Imagine for the past few weeks you genuienly thought you were losing your mind. At first it was small things, a familiar black SUV parked near your apartment building too often. Same man appearing near your workplace at different hours of the day. Someone standing near the convenience store every time you went out late at night.
Imagine you ignore it initially, because honestly? Your life had already been miserable enough lately. Sleeping became difficult after the breakup, or whatever that even was. Because calling Caleb your ex fiance felt wrong, painfully wrong. Even after giving the ring back, even after blocking him, even after crying yourself sick for weeks. Nothing about losing Caleb felt real. It just felt incomplete. Like your relationship shattered halfway through a sentence and somehow that made moving on impossible.
Imagine the way you still remembered the look on his face that night too clearly, that was the problem. If Caleb looked guilty, maybe you could have hated him properly. If he looked defensive, angry, dismissive, maybe this would have been easier. But he looked terrified, desperate. Like he was watching something precious collapse in front of him while being unable to stop it. That look haunted you constantly.
which Imagine was why you hated yourself for still worrying about him. For missing him. For unconsciously reaching for your phone every night hoping maybe he would texted from another number somehow. You were angry at him. You were furious. But underneath the anger sat something worse, fear. Because deep down you still believed Caleb loved you. And that made everything terrifyingly confusing.
Imagine then came the night outside the convenience store. A man initially looked harmless, smiling, flirting, asking for your number casually and you politely declined. He insisted and you decline again. But then his hand grabbed your wrist too tightly, your stomach dropped immediately. "Hey." You snapped, trying to pull away. "Let go." Instead, his grip tightened harder. "Don't be such a bitch about it." For a second, panic flashed sharply through you and before things escalated further, someone moved.
Imagine the way the stranger barely had time to react before another man twisted his arm away from you hard enough to force him backwards. "Walk away." Cold voice, military tone, controlled and dangerous, the creep cursed under his breath before quickly leaving. Meanwhile, the man who intervened turned toward you. "You alright, Ma'am?" Your chest tightened. Because you knew him, one of Caleb's men. Although you don't knew him personally, you had seen him multiple times beside Caleb during military gatherings. And he clearly realized you recognized him too because his expression immediately became awkward.
Imagine the way you looked around quickly. Shit. Another familiar figure stood near the parked SUV across the street, watching. Your blood ran cold. No. No fucking way. "...Are you following me?" The silence was enough answer. Anger exploded immediately afterward. Weeks of confusion and heartbreak suddenly mixed violently together. "Are you serious right now?" "We're assigned to your protection." "My protection from what?!" Then again, the silence. Your laugh came out sharp and disbelieving. "Unbelievable." You stormed off furious. But afterward? You couldn't stop noticing them. And once awareness settled in, the protection become impossible to ignore.
Imagine different personnel rotating constantly, cars nearby, people subtly shadowing your routes. Never too close, never enough to make public scenes but always there. Watching, protecting. And the worst fucking part? They were unquestionably Caleb's men. Which meant even after everything, even after the ring, even after you walked away. He was still protecting you. And that realization hurt more than it should have. Because what kind of man continued watching over the woman who left him? What kind of man silently protect someone who slapped him across the face and blocked his number afterward? Your Caleb. That was the problem, it was always him.
Imagine three weeks passed like that. Three miserable, exhausting weeks. Until eventually your frustration outweighed your pride, because clearly something was happening. Something enough to justify military protection around you twenty four seven. And Caleb? Caleb remained completely silent. No new number, no new messages, no calls, nothing. Which felt wrong, terrifying wrong. Caleb was not the type to give up on you quietly.
so Imagine one night after another bodyguard subtly followed you home from work, you finally snapped. You unblocked his number immediately then stared at your messages, nothing. Your chest tightened, then you type first.
You: where are you? sent
You: Caleb sent
Imagine there was no response, not even delivered. Hour passed and your anxiety worsenes horribly. By midnight, you couldn't take it anymore and you called him. The line rang twice before connecting and immediately, a woman answered. And your entire body went cold. Again. Again? For one horribe second, you couldn't breathe properly. The same sick feeling from that apartment rushed back instantly. The same confusion, the same humiliation and you nearly hang up. But something stopped you this time, maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was instinct, maybe because despite everything, you still trusted Caleb somewhere deep inside yourself.
"Where's Caleb?" The woman in the other end paused briefly then her tone softened immediately. "Oh." Something about that single word made your stomach twist violently. "You're his fiance." Your throat tightened. "... Ex fiance." "No." The woman replied quietly, "Definitely not ex." Your heart stumbled painfully. "What?" But she continued before you could process that. "Colonel Caleb is currently hospitalized." Everything inside you stopped. "What?" "Colonel's unconscious right now." Your chair nearly crashed backward as you stood abruptly. "What happened?!" Your voice cracked instantly. "Is he okay?!" "He's alive." She reassured quickly, "But-" You were already grabbing your keys. "What hospital?"
Imagine the military hospital intimidating, cold white walls, heavy security and personnel everywhere. You barely remembered entering. Everything blurred together beneath your panic. "I'm sorry Ma'am, family member only." "I'm his fiance." The personnel hesitated. "Legally immediate family only." Your chest twisted horribly. Because technically? You weren't even wearing the ring anymore. And you almost broke down right there from frustration. "I need to see him." "I apologize but-" Thankfully, one of Caleb’s friends spotted you before security fully turned you away. A Major you met several times before, usually calm and easygoing but tonight he looked exhausted like nobody around Caleb had slept properly in days. "She's with me." He told firmly then softer toward you. "Come on."
Imagine the walk toward Caleb's room felt endless. "What happened to him?" The Major exhaled heavily. "There was an ambush during transfer." Your stomach dropped instantly. "He protected the witness." Witness? Questions flooded your head immediately. But none mattered more than one thing. "Is he okay?" The Major looked at you carefully for a long second before answering. "He almost wasn't." Your vision blurred immediately. Then the room door finally opened and you stopped breathing. Caleb looked terrible. Paler than you had ever seen him, bruises covered parts of his face and neck. An oxygen mask covered half his face while machines beeped steadily around him but what shattered you completely was his arm.
Imagine his right arm looked badly damaged beneath thick stabilization wraps and medical equipment. The sight physically hurt. "Oh my God…" This was Caleb. Strong, steady, untouchable Caleb. The man who always looked capable of carrying the world, now lying unconscious beneath hospital lights looking painfully fragile. Suddenly all your anger felt unbearably small compared to the fear crushing your chest right now. You approached slowly, terrified. Like touching him might somehow hurt him more. Yet you wanted to hold him, wanted to check if he was really alive. But the amount of injuries scared you too much. "What happened to you." You whispered shakily.
then Imagine Caleb moved, very slightly. His brows furrowed weakly before his eyes slowly opened. Disoriented at first, unfocused. Then they landed on you and everything on his face broke apart instantly. Relief, pure overwhelming relief and his eyes immediately filled with tears. Your chest caved inward painfully as Caleb tried sitting up too fast before immediately wincing sharply in pain. "Hey- hey don't move." His breathing became uneven behind the oxygen mask. And then, he started crying. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping helplessly down his face while staring at you like he genuinely thought he'd never see you again.
"I'm sorry." He rasped weakly beneath the mask and your own tears fell immediately. "Caleb-" "I'm sorry." His voice sounded rough, exhausted, broken. And suddenly you realized something horrifying. Caleb looked scared, not of pain, not of dying. He was scared of losing you. "Please." He whispered shakily. "Please don't leave." That nearly destroyed you. Because this was Caleb, your composed, terrifyingly competent Colonel. The man who handled crisis after crisis without breaking. Now looking at you with absolute desperation in his swollen exhausted eyes.
Imagine the way you carefully reached for his left hand and the second your fingers touched his, Caleb grabbed onto you weakly but immediately. Like instinct, like survival. His grip trembled. "I hate you." You cried shakily. Caleb let out one broken breath that almost sounded like a laugh before another tear escaped instead. "I know." "You hurt me." "I know." "You made me think..." His eyes squeezed shut briefly and pain crossed his face instantly. Real pain, not physical but something worse. "I couldn't tell you." He whispered weakly. "I couldn't risk you."
Imagine the way your brows furrowed through tears. "What are you talking about?" Caleb looked at you desperately now, like he was trying to stay conscious through sheer force. "There were people watching." He whispered. "At the apartment." Your heart stopped. "There was a laser sight on you." The room went silent and your blood ran cold instantly. Caleb's breathing worsened slightly from talking too much but he kept going anyway. "I saw it on the wall behind you." He said shakily. "I know that if I talked… If I told you anything…" He swallowed painfully. "They would've killed you."
Imagine the way everything suddenly clicked together all at once. The bodyguards, the secrecy, the fear in his eyes that night, the panic, the silence. Oh God. You started crying harder instantly. And Caleb looked completely devastated watching you realize the truth. "I thought sending you away was safer." He admitted weakly. "Then I realise I..." His voice cracked harshly. The monitors beside him started reacting faster. "Caleb, stop talking." "No." He gripped your hand tighter desperately. "No because I thought I lost you." "Caleb-" "I almost died before fixing it." Your chest physically ached hearing that.
Imagine the way his breathing became uneven now, exhausted. But he kept staring at you like if he blinked too long, you would disappear again. "I'm sorry." He whispered again and again. "I'm so fucking sorry." Tears streamed helplessly down your face. You wanted to comfort him, to scream at him, to hold him forever. And Caleb looked so tired. So emotionally wrecked like these past weeks destroyed him too. "Don't leave me." He whispered suddenly and the words sounded small, terrified. Nothing like the composed Colonel everyone respected. Just Caleb, your Caleb. Broken apart in front of you. "Please." His grip tightened weakly around your hand.
"I can fix this." He whispered desperately, voice becoming less steady now. "I'll explain everything properly, I swear, just- just don't leave me again." "Caleb-" "I can't lose you. I'll die." The monitor beeped faster suddenly and a nurse immediately entered. "Colonel, you need to calm down." But Caleb ignored her completely. His eyes stayed locked desperately on yours. Almost delirious now from exhaustion and medication. "Please stay." He begged weakly. "Please don't leave me alone again." Your chest shattered completely. "I'm here." You whispered quickly through the tears but Caleb looked unconvinced, panicked. Like he genuinely thought if he closed his eyes, you would disappear. "Please." He whispered brokenly.
then Imagine, alarms started ringing louder and everything happened too fast afterward. More nurses rushed inside, doctors followed immediately. "Ma'am, you need to step outside." You froze instantly. "What happened?!" "His condition is destabilizing." Caleb's grip on your hand only tightened as medical staff surrounded him. And even then he still looked only at you, terrified, desperate. "Don't go." He whispered weakly and your heart broke completely. But then the nurses pulled you away while the doors shut between you both.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°
: bruh :/ imma play love island on the sidelines. Let's go ethan :"( Valkoooo T~T anyways here u go grovelling caleb 🥹
mb, i forgot the Tags kasi decisions ako sa life: @moltensceptergambit @scoupshushushu @ceceoboro @younghideoutberserker @sleepykittyenergy @spiceandsass @younbeanz @multi-fandom-fanfic @yoichislovie
Imagine the transfer should have been temporary, that was what Caleb told you six months ago when the reassignment orders first arrived. "Just a different unit." He reassured you softly while standing in your kitchen. "I'll still come home." Home, not your apartment. Home. Because Caleb started calling your place home long before you even got engaged.
