that to my WE inbox.”
A knock at the door cut through the stress in the air.
Tim glanced up. “Come in.”
The door creaked open just a crack. Martha peeked around it. Behind her you pushed it open while Conner stood beside you. Both of you having shed your ethereal Fairy Queen and Fairy Knight appearance, presenting yourselves in your regular modern civilian clothes.
You smiled at Tim like his very soul wasn't fading away. "Hey Timmy."
Tim's lips curved into a smile so tiny it might as well not be there. "Hey sis…"
Conner waved. "Sup Tim."
"Hey best friend that married my sister and got her pregnant twice," Tim answered monotoned. Conner frowned and gave Tim the finger while Martha's back was turned.
“Hi, Uncle Timmy,” she said sweetly.
This time Tim actually smiled. It was a weak one that seemed to take effort to make, but it was there. "Hey there sunshine."
Martha squealed and bounced on her toes. "He's smiling already! He must feel the magic!"
Tim eyed the trio with suspicion. “Magic?”
Martha stepped forward, holding the flower crown in both hands. The blooms shimmered softly in the filtered light—orange, white, and gold seemed to glow against her small palms.
“Uncle Timmy the Grumpy Troll,” she said, voice solemn but bright, “we made this for you.”
"I'm a what?" Tim blinked. “You what now?”
“It’s a magic flower crown,” she explained patiently. “It’s made from joy, peace, and kindness. It’ll fix your grumpy.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched again, but this time the smile almost made it out. He folded his arms, watching quietly.
Martha approached, standing on her tiptoes. “Bend down, Uncle Timmy.”
He hesitated. Then sighed—the kind of long, theatrical sigh only an uncle cornered by a seven-year-old could produce. He leaned forward. Martha placed the crown gently on his head.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, quietly, Tim’s hand stilled on his desk. His shoulders relaxed. His brow smoothed just enough for everyone to notice.
Martha stepped back, studying him with wide eyes. “How do you feel?”
Tim huffed out a small laugh. “Honestly? …Better than I should.”
Conner grinned. “Told you. Works every time.”
You smiled, folding your arms. “Magic always does.”
Bruce’s gentle gaze lingered on the crown, then on you “She takes after you,” he murmured.
Martha turned to him, beaming. “We cured him, Grandpa Bruce! He’s not grumpy anymore!”
Bruce glanced at Tim. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Tim rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t stop smiling now. “Fine. I’ll allow it. But only because it’s very—uh—powerful magic.”
Evening had settled softly over the manor by the time the laughter faded into quiet contentment. Inside, Tim’s office light was low—he still wore the crown, pretending not to notice, and Bruce hadn’t said a word about it. Which, in its own way, was proof the curse had been lifted.
At the front doors, Conner knelt to fasten Martha’s little coat. She yawned, still clutching her basket of “leftover magic" flowers.
“Can we come back soon?” she murmured.
You smiled, smoothing hair from her face. “Of course. The Realm of Wayne is always here when we need it.”
Conner stood up, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder, the other carrying Martha’s satchel. His voice was low, full of quiet pride. “You two made quite a team today.”
You glanced up at him, the faintest grin tugging at your mouth. “We had a good knight watching over us.”
Martha giggled sleepily. “He has strong Daddy arms.”
Conner flexed his biceps. “The strongest.”
Your instinctively to rest on the small curve of your stomach. The life growing there was still small, but every day it reminded you that the Realm would have a new adventurer before you knew it.
Conner’s gaze softened when he saw the gesture. He slowly rested his hand over yours, gently pulling you closer to his chest and giving you a tender kiss.
Outside, Alfred the Cat lounged on the stone steps, his tail twitching lazily as if standing guard over the fading light. He gave you a slow blink of approval as you passed.
Martha waved to him. “Bye, Mr. Alfred the Cat! Thanks for sharing your flowers!”
The cat flicked an ear. A royal farewell.
As Conner started the car, Martha leaned against the window, watching the manor grow smaller through the glass. Within minutes, she was asleep, her small hand still curled around your hibiscus crown.
Conner glanced at you as the road curved toward home. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think she really believes she cured him.”
You leaned back, closing your eyes with a soft laugh. “That’s the best part.”
Outside, the night gathered around the car like a promise. The garden behind you glowed faintly in the distance—flowers whispering in the breeze, crows quiet, peace restored.
And as the manor disappeared from view, the Realm of Wayne slept—waiting patiently for its adventurers to return.