Imagine he kept that promised too. No matter how brutal the new schedule became, he still drove back to the city whenever he could. Sometimes arriving past midnight exhuasted out of his mind only to leave again before sunrise. You used to scold him for it constantly. "You need sleep." "I need you more." Ridiculous man. Ridiculously sincere man. That was the problem. Caleb loved you too honestly for this situation to make sense. Which is why the past week had been slowly driving him insane.
Imagine the operation had reached critical stage faster than expected. Months of investigation finally narrowed into something tangible. Dead fleet officers, missing intel, internal corruption, targeted executions disguisedas accidents. At first the unit suspected isolated incidents. Then patterns started emerging. Officers connected to specific classified transport routes kept dying one after another. Some vanished entirely, others were found dead before they could testify. The newest victim finally gave them a lead. A newly married fleet officer murdered in his own home, except his wife survived, barely. She escaped before the shooter fnished clearing the house.
Imagine now she was their only living witness. Which meant she was also a walking target. The problem? The leak was internal. Someone inside the fleet kept feeding information outward. Meaning, nowhere offical was safe. No military housing, no secure holding facilities, no predictable movement. So the witness got moved constantly between trusted personnel, including Caleb.
Imagine he hated it immediately. Not because of the responsibility, but because of you. Because suddenly, the operation stopped being dangerous only for him. Now there was possibility of collateral. And the moment collateral became possible, Caleb's entire perspective changed violently. You became the center of every tactical decision in his head. Could this route expose you? Could this operation lead people toward your apartment? Could someone follow him back home? Could someone use you against him? That last thought alone nearly made him sick.
so Imagine, he started pulling away slightly, not enough for you to notice fully. He tried so hard not to. God, he tried. Because Caleb physically didn't know how to function properly without you anymore. You were woven too deeply into his life, routine, and sanity. After brutal shifts, hearing your voice grunded him. Sleeping beside you kept him human somehow. You were the only place where Colonel Caleb stoppped existing. Where he could just be your fiance instead of someone constantly responsible for life and death.
but Imagine lately, the pressure became unbearable. Every move mattered, every mistake could get people killed. And Caleb was good under pressure, exeptionally good. But not when it involved you. Never you. So yes, he became distaracted. Quieter sometimes, checking his surroundings more often, sleeping lighter, watching doors automatically. You noticed, of course you noticed. You noticed everything about him too. And Caleb hated himself every single time he saw concern flicker across your face before you smiled anyway and kissed him like you trusted him completely. Because you did trust him. That trust became the knife slowly twisting inside his chest all week.
Imagine then tonight happened and everything finally exploded. The witness was sitting quietly in the kitchen when Caleb stepped into the shower. He planned to finished paperwork afterwards then drive back to the city to see you. He missed you so badly it physically ached. The past few days had been hell. He needed you. Needed your voice. Needed your hand in his hair while he pretended the world wasn't collapsing round him. Instead the bathroom door opened and Caleb walked straight into his worst fucking nightmare.
Imagine the way you stood frozen inside his apartment staring at the witness like your entire world had just been ripped out from under you. And fuck, the look on your face. Shock first, then confusion, then heartbreak. Real heartbreak and Caleb felt actual panic slam through him instantly. Not suspicion, not irritation. Panic. Because immediately, he understood exactly what this looked like. The witness was wearing his shirt. Fresh marks still on the witness neck from injuries sustained during the attack days ago. The apartment looked lived in, intimate, domestic. And Caleb himself just walked out looking comfortable as hell inside the environment. Fuck.
"Baby-" Then your expression changed. And Caleb's stomach dropped violently because he recognized it instantly. That look, the moment someone stops feeling safe. You ran. And everything inside him snapped. "Baby!" He sprinted after you immediately, not caring about protocol, not caring about surveillance risks. Because nothing mattered except stopping you before this misunderstanding destroyed everything.
Imagine the apartment hallway blurred around him. Then came a movement, tiny, brief. A red laser dot flickered against the far wall behind you. Gone immediately but Caleb say it. Years of training wired his brain too sharply not to. And suddenly all the blood drained from his body. No. No no no no. They found the apartment. The operation was comprimised. And worst of all, you were here. Exposed, visible, vulnerable. For one horrifying second, Caleb imagined the laser moving slightly upward. Straight to your head. And his chest nearly fucking stopped.
"Baby wait!" You kept running, crying. Completely unaware someone potentially had a scope trained on your body right now. Caleb caught your wrist at the parking lot. Then you hit him, hard. The impact split skin across his cheek instantly. His head snapped across his face. He barely regustered it. Because you looked shattered. And Caleb realized with horrifying clarity, you genuinely thought he betrayed you. "Listen to me." He said immediately, breathing hard. "That's not what it looked like." "Then what is it?" He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Because his brain was screaming too many things at once.
Imagine there was the witness, the leak, the fucking laser. Get her out of here. Protect her. Then your voice cracked. "What is it, Caleb?" God, you looked desperate. Not angry yet, just desperate. Like you were begging him to give you something, anything, that would make this make sense. And that almost destroyed him more than the slap because even now, you still wanted to believe him. You still trsuted him enough to ask explanation instead of immediately condeming him. That trsut fucking wrecked him. Because he loved you. Loved you so much it bordered on insanity sometimes.
and Imagine now he was standing here watching that love get twisted into pain because of a mission he couddn't explain. "Tell me." He looked at your face. Then beyond you. The laser flickered briefly again against your car window. Cold rage exploded through him instantly. They were sending a message. Talk. Talk and she dies first. Caleb understood that perfectly. And suddenly, something terrifying woke up inside him. Not fear but murderous rage. Because these people weren't just threatening him anymore. They were threatening you. Using you. Cornering him into hurting you himself.
"Tell me!" You begged now, tears falling harder. "Because right now it looked like you've been lying to my face for weeks hiding another woman in your apartment." Every word hit like a bullet. Because on your perspective? You were right. You had every right to think that. And Caleb hated himself for putting you in this position. "It's not like that." "Then explain it!" "I can't." The second those words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Imagine the way your face collapsed completely. Not dramatic, not explosive, worse. It was quiet devastation. Like your heart physically cracked open in front of him and fuck. Caleb would rather take a bullet. 'I can't' sounded guilty, cowardly, suspicious. He knew that. But what was he supposed to do? Tell you there were armed eyes watching right now? Tell you people died over less information than this? Tell you your life had potentially become collateral damage the second you walked into that apartment? He coudn't risk it. Not with you. Never with you.
Imagine then your voice dropped smaller. "You're hurting me." And there it was, the thing tat finally broke him. Because you weren't screaming. You weren't insulting him. You just sounded hurt, disappointed, heartbroken. Like you couldn't understand why the man who loved you most was suddenly becoming the source of your pain. Caleb's grip loosened slightly around your wrist. His breathing became uneven. Because he knew. God, he knew he was hurting you and worse, he was doing it knowingly. Chosing silence while watching tears run down your face because the alternative could get you killed.
"Please." You whispered desperately. "Just tell me the truth." He wanted to. Fuck, he wanted to so badly. Wanted to grab your face and explain everything. Wanted to beg you not to leave him. Wanted to promise this wasn't betrayal. But then the laser appeared again brieflt against the concrete, then to your forehead. And Caleb saw red. Actual red. Something violent surged through him so fast his vision sharpened dangerously. Someone was aiming at you. At you. And suddenly every protective instinct inside him turned monstrous.
"I can't." He repeated hoarsely. You went still, then slowly... You pulled off your enngagement ring. The world stopped. No. No no no. Not that. Anything but that. Caleb genuinely panicked. Real panic. "No- baby, please-" "What am I supposed to do?!" You asked shakily. "Stand there pretending I didn't see another woman wearing your clothes?" He couldn't tell you anything, and that helplessness made rage build hotter inside him. Not at you. Never at you. At the situation, at the operation, at whoever forced him into this impossible corner, at the bastards watching from the shadows while the woman he loved cried in front of him because of their fucking mess. You shoved the ring into his chest. "Get out of my way."
Imagine he stared at the ring in his palm. Your ring. The one he spent months secretly carrying around before proposing because he wanted the perfect moment. The one you cried over while saying yes. Now it's sitting cold and unwated in his hand. Something inside Caleb cracked violently, but he stepped aside anyway. Because keeping you near him tonight suddenly felt more dangerous than losing you. And God, that realization nearly killed him. So he watched you get into the car. Watched your hands shake against the steering wheel. Watched you avoid looking at him directly because if you did, maybe you'd break harder.
Imagine Caleb stood there bleeding from the cheek, engagement ring clenched painfully tight in his fist, feeling completely fucking helpless. You looked at him once before driving away. And the devastation in your eyes would haunt him forever. Because despite everthing, you still loved him. He could see it. Which somehow made this infinitely crueler.
Imagine the second your car disappeared, Caleb snapped, completely. He stormed back upstairs so fast the witness physically recoiled when he entered. "She okay?" She asked quietly. Caleb ignored her and grabbed his phone immediately. The moment the line connected, his voice turned terrifying calm. "We've been compromised." Silence, then movement. "I want every surveillance team active now." "Sir?" "There was a fucking laser sight pointed at my fiancee." The room went dead silent. Caleb paced violently through the apartment. Caleb paced violently through the apartment. Every emotion inside him mutating into something colder, meaner, more dangerous.
"Get covert protection on her immediately. Twenty four hour surveillance." He was silent for a moment. "My family too. I want every possible tail identified before sunrise." "Sir we still need authorization-" "Then authorize it." Caleb snapped viciously. Nobdy argued after that tone. Colonel Caleb angry was dangerous. Colonel Caleb angry over you was catastrophic. "They touched the wrong fucking person." He said coldly. The witness stared silently from the kitchen while listening to the conversation. And honestly? She looked scared of him now. Good. Because Caleb himself felt terrifying right now. Not because he lost control but because he still had it.
Imagine every ounce of rage insdie him became focused, precise, lethal. He wanted names, faces, bodies. He wanted everyone involved in this operation dragged into the light personally. No more patience, no more careful politics. These people made you cry. Made you take off your engagement ring. Made you look at him like he betrayed you. For that alone, Caleb wanted them ruined.
Imagine that night, long after orders were issued and surveillance confirmed you reached home safely, Caleb sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at his phone. The apartment felt unbearably empty now. Tiny traces of you everywhere. And now, he didn't know if he lost you forever. The engagement ring sat beside him. Caleb kept staring at it like maybe if he looked hard enough, tonight would undo itself somehow. His cheek stung where you slapped him. He welcomed the pain. He deserved worse. Slowly, Caleb unlocked his phone.
You: I love you. seen
You: Please trust me. seen
then Imagine, it took him a few more seconds and one message for the message to failed and realized you had blocked him. And for a several seconds, he just stared blankly at the screen. Then he laughed, one horrible breathless laugh. Because of course you blocked him. Of course you did. And somehow the reality of it finally crushed him completely. You, his fiancee thought he betrayed you. The woman he planned his entire future around. The woman he wanted children with. The woman he loved so much it scared him sometimes. And now, you were gone. All because he couldn't protect both the mission and your heart at the same time.
Imagine the way the laugh broke midway. Then Caleb lowered his head into his hands and finally cried. Quietly, violently, completely alone. Because there is nothing could do right now except finish this opertion. But afterwards? Afterwards he was getting you back. Even if it destroyed his pride entirely.
Imagine he would kneel, he would beg, he would crawl if he has to, and he would explain everything. Spend years rebuilding your trust if necessary. Because Caleb knew one terrifying truth with complete certainty now. He woud survive gunfire, war, blood, death. But losing you? That would be the thing that finally fucking killed him.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°
: if I have typos, just think I can't spell. Cuz maybe i really cant XD
Tags kasi decisions ako sa life: @moltensceptergambit @scoupshushushu @ceceoboro @younghideoutberserker @sleepykittyenergy @spiceandsass @younbeanz @multi-fandom-fanfic ;p
Imagine after four whole years with Caleb, not once had he ever made you questin whether he loved you. Maybe that was what made this hurt so much. Because the cruelest part wasn't the possibility that Caleb stopped loving you. No. You knew him too well for that. Even now, even later, even after everything that would happened tonight, you knew Caleb loved you.
Imagine you knew it with terrifying certainty, you knew it in the way he always reached for you first in crowded rooms. In the way he memorized your routine better than you did. In the way exhaustion never stopped him from driving hours just to spend a night beside you. In the way he still kissed your forehead absentmindedly while half asleep.
Imagine Caleb loved you. Which was exactly why your chest hurt so badly these past few days. Because something was wrong and you could feel it. It was not obvious enough for accusations. Not dramatic enough to start fights. It just felt wrong. Tiny things, small pauses in conversations, moment where Caleb looked distracted before immediately covering up. How he checked his phone more often lately, and sometimes went quiet in the middle of your conversations like he was thinking too hard about something.
and Imagine every single time you noticed it, he would pull you closer afterwards, kiss your temple, then ask about your day. He looks at you with so much warmth it made you feel guilty for doubting him at all. Which only made your anxiety worse. Because if Caleb had been cold, distant, cruel... This would have been easier, but he wasn't. He was still loving you exactly the same. Still calling you endearing nicknames in that soft voice that always melted you. Still showing up at your apartment carrying your favorite food after long shifts. Still sleeping with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he physically couldn't rest properly otherwise. Still loving you.
so Imagine, why does your chest feel so heavy? You hated yourself for overthinking. Hated the way old conversation started resurfacing in yout mind again. Military wives whispering warning during gatherings years ago. "Distance change people." "Sometimes they stop telling you things first." "Men stationed far away get lonely." You used to brush off those comments confidently because Caleb wasn't like that. Your Caleb wasn't careless with hearts.
Imagine he loved too deeply for that. Still, the anxiety stayed. Quiet and persistent like your instincts were trying to warn you about something your heart didn't want to see. For an entire week, sleep became difficult, finding yourself rereading old text at night like reassurance, listening to his voice messages repeatedly, trying to convince yourself everything was fine. And maybe, maybe if you had just stayed home that evening, maybe things would have been fine, maybe ignorance really woud have been kinder. Because a part of you would spent the rest of the night wishing desperately that you had never gone there at all.
Imagine the way you just wanted to surprise him. That was all. Caleb had been stuck near base almost nonstop lately because of his transfer to the new unit and you missed him terribly. So after work, you bought dinner and drove toward his apartment near the base with the spare key he once pressed into your hand months ago.
"For emergencies." He told you back then and you laughed. "What counts as emegency?" "You missing me." God, you almost broke down just remembering it.
Imagine the drive there felt normal. You even smiled stupidly at red lights thinking about how surprised Caleb would look seeing you unexpectedly. Maybe he would pull you into one of those crushing hugs you secretly loved. Maybe he would complain dramatically about how exhuasted he was until you played with his hair. Maybe the anxiety would finally disappear once you saw him again. You wanted that desperately, wanted assurance. You wanted your Caleb back.
Imagine the hallway outside his apartment was quiet when you arrived. You balanced the food carefully in one arm while unlocking the door. And then your entire world titled sideways. Because there, right there was a woman sitting inside his kitchen. Wearing Caleb's shirt. For one horrible second, your brain genuinely failed to process what you were seeing. She looked comfortable there. Too comfortable sitting casually at his dining table with coffee in hand like she belonged in that apartment. Like she belonged in his space. In your space. The oversized shirt hanging off her shoulder was unmistakably his too. You knew it immediately becasue you bought that shirt for him last winder after he complained about the old one fading.
Imagine the way your stomach dropped so violently it hurt. The woman looked up at the sound of the door opening. Then blinked in surprise seeing you. And somehow, seeing her expression looked more curious than guilty like she genuinely didn't know who you were. That made your throat tightened painfully. No. No no no no. This didn't make sense. Because Caleb loved you. He loved you. You knew he did. So why? That was when you noticed the marks near her neck. Your vision blurrred instantly. Love bites, fresh enough to still look angry against her skin. Your breathing became uneven immediately. The room suddenlt felt too small. Too hot. Too loud despite the silence.
Imagine the way the woman slowly lowered her coffee cup while studying you carefully. "Caleb didn't tell me a friend was visiting." Friend? You open your mouth. Nothing came out. Because your thoughts were crashing too violently against each other. Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she wearing his clothes? Why does she look so comfortable? Why are there marks on her neck? Why... Why? Why?! You wanted Caleb to walk out right now and laugh. Tell you this was ridiculous. Tell you there was explanation. Because there had to be. Then the bathroom door opened.
and Imagine there he was, fresh from the shower, hair damp, towel around his neck, relaxed, domestic, comfortable. The exact imagine of a man at home with someone. Then his eyes landed on you and you watched everything change instantly. Shock, real shock. Then immediate panic, not guilt, not exactly. Panic. You knew Caleb well enough to recognize it immediately. His eyes widened sharply as if his brain was calculating too many things at once. You saw him realize what this looked like and saw the fear hit him in real time.
"Baby-" something inside you snapped. Because innocent people explained immediately. Innocent people didn't look terrified like that. So you turned and ran before he could say another word. "Baby!" You ignore him. Your chest hurt so badly it felt difficult to breathe. The hallway blurred around you as tears burned instantly behind your eyes. You heard the apartment door slam open violently behind you. Then footsteps, fast, panic filled. "Baby wait!" Your thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. All those insecurities you thought you outgrew suddenly came flooding back at once.
Imagine he's handsome, successful, and surrounded by people constantly. Maybe eventually someone better caught his attention. Maybe distance really did change things. Maybe those women years ago were right. But no... Because even now, even while running away crying like your heart was being ripped open. You still couldn't fully believe Caleb cheated on you. That was the worst part. You didn't think he stopped loving you. You thought he was hidding something. Something big enough to hurt you anyway. And somehow that pain felt deeper. Because if Caleb cheated, at least the betrayal would make sense. But this?
Imagine this felt like watching the person you trusted most slowly drown while refusing to let you help him. Then a hand suddenly grab your wrist. You spun instantly and slapped him hard on the face. The sound cracked violently through the parking lot. Your nails scratching his cheek deeply enough to leave blood behind. Your own palm burned afterwards. And Caleb barely reacted. He didn't even defend himself, he just held your wrist carefully, breathing hard like he had run after you without thinking. Purple eyes frantic, devastated.
"Listen to me." He said immediately, voice rough. "That's not what it looked like." Your laugh came our broken. "Then what is it?" Silence. Not long, but long enough to destroy you. Because you watched Caleb struggle, actually struggle. Like the truth physically sat there inside him clawing to come out. "What is it, Caleb?" His jaw tightened painfully. "Tell me." Nothing. Tears finally spilled fully down your face. "Tell me!" Your voice cracked violently. "Because right now it looks like you've been lying to my face for weeks while hiding another woman in your apartment!"
"It's not like that." "Then explain it!" His expression twisted. God, he looked horrible. Not defensive, not angry. He was horrified. Like every second of this conversation was killing him too. "I can't." Your entire body went still. Not I won't but I can't. And somehow, that hurt worse. Because you believe him. You believe he physically could not tell you. And that realization shattered something inside your chest completely. You stared at him through tears. "Do you understant how much that hurts?" Caleb's face crumpled slightly. "Bab-" "You're hurting me." Your voice came out smaller now. Broken. "And you know you're hurting me."
Imagine that made his grip on your wrist loosened slightly. Like the words physically wounded him. You cna see it all over his face. That was the cruelest part. You knew Caleb loved you, even now. Even standing here bleeding from the cheek after you slapped him. Even now while watching your heart break apart in front of him. Because of him. He still loved you. You could see it so clearly. Which only made this unbearable. Because if he loved you this much. Then whatever secret he was protecting had to matter more than your relationship right now. And that thought destroyed you.
"Just tell me the truth." You whispered desperately. "Please." Caleb looked wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like he wanted to say it so badly. But instead he just whispered again. "I can't."
Imagine the way something inside you gave up. Not angrily, not dramatically. Just... Collapsed. "I see." You tried pulling your wrist away but he still held on weakly, desperately. Like if he let go now, he would loose you forever. And maybe he would. Your hans trembled violently as you reached for your engagement ring. The second Caleb realized what you're doing, real fear crossed his face. "No." You pulled the ring off slowly. The skin beneath suddenly felt enbearably empty. "No- baby, please-" "What am I supposed to do?!" You asked shakily. "Stand there pretending I didn't see another woman wearing your clothes?" His breathing became uneven.
"This isn't what you think." "Then what is it?" Silence again. And God, that silence hurt more than screaming would have. Because you knew Caleb was choosing this silence for a reason. Which meant he believed he had no choice. And maybe that was what truly broke your heart. Not betrayal. Not cheating. But that there was a wall between you neither of you knew how to cross. You shoved the ring weakly against his chest.
"Get out of my way." He looked destroyed, but eventually stepped aside. You got into your carnumbly. Your shared car. Everything suddenlt felt shared, painfully. Outside, you watched Caleb paced near the vehicle helplessly, back and forth. Hands shaking slightly. The cut on his cheeks still bleeding. He looked like he wanted to drag you into his arms and never let go. But he didn't, maybe because he no longer had the right.
Imagine you looked at him through blurry vision and somehow, even now, you still loved him so much it physically hurt. Which made everything even worse. Because a part of you desperately wanted to rewind tonight entirely. Wanted to unknown what you saw. Wanted to go back to his morning before anxiety pushed you here. Because if you never visited, maybe you and Caleb would still be happy right now. Maybe tonight would have ended with him holding you in bed enstead of watching you leave him behind. Maybe ignorance would have sabved you both. That thought haunted you the entire drive home.
and Imagine, later that night, as you curled motionless in your shared bed, staring blankly into the darkness while his scent still clung to the pillows, you phone buzzed.
Apple: I love you.
Apple: Please trust me.
Imagine the way you chest caved inward. Because the thing is you did trust him. Trusted that he loved you. Trusted that whatever happened tonight wasn't a simple betrayal. Trusted him enough to know he was suffering too. And somehow that made this infinitely more painful. Because you knew love wasn't enough to fix this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Tears blurred your vision completely. Hands shaking violently, you blocked his number. Then buried your face into the pillow and cried until breathing hurt.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°
: advance happy birth day my loveeee! This is one of my bday gift for you :)
: hearing Hawks talk give me flashback of both my exes and lovers lmao all i can hear is, and i need you now tonight edit on tiktok. Ps. Sorry for the typos :( i think i cant spell XD
Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.
Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.
That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.
You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.
However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.
He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.
"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.
You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.
It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.
Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.
That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.
He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.
He would come back to you, he promised.
And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.
He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.
There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.
You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.
The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.
All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.
His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.
Robb was furious.
Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.
If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.
In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.
The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...
You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.
Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: The message still waits, because for now there’s something more important Simon needs to tackle before you’ll feel safe having his heart in your hands.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Chapter 7 of Sweet as Sugar series
a/n: currently posting this half delirious at like 3 in the morning. #very confused and want to sleep but i cant. Its ok, enjoy chapter guys thanks u
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A few slight problems had occurred whilst Simon was on deployment, the biggest one being that you had completely forgotten he even went.
For two days you waited patiently for him to arrive, starting to grow more and more upset until your father reminded you, saying he saw him off. You couldn't exactly be mad—he did warn you he’d be going—but it was just so incredibly boring when he couldn't even text you. So you waited; for the first week you managed to fend it off, the second was a little harder and by the third you were debating whether you should join the army. Cleaning up your shop just didn't feel right without him there with you; it was like missing a piece of your heart. You thought you were going crazy, you’ve never missed someone like this before—not that there was anyone to miss usually. But this, it was an unbearable ache in your chest, and you were starting to worry this was some kind of dangerous attachment.
He has returned now, and has kindly texted you to confirm that thus unintentionally quelling the turmoil in your chest. What were you supposed to say though? That your thoughts have been filled with him since he left? You weren't exactly sure if he was even interested in you too— what if he only saw you as a friend? Men of his job were not exactly known for their affectionate sides, and you couldn't help but believe you’d be asking too much of him to be a person like that for you. Especially with the way your heart thumps, he probably thinks you're insane with your attachment— you’ll only drive him away at this rate.
On the other hand, Simon still hasn’t sent the message.
In fact, he’s staring at your texts right now as he lays back in his bed. It’s almost two am, another barrage of memories had shaken him from any traces of sleep he had attempted to get today, and almost as if instinct, he reached for his closest connection to you. This message seemed impossible to send though. Not because he didn’t want to, but for some reason he was slightly scared. He wanted to do this the right way, make sure this all went smoothly, and you didn't feel pressured in the slightest— hell he’d be caught off guard if he received that text. Though, now something else concerned him even more than that; it could end up ruining everything if he didn’t try to understand and fix the issue straight away.
You were acting weird, in a way that was really different. He didn't feel like he was allowed to interfere, to demand an answer for your shift in behaviour but in a way he owed it to you. If you weren't doing okay, he wanted to know; especially after your fathers words, he had to try to help. For the past two days you were far less chatty than usual, only giving him a few stray answers that don't really represent yourself like your responses usually do. In a way, you reflected the subject back onto him, like you’re afraid of talking about yourself even a smidgen. From excitable first texts, you now only responded to his, rather than bringing up your usual random thoughts. It reminds him of someone being restricted to speak, like they shouldn't speak. He’s all too familiar with that notion: keeping quiet since you know too much, afraid of an interrogation and the enemy destroying everything you didn't know you loved until you’re hanging by nothing but your efforts, watching your vision fade.
He blinks the gruesome image away, pushing himself up to a sitting position as he rubs the deadweight beneath his eyes with the roughness of his palm, groaning. Not everything was as serious as an interrogation and torture; he knew there was no way you could possibly be anxious like that, but still, the thought of you feeling uneasy around him was the worst thing to imagine. It was different, really different, to know someone outside the cruel reality he lived with. You had no idea the extent his enemies would go to, the people they’d exploit just for an ounce of power—how unforgiving the people in this world would be. And so, you were free. There you went, not bothering to think twice when someone had a photo of your face and unbothered when a customer whispers into their phone. Most importantly, you were so incredibly kind to anyone who came in, allowing them a little piece of your heart.
He wasn't jealous, no, Simon knew well the man he’d become when he put on the mask. In a way, he felt like he could talk to you more—you always had so many things to speak about. With the other soldiers here it was the typical topics; missions, intel, nightmares all the time, and whilst he wasn't bored by his comrades, he sure was far more interested in what you had to say. In a way, you were his little slice of life, telling him about the latest movies that came out, some crazy scandal or something as simple as a new crisp flavour you were fond of. When was the last time he cared about a band going on tour? Probably never, but he sure did now, searching for any tickets available for all your favourites. This was more than a breath of fresh air, nor a turn of a leaf—no you had peeked into his dreary life, with your wide grin and excitement, brightening his life enough for his heart to feel aches for different reasons.
His team’s lucky it’s Saturday, else he would’ve cancelled his last evening training to take the drive down to the little Welsh town he now only associated with you. It doesn't take him long to drag himself through his tasks for the day before eventually taking that drive down the winding road to where your bakery is. It’s right on the corner of the little plaza that’s been growing livelier as the cold starts to fade out again.
You’re wiping down the tables, almost closing time since you close early to pack up for Sunday. The bakery isn't open then, used for preparation for the week ahead even though your parents usually handle that. He pushes the door open, the bell jingling above the door as your sweet voice calls out to him as per usual. “Sorry, we’re closed right now—” You begin, before promptly lifting your head, eyes widened in surprise when you realise it’s him standing there and not a customer trying to get a last minute coffee.
”Oh—Simon..?”
Lord, he can't stand the way you visibly stiffen when you see him, trying to push out the thoughts running in his head to interrogate you, unable to grapple with the idea of having information not in his grasp. No, this needs to be taken carefully, but still— are those dark circles beneath your eyes?. So he was right,something is on your mind that needs to be let out.
“You need a break, don’t you?” He walks over to you, gently reaching for your sleeve and giving you plenty of time to back away if you so wish. “C’mon, we haven't talked in a while.” His voice is gruffer than it should be, and he can tell it catches you off guard as well, since you’re more accustomed to his calmer demeanour. It’s not Simon’s fault; he can’t help it when you’re clearly running your mind into the ground thinking too hard. “It’s not.. I—”
You try to argue but follow along without much reluctance, watching as he walks behind the counter to grab your coat, slipping it firmly over your shoulders before buttoning it up. Once he’s sure you’re warm, he leads you out, locks the bakery door with the keys he knows you keep in your left pocket, and continues to squeeze your wrist as he leads you towards a nearby restaurant. Wordlessly he seats you at a secluded table, before moving towards the counter. Your favourite soup is placed before you whilst he holds his usual black coffee, angling his chair towards you as he leans his elbows on the table. Every move of his is calculated, unintentionally too, attempting to make himself look all the more intimidating, so the victim gives in easily. “You’ve been acting strange recently, what’s wrong?” Just from his tone you can clearly tell he’s raising an eyebrow at you and you cannot help but crumble beneath his gaze, hands fidgeting awkwardly on the table as your eyes flicker between the soup and him.
“It’s really stupid… but i.. I had a bad dream.” That makes his curiosity peak, his chair scraping the tiles as he shifts a little bit more.
“A nightmare?” He probes, confused by your words and how it could affect your actions.
“Of a sort..” your fingers continue to intertwine together absentmindedly, nervous and slightly intimidated.
“I dreamt that you.. You got angry and shouted at me—” You begin, and he cuts you off, a pit of guilt sinking deeper into his gut as the words ring through his head.
He was stupid to think for a second that someone as messed up as he was could be anything of use to a sweet girl like you. He’d only ruin your life, make you hurt in ways you shouldn’t because if he was just normal, like everyone else, you wouldn't be terrified of that. “Hey, listen..”
You quickly cut him off, hands frantically waving in the air as you shake your head quickly. “Wait!” He hadn't let you finish your sentence and your squeak made him stop, letting you finish. “I was rude to you, in the dream. I snapped at you, and even when you tried to help I just grew worse.” You let out a long groan, hiding your face in your hands as you sit there and sniffle pitifully.
“You snapped at me? You could scream at me, I wouldn't care.” He says, confused and still convinced you’re afraid of him shouting and even potentially getting physical with you. He knows he doesn't look like a saint, especially since he allowed you small glimpses of his scarred face. Likewise, he just hopes it’d never come to this, for him to continue the cycle the men in his ancestry began.
“That's the problem.. I feel like I’m deceiving you— like I'm being so nice, and you think I'm that perfect person all the time. I can just get so irritable sometimes, and I won't explain why to you, and then I'll hurt you.”
His throat bobs softly as he swallows, starting to see that you have somehow stemmed from a similar branch of his. Although his was rougher, perhaps he was too stupid to think only he could experience guilt like this. A rose could have just as many thorns as a vine, it seems. His gloved hand gently tugs your chair closer to him, thankful for the fact practically no one is near your table. “It isn't fair on you— for me to act like that..” You mumble out, knowing it sounds silly compared to the things he probably deals with on the daily. But in reality, he had perhaps pressured you too much with his own glittery perception of you, unintentionally undermining your struggles.
“It was a dream for a reason, love; it won't come true.” He hums, gently pinching your cheek between his thumb and index, loving the way your lips purse so softly as you look up at him and he drops his hand again.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well..” He starts, taking a sip of his coffee as he slings an arm loosely around the back of your chair and brushing your shoulders in turn. His eyes glancing off into the lights beyond the windows that decorate the trees with tiny sparkles. “You just warned me now, didn't you? So, now I know that you get a bit snappy when you’re overwhelmed and I can accommodate for that. You’re not some villain for that. It’s called communication, sweetheart.”
You blink up at him, probably expecting him to call you crazy for not being able to control yourself all the time like he did, and well everyone in your life.
“So, I can just tell you all my flaws.. And you won't mind? Even though I still get anxious crossing busy roads?” He chuckles at that, rubbing your shoulder with the palm of his hand and nodding, unbelieving that you thought he’d only turn you away.
“Yes, of course you can. I’ll even tell you one of my own. Military life can be a little unpredictable.. y'know? So I’m often shaken awake at two am and I have a feeling I might end up randomly texting you at that time..I don't expect you to wake up and reply, so don't even think about killin’ your sleep for me.” He chuckles as your lips part in surprise; then again, even he didn't expect he’d find solace in his nightmares just from your menial discussions. You’d laugh alongside him when he complained about the crappy rations, or even when he told you about something stupid he was thinking about. He tells you about some good movies he had watched, only because Soap forced him to, and you give him some recommendations of your own; though not before watching his that night, and giving your own opinions. It’d been a while since he’d even opened up with someone, and you made it feel okay.
“If it's on a weekend, I’ll wake up. It won't bother me, promise. If it’s not, I’ll reply first thing in the morning, okay?”
You’ll argue with him, but he still does really believe you’re the perfect person despite some stupid flaws you think you have. But of course, you seem to take them pretty seriously so he’ll do the same. It’s weird how you suddenly make him feel better about his own worries about himself too, the usual ache in his chest dissipating just a smidge. “Well how about you finish that soup before it gets cold, hm? I have a feeling there are a few more things you have on your mind and I think it’s about time someone helps you sort them out.”
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: The message still waits, because for now there’s something more important Simon needs to tackle before you’ll feel safe having his heart in your hands.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Chapter 7 of Sweet as Sugar series
a/n: currently posting this half delirious at like 3 in the morning. #very confused and want to sleep but i cant. Its ok, enjoy chapter guys thanks u
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A few slight problems had occurred whilst Simon was on deployment, the biggest one being that you had completely forgotten he even went.
For two days you waited patiently for him to arrive, starting to grow more and more upset until your father reminded you, saying he saw him off. You couldn't exactly be mad—he did warn you he’d be going—but it was just so incredibly boring when he couldn't even text you. So you waited; for the first week you managed to fend it off, the second was a little harder and by the third you were debating whether you should join the army. Cleaning up your shop just didn't feel right without him there with you; it was like missing a piece of your heart. You thought you were going crazy, you’ve never missed someone like this before—not that there was anyone to miss usually. But this, it was an unbearable ache in your chest, and you were starting to worry this was some kind of dangerous attachment.
He has returned now, and has kindly texted you to confirm that thus unintentionally quelling the turmoil in your chest. What were you supposed to say though? That your thoughts have been filled with him since he left? You weren't exactly sure if he was even interested in you too— what if he only saw you as a friend? Men of his job were not exactly known for their affectionate sides, and you couldn't help but believe you’d be asking too much of him to be a person like that for you. Especially with the way your heart thumps, he probably thinks you're insane with your attachment— you’ll only drive him away at this rate.
On the other hand, Simon still hasn’t sent the message.
In fact, he’s staring at your texts right now as he lays back in his bed. It’s almost two am, another barrage of memories had shaken him from any traces of sleep he had attempted to get today, and almost as if instinct, he reached for his closest connection to you. This message seemed impossible to send though. Not because he didn’t want to, but for some reason he was slightly scared. He wanted to do this the right way, make sure this all went smoothly, and you didn't feel pressured in the slightest— hell he’d be caught off guard if he received that text. Though, now something else concerned him even more than that; it could end up ruining everything if he didn’t try to understand and fix the issue straight away.
You were acting weird, in a way that was really different. He didn't feel like he was allowed to interfere, to demand an answer for your shift in behaviour but in a way he owed it to you. If you weren't doing okay, he wanted to know; especially after your fathers words, he had to try to help. For the past two days you were far less chatty than usual, only giving him a few stray answers that don't really represent yourself like your responses usually do. In a way, you reflected the subject back onto him, like you’re afraid of talking about yourself even a smidgen. From excitable first texts, you now only responded to his, rather than bringing up your usual random thoughts. It reminds him of someone being restricted to speak, like they shouldn't speak. He’s all too familiar with that notion: keeping quiet since you know too much, afraid of an interrogation and the enemy destroying everything you didn't know you loved until you’re hanging by nothing but your efforts, watching your vision fade.
He blinks the gruesome image away, pushing himself up to a sitting position as he rubs the deadweight beneath his eyes with the roughness of his palm, groaning. Not everything was as serious as an interrogation and torture; he knew there was no way you could possibly be anxious like that, but still, the thought of you feeling uneasy around him was the worst thing to imagine. It was different, really different, to know someone outside the cruel reality he lived with. You had no idea the extent his enemies would go to, the people they’d exploit just for an ounce of power—how unforgiving the people in this world would be. And so, you were free. There you went, not bothering to think twice when someone had a photo of your face and unbothered when a customer whispers into their phone. Most importantly, you were so incredibly kind to anyone who came in, allowing them a little piece of your heart.
He wasn't jealous, no, Simon knew well the man he’d become when he put on the mask. In a way, he felt like he could talk to you more—you always had so many things to speak about. With the other soldiers here it was the typical topics; missions, intel, nightmares all the time, and whilst he wasn't bored by his comrades, he sure was far more interested in what you had to say. In a way, you were his little slice of life, telling him about the latest movies that came out, some crazy scandal or something as simple as a new crisp flavour you were fond of. When was the last time he cared about a band going on tour? Probably never, but he sure did now, searching for any tickets available for all your favourites. This was more than a breath of fresh air, nor a turn of a leaf—no you had peeked into his dreary life, with your wide grin and excitement, brightening his life enough for his heart to feel aches for different reasons.
His team’s lucky it’s Saturday, else he would’ve cancelled his last evening training to take the drive down to the little Welsh town he now only associated with you. It doesn't take him long to drag himself through his tasks for the day before eventually taking that drive down the winding road to where your bakery is. It’s right on the corner of the little plaza that’s been growing livelier as the cold starts to fade out again.
You’re wiping down the tables, almost closing time since you close early to pack up for Sunday. The bakery isn't open then, used for preparation for the week ahead even though your parents usually handle that. He pushes the door open, the bell jingling above the door as your sweet voice calls out to him as per usual. “Sorry, we’re closed right now—” You begin, before promptly lifting your head, eyes widened in surprise when you realise it’s him standing there and not a customer trying to get a last minute coffee.
”Oh—Simon..?”
Lord, he can't stand the way you visibly stiffen when you see him, trying to push out the thoughts running in his head to interrogate you, unable to grapple with the idea of having information not in his grasp. No, this needs to be taken carefully, but still— are those dark circles beneath your eyes?. So he was right,something is on your mind that needs to be let out.
“You need a break, don’t you?” He walks over to you, gently reaching for your sleeve and giving you plenty of time to back away if you so wish. “C’mon, we haven't talked in a while.” His voice is gruffer than it should be, and he can tell it catches you off guard as well, since you’re more accustomed to his calmer demeanour. It’s not Simon’s fault; he can’t help it when you’re clearly running your mind into the ground thinking too hard. “It’s not.. I—”
You try to argue but follow along without much reluctance, watching as he walks behind the counter to grab your coat, slipping it firmly over your shoulders before buttoning it up. Once he’s sure you’re warm, he leads you out, locks the bakery door with the keys he knows you keep in your left pocket, and continues to squeeze your wrist as he leads you towards a nearby restaurant. Wordlessly he seats you at a secluded table, before moving towards the counter. Your favourite soup is placed before you whilst he holds his usual black coffee, angling his chair towards you as he leans his elbows on the table. Every move of his is calculated, unintentionally too, attempting to make himself look all the more intimidating, so the victim gives in easily. “You’ve been acting strange recently, what’s wrong?” Just from his tone you can clearly tell he’s raising an eyebrow at you and you cannot help but crumble beneath his gaze, hands fidgeting awkwardly on the table as your eyes flicker between the soup and him.
“It’s really stupid… but i.. I had a bad dream.” That makes his curiosity peak, his chair scraping the tiles as he shifts a little bit more.
“A nightmare?” He probes, confused by your words and how it could affect your actions.
“Of a sort..” your fingers continue to intertwine together absentmindedly, nervous and slightly intimidated.
“I dreamt that you.. You got angry and shouted at me—” You begin, and he cuts you off, a pit of guilt sinking deeper into his gut as the words ring through his head.
He was stupid to think for a second that someone as messed up as he was could be anything of use to a sweet girl like you. He’d only ruin your life, make you hurt in ways you shouldn’t because if he was just normal, like everyone else, you wouldn't be terrified of that. “Hey, listen..”
You quickly cut him off, hands frantically waving in the air as you shake your head quickly. “Wait!” He hadn't let you finish your sentence and your squeak made him stop, letting you finish. “I was rude to you, in the dream. I snapped at you, and even when you tried to help I just grew worse.” You let out a long groan, hiding your face in your hands as you sit there and sniffle pitifully.
“You snapped at me? You could scream at me, I wouldn't care.” He says, confused and still convinced you’re afraid of him shouting and even potentially getting physical with you. He knows he doesn't look like a saint, especially since he allowed you small glimpses of his scarred face. Likewise, he just hopes it’d never come to this, for him to continue the cycle the men in his ancestry began.
“That's the problem.. I feel like I’m deceiving you— like I'm being so nice, and you think I'm that perfect person all the time. I can just get so irritable sometimes, and I won't explain why to you, and then I'll hurt you.”
His throat bobs softly as he swallows, starting to see that you have somehow stemmed from a similar branch of his. Although his was rougher, perhaps he was too stupid to think only he could experience guilt like this. A rose could have just as many thorns as a vine, it seems. His gloved hand gently tugs your chair closer to him, thankful for the fact practically no one is near your table. “It isn't fair on you— for me to act like that..” You mumble out, knowing it sounds silly compared to the things he probably deals with on the daily. But in reality, he had perhaps pressured you too much with his own glittery perception of you, unintentionally undermining your struggles.
“It was a dream for a reason, love; it won't come true.” He hums, gently pinching your cheek between his thumb and index, loving the way your lips purse so softly as you look up at him and he drops his hand again.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well..” He starts, taking a sip of his coffee as he slings an arm loosely around the back of your chair and brushing your shoulders in turn. His eyes glancing off into the lights beyond the windows that decorate the trees with tiny sparkles. “You just warned me now, didn't you? So, now I know that you get a bit snappy when you’re overwhelmed and I can accommodate for that. You’re not some villain for that. It’s called communication, sweetheart.”
You blink up at him, probably expecting him to call you crazy for not being able to control yourself all the time like he did, and well everyone in your life.
“So, I can just tell you all my flaws.. And you won't mind? Even though I still get anxious crossing busy roads?” He chuckles at that, rubbing your shoulder with the palm of his hand and nodding, unbelieving that you thought he’d only turn you away.
“Yes, of course you can. I’ll even tell you one of my own. Military life can be a little unpredictable.. y'know? So I’m often shaken awake at two am and I have a feeling I might end up randomly texting you at that time..I don't expect you to wake up and reply, so don't even think about killin’ your sleep for me.” He chuckles as your lips part in surprise; then again, even he didn't expect he’d find solace in his nightmares just from your menial discussions. You’d laugh alongside him when he complained about the crappy rations, or even when he told you about something stupid he was thinking about. He tells you about some good movies he had watched, only because Soap forced him to, and you give him some recommendations of your own; though not before watching his that night, and giving your own opinions. It’d been a while since he’d even opened up with someone, and you made it feel okay.
“If it's on a weekend, I’ll wake up. It won't bother me, promise. If it’s not, I’ll reply first thing in the morning, okay?”
You’ll argue with him, but he still does really believe you’re the perfect person despite some stupid flaws you think you have. But of course, you seem to take them pretty seriously so he’ll do the same. It’s weird how you suddenly make him feel better about his own worries about himself too, the usual ache in his chest dissipating just a smidge. “Well how about you finish that soup before it gets cold, hm? I have a feeling there are a few more things you have on your mind and I think it’s about time someone helps you sort them out.”
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Chapter 6 of my Sweet As Sugar Series (baker!reader x lt ghost
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Simon leaves in deployment, though just before he goes, your father unintentionally sets a fire alight in Simon’s chest, one he’s never felt in years. It brings him to a realisation he didnt think was possible.
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It’s surprising; in Soap’s entire career, he never thought he’d see the day that Ghost actually looked reluctant to come back to work. Usually he was the one to complain about everything he missed, especially in the mess hall when they grabbed their meals together. Though today Ghost’s eyes were particularly downturned, and he hadn't interrupted Soap once to tell him to do less speaking and more eating. “Ye not gonna tell me to shut up today?” He tilts his head towards the masked man before promptly shoving a bland potato in his mouth, chewing it without a care in the world.
“This tea is horrible; that's why.” He grunts, placing the cup down onto the table with so much force the liquid almost splashes out of the cup altogether. “Thought ya didn't care about the taste?” Soap raises a brow, even more confused. When had his Lt thought twice about how good his tea tasted? Sure, he’d been bragging about the cafe in town for a while now, but he didn't think anything would sway Riley this much. He’s only seen the man this annoyed that time he was given rice instead of pitta when they grabbed their post-deployment kebab.
“My standards have been raised.” Ghost scoffs a little, watching as Soap gulps down a large swig of his strong coffee as always—licking his lips from the three sugars he had just stirred in. “Are you going to finally tell me who that lass was now? Gaz is dying to know too.” He rests his elbows on the table, grinning cheekily at the man opposite, who only shoos him back and narrows his eyes in a faux glare. “You told Gaz?”
“Wait till Capt’ comes back–”
Ghost wasn't sure how to feel about his team’s sudden interest in his private life, but he supposed it seemed natural given that he wasn't one for making friends, let alone getting close to the baker girl in the town they frequented off deployments. “She works at the bakery, that’s all. I helped her with some heavy things.” He chooses to omit the part where he had willingly joined you on a mini road trip and spent time with you at the winter market. Soap will definitely never know about the incident at your apartment either.
”Wait, she’s the one who makes those pastries your unit had? We ‘ave to pay her a visit too. I mean, my mouth watered when i smelt ‘em.” He laughs, remembering the time he had begged Ghost to let him try just a tad of the cookie you had graciously provided him once. He’d take the death glare, especially since after he ate half, he had easily decided it was the best one he’d ever tasted. Besides, he wanted to see what had caught Ghost’s eye to the point he spent more time off base than on. Unfortunately, the masked man had caught onto it quickly, standing with the tray in his hands. “Yeah, you go spillin’ crumbs on yourself in the middle of the briefing we have in ten.” He rolls his eyes, already expecting the alarm in Soap’s eyes as he quickly stands and throws his tray away too—he always had a tendency to rely on Ghost as a personal reminders app.
————
The meeting seemed to last forever, and he had to adjust himself to stand straight every so often just so his mind wouldn’t wander off with the memories of only last week. Though, he couldn’t keep them away for much longer since as soon as he was on the treadmill, everything in his mind was let free. The thing was, even though he hadn't said it directly, Johnny was right—you had caught his eye in a way that he couldn't even figure out himself. From the day he saw you in that shop, dancing along to a song that you embarrassedly shut off as soon as he entered, to the pretty smile you flash every time he enters the shop. In fact, your demeanour seems to light up without you even realising; it’s adorable, really. He notices the pep in your step, the slightly higher pitch in your voice, and even the way you greet the customers with happiness just ‘cause you’re eager to draw your doodle on the side of his coffee cup again. Maybe if he had a little more experience in all of this, he would’ve teased you about it all, or he would even go as far as to admit that you’ve made his heart thump more than any life-threatening situation will. Though, if he told you that then you might just force him to a doctor out of sheer worry.
What if you don’t even see it the same way? What if you’re just being friendly and he’s acting like a creep, reading into all of your actions? He ramps up the speed on the treadmill a little more, his thighs starting to burn the more forceful his strides grow. It’s empty in this room, no sound around save for the heavy thump of his boots bouncing off the walls. He’s heard female soldiers complain before; they huff about how the younger soldiers ogle, and the older lieutenants shamelessly give their remarks. What if he ruins everything and makes you uncomfortable? He’s not even sure he can handle a relationship; he always thought he could never commit to it, nor did he think he could put the constant energy and thoughts into caring so much for somebody. But with you, it just comes so naturally; he barely has to think twice when he converses with you, even less when you chatter to him about something that happened the other day. Relationships always seemed like obligations to him, even if the girl was nice or sweet; something always sucked the life out of him dry until he broke up with them just for their own sake. He didn't want the same to happen to you; no he wouldn't dare hurt you in such a cruel way.
Then what, should he just pull away from you altogether?
That thought alone stills him, the idea of never seeing you again making his body still like a bucket of cold ice dumped over his head. His feet falter as his heart stammers, and his hands can only graze the handles before his knees hit the floor with a painful slam—sliding off the treadmill altogether in a heap of limbs. He looks down in shock, more so down at himself as he sits on the floor in front of the treadmill he had accidentally pushed to the maximum speed. Damnit; he really has fallen for you.
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The little bell rings as he pushes the glass door open; it’s the day before he leaves for deployment, and he was hoping he’d see your grin one last time before he goes. To his dismay, you’re not on shift today, likely doing a grocery run or something similar. Today, your parents are handling the shop, and although you informally introduced him once, he’s almost sure that they don't approve of him. It’s not like they’ve made it obvious; it just seems inevitable due to his chosen attire and his line of work. Naturally, he hadn't expected your father to smile at him widely and know his order before he could say it.
“Flat white or black today? No tea today, unfortunately.”
Simon can only blink in surprise, clearing his throat in hopes he doesn’t sound too hoarse. “Flat white. I’ve got deployment tomorrow, so I'll have to indulge now rather than later.” He doesn't usually add on detail, but he feels like he’s obliged to, just for the sake of seeming a little better towards your parents. Thankfully, there’s not a hint of the disdain he expected on your father’s face; he only laughs, ringing in the order whilst he turns to make the drink for him. “I’d hardly call a flat white an ‘indulgent’, kid.”
Simon barely gets the chance to acknowledge the fact someone just called him ‘kid’ before he’s talking again, and he feels himself stand a little straighter to make sure he doesn't look like some sleazy boy.
“She’s gonna be upset, y’know? Maybe you’ll be better off paying a stunt double to take your place instead of saying you’re on deployment.” The man chuckles again, his face lighting up the same way you do, and you’ve clearly learnt his technique of pouring the steamed milk too.
“I’m sure she’ll forget by the second day; the other customers will have to suffice with all her stories.” Simon brushes off your potential reaction, almost positive that you wouldn't even lose sleep on the matter. Besides, you’re plenty more friendly than he’ll ever be; he’s sure you’ll make quick friends with the other regulars.
“Forget? I won't hear the end of it until you return. I don't know what you did to that girl, but she’s been as bright as the sun since you showed up.” The older man pressed the lid onto the cup, turning around to hand it to Simon. “We’re grateful, y’know? She had a tough time when we first opened; it didn't help that we couldn't afford her further education.”
“I.. didn't know that.” He can't say much else, the words spilling out and surprise evident in his tone.
“We travelled a bit before buying this bakery, so she’s never had many constant friends; it was out of our control.” The man packs up a small bag, placing it on the counter for Ghost to take as well before giving him a grateful smile. “She’d have come around eventually, but the point is, she’s very fond of you. Always makes sure she has your favourite biscuits restocked too.” He chuckles, and Simon stares down at the bag, the faint outline of chocolate bourbons inside. He truly was a lucky man.
———-
Ghost had a hypothesis, and that was that the simplest missions were always the longest. Well, not literally, but they felt as if they dragged on forever. He was positioned up in these mountains to scope the area prior to his team’s entry; however they wouldn't be here for another two hours anyway due to unforeseen circumstances. That meant that for the meantime, he was a sitting duck. It also gave way to the thoughts he hadn’t been able to consider ever since he first processed them, promising himself he’d debate it later after this all blew over.
The thing is, he couldn't fathom the idea of you feeling low or even having a few friends. He considers himself to be on the loner side, considering most people perceived him that way, and he didn't exactly contact anyone outside of the military save from his old boss when he worked as a butcher—he always said happy new year to him. The difference is, he kind of liked it that way, but clearly you haven't been given a choice in that matter. It fills him with an urge, one that’s a little out of place for him yet fits perfectly in his chest. He wants to make sure you’re happy, well, as far as he can do so anyway. And on the off chance you do get upset, he wants to be the one to cheer you up after.
It’s weird to him, having someone that needs him as a presence in their life, someone who’ll miss him when he’s gone. But what’s worse for him, is that he realises now that he misses you every time you’re gone. He thought he had gone crazy the first time Johnny went on deployment without him, and he had to listen to Gaz talk about the latest football game all lunch— not that Johnny usually had anything better to say either. He had only realised he missed him when Soap described the same feeling when Gaz had left for deployment. He figured it comes with working closely with others very often; after all, being forced out of a routine would never feel right. So, he was even more surprised when he had only spent a month and a bit getting to know you, but somehow every moment away just seemed duller.
That night the evac trucks take him home quietly, along with the rest of his team. They’re exhausted, Soap and Gaz more so than himself; they're practically nodding off beside him. Not that he minds being their pillow for the ride, but he does stop to wonder what it’d feel like if your head was the one on his shoulder. He’d probably wrap an arm around you—if you’d allow him, of course—and maybe just sit in silence whilst a movie plays. You’d be happy with someone around, he’d be happy to have a quiet night in, and maybe a quiet sleep again.
That’s the moment he decided what he was going to do and what he’s currently doing right now. It’s two am, and he’s just got back, barely even washed up yet. His phone is in his hands, your little profile picture grinning at him cheekily as he stares at the unsent message.
“Are you free for dinner on Wednesday? My treat, and an apology for leaving you for so long.”
Pairings: Lieutenant!Ghost x civilian, baker! reader
Part 5 of Sweet As Sugar Series ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Simon’s been put on leave, much to his annoyance, and due to the Christmas period your shop isn’t even open. So he has to wait painstakingly for two days for it to reopen once more, and when it does, he doesn’t plan to leave.
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Finally, he’s been pushed on holiday, by force no less, and his first feeling is that he’s bored— extremely so. The initial plan was to sleep through the entire first day, but he could barely get more than a few hours in before he was awake in a cold sweat. At least back at base he could work it off in the gym, or with a few laps around the muddy track. Here in this apartment, he couldnt nearly do as much as he’d like to, especially with the eerie quietness about it. Usually he could hear Soap snoring next door, or at least Price’s quiet murmurs as he reads over another mission plan. It didnt help that he got let off right on Christmas Eve, which meant today and tomorrow he could barely do anything around town since nothing would be open, especially your cafe.
He could never relate to the other soldiers about the joy of returning home though. They’d groan on and on about how they missed the smell of home cooked food, plush pillows in their beds, being warm on the coldest nights and most of all being fussed over by their parents, siblings or well.. their lover. He can hardly remember where he left the spare toilet paper let alone find comfort in the scent of his ‘home’, nor actually find comfort in his bed. The sheets move around too much, pulling off the corners of his bed every time he tosses, and they're rough against his bruises, not doing anything to soothe his aches.
A few years back, he moved out of Manchester to stay in Cardiff. It didn't affect him much anyway, considering he was barely at his own apartment throughout the year, but it did make it particularly easier on the odd chance he was kicked out of base— part of the rules for the Christmas holidays. He really had tried to argue with Price, but he wouldn't have it, telling him to ‘just take a damn break’. Soap had even joked a few times about dragging him over to Scotland with him, but Ghost wasn't too sure if he could handle another Mactavish let alone just Soap. Plus, any type of family gathering was really not his thing.
So, after surviving his second restless night, he makes the impulsive decision to drive down to your town at seven am, arriving there in half an hour. The bell jingles, early regulars already filtering in and out the cafe for their coffee before their jobs start. He usually either went now or near closing time, trying his best to avoid the busiest hours— otherwise he’d never get to see you.
“Cardamom tea.” He grunts at you before placing a five pound note on the counter, eyes catching onto the mess behind the counter before he raises a brow at you.
“What the hell happened back there?”
You sigh, glancing back at the wet floor sign and the spices hastily swept underneath the cupboards. “The front sink suddenly burst this morning. I've been using bottled water but it’s starting to become an issue.”
You ring in his order though, turning around to dispense the premade tea, the large airpot keeping it warm. It was way better than any teabag, the fresh spices balancing out in his mouth in a way that makes some part of him melt.
“Have you called a plumber yet?” He watches as you strain the spices out before pouring into a cup for him, placing the lid on and grabbing your pen for your signature doodle. It’s not like he wanted to admit he liked them, but you’ve been getting increasingly creative with the mini-version of him who's been up to all kinds of things.
“Ah.. well, the closer it gets to Christmas the harder it is to find anyone. It’ll have to be fixed in the new year.” You give him a shrug as you hand over the cup, obviously looking a little down about having to deal with a dodgy sink on top of running the shop each day. It’d certainly makes your tea products a struggle to produce and he doesn't even need to ask to see you contemplating shutting it down. “Let me ‘ave a look.” There’s not much he could do to make it worse anyway, so you unlock the small swing gate, letting him walk around the corner. Usually , you would’ve helped him inspect it, but a group of regulars returned for their usual meeting and you knew this would be an order you had to handle now. Though, when you finally complete it, he’s disappeared off again.
“Hi, what can I get for you today?” Just like the first day you met, your music is blaring in the background, considering it’s half an hour till closing and many don't hang around till now. Finally you lift your head, meet with Simon’s familiar black mask and you smile, though slightly tilting your head in confusion.
“Oh— what are you doing back here? Wait- did I forget a plan?”
Your face grows into one of panic and he quickly quells it with a firm shake of his head. A soft thud rings out and you look down to see a toolkit he had just placed on the table, what looks to be plumbing supplies.
“We’ll have that sink workin’ by the end of today.”
He had gotten to work immediately, muttering to himself about how bad the previous owners had been to let it get to this state as he crouched in front of the sink cabinet. “Simon, you really don’t have to—“ He shakes his head,reaching into a carrier bag to pull out a flexi hose and other things you don't recognise. “You got a customer waitin’ for you.” You squeak, having not even realised and quickly apologise before taking the order. In no time, your sink is working again, although Simon did get a little drenched when he tested it and the water pressure was a bit too high. The sight had you in fits of laughter as you quickly searched for a towel. Besides that, you marvelled at how he had restored the sink with a bit of diy, cringing at the dirty state of the old pipes and the like.
“Thank you for everything today. I’m thinking about getting a filter attachment for the water so it’s better quality. You’ll be the first to try the new teas, of course.”
That’s accompanied by your usual emoji, that of which is a little smiley with its tongue sticking out. He has no idea why you’re so enthralled by the mini pictures but he’s made no effort to stop you, just replying back in his own usual tone.
“You’re welcome. Filtered water sounds good, tea will taste better too.”
Okay, so maybe he didnt text as nicely as you and had a bad habit of getting straight to the point— you didn't seem to mind too much though, and it’s better than leaving you on read like he’s heard some men have done. A sigh puffs out his chest as his head hits the pillows, looking at the speckles on his ceiling as he thinks over the day. It felt good to be occupied, and not in the usual ‘planning something that could end up killing people if done wrong’ way. His job helped people of course, damn every mission was always for a better cause but something was different with the way you had lit up, grinning at his handiwork. Families had thanked him before— nervously because of his heavy armour but thanked him nonetheless. Yet still he didn't get that rush, the one that made his teeth grit, eyes avert awkwardly and his fists to clench a little. One that made him a little uncomfortable, though sent him reeling all the same. ‘If i didnt fix it, I'd never get my tea for a long while..’ He concludes that must be why he ran out to the nearest home diy store, and definitely not the frown on your lips. it must be.
Despite that, he was seemingly having an internal battle with himself the longer the days continued with little sleep. He just had no excuses for what he was doing anymore, nothing was making sense. Most of all was when the next day he made his way to your shop again, muttering something about ‘The fridge made a loud noise when i was here. It’s annoying.’ before he was stalking around the counter and pulling it away from the wall. He checks all the vents, and clears the dust buildup from many years of use. You confess your parents planned for a new one but you haven't been able to afford it yet.
“I don't need it.” He shrugs as he hands you the military discount card he keeps spare, supposed to be for family members but now he’s giving it to you. It’s still early when he's done with the fridge, and decides to check out the lights in the main kitchen, where all the bakes are made. He’s been here before, when you needed to clean it at closing time and he stayed late again. One of them needs to be replaced, obviously and so he takes it upon himself to do that. Somehow he finds another problem, fixing the squeakiness of the back door.
This carries on until a third day, he had come by after munching down some dinner, and he somehow migrated his problem fixing to your small apartment upstairs. You didn't mind of course, and he hadn't pushed, in fact he sounded more awkward than you when he spoke up. “If your pipes were this rusty downstairs, I think the ones upstairs can only be worse. You should.. get that checked out.” He mutters, his arms crossed over as he crouches before the kitchen water pipes. You have to stifle a smirk, nodding along with his words instead. Whilst he worked, he’d ask the odd question and you had explained that the previous owners barely used the apartment themselves— explaining his assumption.
“Ah.. I really should get someone to check it out…”
It feels fun to act like this— you almost feel like you’re saying no to a kid about buying a toy. He’s sitting there silently but you know he wants to go up and sort it out for you. The reason? You’re not sure, but you have a few suspicions. “You’re on holiday now, right?” You glance at him as he stands from his crouched position, and he nods. “Are you doing anything for it?”
“No.” He grunts almost a little too quickly, the boredom practically agitating his soul now as he shifts, fidgeting with the tools as he places them back in the boxes. “Oh.. well, would you mind checking my pipes out upstairs then? I mean… as long as you're not too busy. You can just tell me what’s wrong and i’ll hire a plumber later—“
“I’ll fix tha’ by tonight.” So, you close up the shop, since it’s late now already, and walk up the small staircase up to your apartment. It looked far smaller on the outside, but you had planned your space well. There was a kitchenette, looking a lot more modern than the bakery downstairs. Rather than the dark mahogany, it was a lighter brown and off white walls, matching the plush leather couch before your tv. It was clear you had done some work on it yourself, or hired someone at least, to renovate the place. He takes his shoes off by the door and you take his jacket from his hands to rest it on a little hook. It was cute to him, to see how you’ve cosied up this space to be one of your own. The first thing he notices is how warm it is, not a sweaty hot but like sitting infront of a fire on a freezing day. It’s welcoming, the warm light rather than the sterile white he’s accustomed to, as well as the little picture frames among the walls of artwork you’ve grown fond of over the years. He even smiles at your key holder, the way a cat pops out as you place the key down.
He’d describe it as a home, a real one. From the small clutter of dishes that you shyly hurry him past, or the blanket still splayed over the couch from a late night movie— hell even the bin full to the brim. It’s full of life, something his apartment has never known. “Alrigh’ let’s see the damage here.”
“Will you be fine here on your own? I still need to clean up downstairs..”
He nods quickly, even going as far as to shoo you away and you laugh hurrying down again.
You come up at eight, wanting to deliver him a cup of the leftover tea from today whilst you washed out the large airpots you kept them in. “Simon?” You call out, looking around until you see him standing before the sink, finally repaired and looking a little.. dazed. “I’ll be finished in a bit, why dont you take a seat on my couch and watch some tv?”
“I should go home—“
“No! ..I mean, I can't just force you to go now after all your hard work. Stay and drink the tea please?” He cant say no to those eyes and so he grunts, letting you tug him over to the couch and sit him down. Then you hurry over to the cabinet, rummaging out a pack of nachos and some salsa. “Help yourself, okay? I’ll be done soon. Promise.”
Then he’s left alone again, sitting there quietly as he sips on the mug of tea you gave him. It’s in a mug that has prints of skulls all over it, and a ghost on the centre with a little ‘boo!’ next to it. He finds it awfully fitting, a bit curious on when you even bought this and when you planned to show him it. Like he said before, your tea is just perfect. The right mixture of sugar, spice and everything else nice. It breaks down a part of him he hadn't known existed, muscles relaxing into the plushness of the couch. He’s got a large cushion behind his back, something you must love since there’s a few more littering the couch too. The tv is quiet, on one those stupid adult cartoons that he’s never found quite funny but the ambience of this is too cosy to deny, too comforting. Has it really been that long since he’s slept? He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he’d been avoiding sleep recently just to escape those nightmares for a bit. This was comfy though, almost too comfy, but you said you’d be back soon— he’s sure the military trained him to wait that long anyway. So he sits there quietly, waiting.
When you return, you call out again, only to recieve silence in response. Confused, you walk further in, seeing him sitting upright. “Lt! Simon! …Ghost?” Still no reply, that is until you hear quiet breathing, and you step closer to see his head is slumped back a little. Carefully tiptoeing around the couch, his blonde eyelashes are pressed against the black cut outs of his mask, lips gently parted as his chest rises and falls. You can see his chin properly for once, the small curves of his lips and the pin prick of a scar near his neck. That makes you swallow sharply, only images of him being near death coming to your mind. For now, you shake it out and try to figure out what to do with the sleeping hunk of a man on your couch. Of course, you’re far from being annoyed but you’d feel extremely guilty if you didn't at least try to wake him.
What if he feels uncomfortable when he wakes?
“Si..” You whisper, the nickname unintentionally slipping out as you gently rub his shoulder. No response is heard, only a deep breath leaving his chest as he relaxes into your couch. “Si, you fell asleep.” This time, you think he’s woken but he just shifts his body, head leaning back further to press into the back of the couch. You sigh, not sure what else to do than to just leave him here until he wakes. There’s no point attempting more drastic measures, knowing damn well you likely cant even lift his arm just from the sheer muscle on it. “You gonna lie down at least? That’s gonna hurt your neck in the morning.”
It had been a murmur to yourself but he had seemed to have the same idea, head sinking a little more in search for a comfortable place to rest. He grunts in his sleep, mask crinkling near his eyes as they squeeze. You tug his arm gently to lead him, and he subconsciously follows, adjusting himself until his head rests on a cushion you placed on the armrest. His arm lazes over his stomach as he gets comfortable on his side, cheek pressing in to the pillow just slightly. Smiling to yourself, you grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch and tuck it around him before reaching out towards his face. Your fingers tangle on the fabric of his mask, his nose twitching until you slowly drag down the bunched fabric to his chin. “Sleep well, Si.” The couch creaks as he sinks in further, the light ahead flickering off with the touch of your fingers.
It’s late in the morning when he grunts, though today it’s not the light from the curtains annoying him, nor does he wake up to silence neither. Infact, a soft hum is heard not too far away and he’s almost positive he’s dreaming now. Quickly perking up at the unfamiliar surroundings, he whips his head around only to see you standing in an apron, teeth biting your lip as you concentrate on scooping an egg perfectly in the plate. You practically beam at your own work, finally looking up to see him stare back at you, throw blanket sliding off his shoulders. “What the–” His voice is cold, instantly reverting to his military instincts before you chuckle, the sound easing something in him. “You fell asleep on my couch, silly. Looked exhausted too– have you been sleeping well recently?” He sits up properly now, glad for the mask to cover his warming face, before walking over to the counter you stand at.
“Not my fault your couch is comfy.” He takes the plate you slide towards him, lifting his mask to his nose as he takes a bite of the sausage.
“You’re avoiding my question, Si.” His eyes flicker up, caught off guard by the nickname but any challenge he wanted to give you for having the audacity quickly dies in his throat. He’s not the man for you, but you’re so damn tempting to him. Never has he hesitated to set a boundary, yet here he is letting you call him Si. “Fine, I havent been sleeping well. Just adjusting, tha’s all.”
You don't believe him, but there’s not much you can do, not when he’s being stubborn as it is right now. Despite that, you still couldn't just let him deal with it on his own either, not after everything he’s been doing for you. So you shuffle through your cupboards, grabbing a packet of Chamomile tea and offering it to him. “Take it. It might not be perfect, but it helped me relax when I had insomnia.” Then you’re grabbing a diffuser too, and a few candles, placing everything into a small carrier bag. “If it doesn't work, then I guess you’ll just have to sleep on my couch forever.” He rolls his eyes at your cheeky words, and grabs your empty plate to stack atop his.
“Alrigh’ fine. But I'll hold you to that promise.”
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི A/N: ello cuties i know i havent posted anything so take this before i post the next chapter (likely this weekend) because i also have exams next week which also means no chapter.. 😔
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A few days have passed since he had driven you back home from the farm, and you’re still a little flustered that you had fallen asleep so easily. It was embarrassing but thankfully he wasn't the one to wake you up; you’d probably pass out again if you opened your eyes to his skull mask in your face—no offense to him, of course. The truck jostled as he unpacked the car to take out all the fresh produce, clearly having no intentions of making you help. He handled it all with ease, feeling more like carrying a shopping bag than the heavy glass bottles of milk. “Simon?” Your voice has mumbled out sleepily, dragging your tired self around the side of the truck to watch as he lifted each crate. He had gone completely still at your words though, something shifting behind his eyes that were usually quite sharp, though it doesn't seem to be uncomfortable. That look alone flustered you and you immediately got to work despite his protests, hurrying to pack all the produce away.
You’ve long since closed the shop now, but you were preparing some dough as per usual. It was all you ever seemed to do these days, and even if more people were appreciating your bakes, you find yourself desperate for a new invention. Or well, at least somekind of new product in the shop. Somehow, your mind drifts back to your old train of thought that other day, what Simon would eat for lunch. You think he’d like something rich with flavour, considering how dry military food would be, but not spice—it doesn't look like he could handle that much anyway. Savoury seems to be his preference, even if he has tried a few of your sweeter options before. Don’t soldiers need lots of protein and carbs too? At least that’s what everyone says about building muscle, so you mentally jot those points down too. Your stomach rumbles as you see a notification from a cooking channel you follow, instantly clicking on it to see the thumbnail that is the most delicious tacos with their seasoned meat and vegetables. The video even showed pulled chicken tacos, but that’d seemed to be too messy for him to eat on the job— definitely a note for another day.
You hum as you lean against the counter, looking at the bread dough in the bowl before you. Pulled chicken sounded damn good especially for protein, you have bread already, and shredded vegetables would be easy to get…you're going to make the best damn meal he’ll have in his life.
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Sweat trickles down his back and soaks his shirt as he pants quietly, breaths eventually slowing down from his early morning run. The air is crisp, almost biting with how cold it is as December deepens. He doesn't particularly like how much his thoughts have shifted these days, always thinking about his next visit to his bakery rather than the rest of his schedule for the day. Damnit, just the mere sight of a teacup makes him think of your grin when you hand one to him. He’s convinced he’s starting to go insane.
The locker rooms are quiet at this time, and so he pulls off his top in one smooth motion before throwing in his laundry bag that he’ll handle later. His muscles flex as he stretches them a little, fishing out a fresh vest and shirt when his phone buzzes in his duffel bag. That’s unusual, no one really bothered texting him apart from his phone service provider or occasionally an app notification. Even Soap preferred to just hunt down the Lieutenant himself, knowing he barely ever checked his phone. But he does now, because now he’s got someone who has his number, and who actually wants to text him too. Your name and the silly picture you took on his phone flash up, and for once his thumb fumbles when he types his password in.
“Is there any chance i could potentially leave something for you at like.. a military gate.. post.. thing? You forgot something in the shop!”
He raises a brow at the message, knowing damn well he’s never been reckless enough to forget something that would be important as to be delivered to him at this time. If it really was something, surely it could wait until he inevitably saw you next week. At least, that’s what his rationale is telling him. He shouldn't breach work hours and go off and let you into the base, no he should just tell you that it isnt possible and he’ll handle it himself. He’d be damned if he ever let you drive your truck up here, carrying one of his things and delivering it to him personally. What if someone saw you? What if another soldier talked to you and you realised they’re the one you want to stay friends with and not him?”
At that he slams the locker door closed, letting out a deep breath and ignoring the way his face heats. It’s just because of the run, just because of the way his mask clings to his face. It’s really hot in here, yeah that’s it. This -2° air is boiling.
It’s almost lunch time now, and he walks down to the admin area where an intern, who is usually tasked with the mundane tasks like these, tells him there’s a girl waiting for him at the gate. He just gruffly nods, hands stuck in his pockets as he steps out of the building and where you stand on the other side of the barrier, awkwardly waiting with a little paper bag. He’s glad you’re wrapped up, a thick scarf practically engulfing your face and a wooly hat covering the hair he loves the look of. “Miss Lost and Found, is that your name now?” He hums, stepping towards you and you almost jump, not used to the physical skull mask he wears on base and rather the more tame chalk one. But his voice resonates instantly and you grin, tugging down your scarf to your chin. “I may have lied. I came bearing a delivery.”
Well he hadn't expected you to straight up lie to get your way, but he supposes it must be a good cause and so he takes the bag when you offer it to him, though not without taking your wrist too. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up inside.”
You’re not sure if you stick out like a sore thumb because of the thick jacket you wear compared to the camos sported around here, or due to the Lieutenant’s grip around your hand as he tugs you along. It must be a mix of both, assuming from the way the other soldiers look at Ghost and then you before scurrying off quickly. He eventually seats you opposite him in an office, letting you sit on the couch as he settles on the armchair. Though.. this office does not match him in the slightest. “Captain’s office, not mine.”
He hums, digging out the container out of the paperbag with curiosity along with a warm flask. “You didn't..” He grunts, eye flickering down at the food and then up to you, not quite sure just yet if the little lunchbox you brang is something he had somehow left behind in another life or you really had brought him lunch while he was working.
“I did. I wanted to thank you for all your help the other day” You grin, and he pulls off the lid, instantly caught in the delicious smell inside. Two large chicken stuffed buns right beside each other, practically still hot considering you cooked them this morning. Beneath is veggie sticks, ones you’d usually give to little kids, layered over seasoned rice in case he wasn't full on the buns already. And of course, would it really be you if you didn't give him a dessert? Of course, nothing too sweet, in fact you even went out of your way to make another off menu item for him… oops.
“Banana bread? Do you note down everything I say?” He likes the way your smile grows wider when he notices your efforts, taking care to remember that for later too. Though, he really is surprised you were paying that much attention to him. “You know I'm gonna devour this, righ’?”
Though you’re quickly cut off when the door bangs open, a noise common around here but not exactly for you since you unintentionally jump. It doesn't go unnoticed by Simon though, whose hand shoots out to protect before realising you had only jumped at the door and nothing actually serious. His hand says awkwardly hovering before you before he just picks some lint of your shoulder, quickly turning to the door instead. Is he going crazy or what? The cause of the noise was a bulky man who had almost as much muscle as the man in front of you, only shorter than him and the muscle was more evenly distributed.
“Lt, the fuckin’ rookies are at it again! This new batch are always fighting eachother!” He exclaims, walking over to the desk in the office to snatch a cookie out of a jar that easily blends into the rest of the furniture around. You stare at him as he bites into it, the crumbs falling onto his tactical gear before his head lifts to meet Simon’s, only to see you right in front of him. He raises a single brow at you, then chomps on a cookie a little more.
“Oh, is this one of ‘em? Lass doesn't even look terrified, have ye lost yer touch mate?” Ghost grunts as the man jests, and shakes his head before trying to move the lunchbox out of the man’s sight. “She’s not a soldier, Johnny.”
“Not a soldier eh? So.. CIA? One of Laswell’s right?”
“No”
”Medic?”
“No.”
“K9 Trainer?”
“No.”
”Damnit, Lt, yer killing me!”
‘Johnny’ groans as he steps around the desk, before promptly noticing the lunchbox that Ghost had failed to completely hide behind him. Though, that left even more questions unanswered. For starters, when has Ghost ever sat with someone for lunch?
“None of ya business who she is. I’ll deal with the rookies in five, just get ‘em rounded up, Soap.” Then he turns to you, wrapping the scarf that was tossed to the side back around your neck before he pulls you up by your hands. “And you need to get back home.”
“Do I really look like I could be in the CIA?” Soap snaps his gaze to you as your head tilts, in a way that’s far too friendly, towards Ghost though he only rolls his eyes up at you and huffs out a chuckle. “You couldn't even kill a fly.”
“I didn't want fly blood on me!”
You argue and Ghost turns to see the other soldier staring, so he grunts and closes the lid onto the lunchbox. Soap had just been through a series of emotions and confusion was an aspect of all of them. Ghost had just tucked a scarf around your neck, refused to give your identity to him and he was about to walk you back to wherever you came from. For once in his life, he stays silent as his Lieutenant leads you out, a hand on your back to guide you.
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After he walked you back to your car and made sure you knew your way out of the complex, he had spent the next half hour dealing with those damn rookies Soap groaned about. Finally, he was free now, the little blue lunch box in front of him, and lord was he starving. As he promised, he devoured everything you made him, even taking a moment to stop and savour the burst of flavour the shredded chicken had been coated in. It was more than good, it was like the takeout they only got every so often, like the drinks he’d share with his taskforce, or even the sigh that gets let out when everyone comes back unscathed from a mission. It was comforting and warm, a promise of safety and he’d be damned if he never got to try this cooking ever again. So, he savours each bite, every drop of tea in the flask until it’s empty. He’ll scrub the container clean for you, grab you a box of chocolates even if it was meant as a thnak you. And he’d be back in that bakery, as soon as he could.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི part 3 of Sweet as Sugar (bakery!au, simon x reader)
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ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Ghost— or well, Simon— notices how much you seem to dread your upcoming trip to the local farm. You seem to hate the idea of driving alone, especially with that rickety car of yours.He never thought he’d say it himself, but, one day off work wouldnt hurt, right?
A/N: (British)english glossary: Boot means the trunk of a car for all you americans. This chapter is actually so British it’s funny
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You always dreaded these trips; it took far too long to get to that farm, and even though you loved to see the sheep there, it was a painfully long drive with all the harsh bumps and the like. Your car wasn't made for that, though you wouldn't dare complain much, knowing that your parents wouldn’t be able to afford those expensive cars made for the bumpiest land of Wales. Even so, it was your turn to pick up the fresh produce that made your bakery so popular in the first place.
“It’s just.. really far, and it always seems to rain whenever I go.” You complain to Simon as he nurses a cup of tea in the empty shop, not quite off duty for another two weeks, but he somehow finds time, to come by anyway. It’s empty since it’s near closing time but you didn't need to kick him out when all he was doing was keeping you company as you wiped up a coffee stain from the table.
“How far is it?” He asks, his gruff voice a sheer contrast to your lighter one, almost like smog covering the air.
“It's a two hour drive, but it’s worth it; they have some of the best eggs and quality milk around.” You hum, not thinking twice before you grab a tissue and hand it to him, letting him wipe the small crumbs from his typical order. Despite how he refused to take it off in front of his fellow soldiers, who knew him for way longer than you have, he always pushed his mask up to his nose around you, even if it looked a little silly sometimes and he almost caught you giggling. His lips were scarred, not that you looked at it that often, in a way that looked dehydrated, but you had a feeling it was for a different reason. You could see another scar peeking near his cheek, but it never really showed properly, and you promised yourself you’d try not to stare when he did reveal his face every now and then.
His body was a different story, though; you were shivering and he’d still roll his sleeves up, a few tattoos sneaking past his elbow but not quite yet. He confessed he planned to get a whole sleeve, but a mission came up suddenly, and healing tattoos never went well with that. “When’re you heading down anyway?” He says, dabbing at the crumbs on his lips before finally pulling down his mask once more. “Thursday. We’ll have to close the shop on Friday so we can restock.” He nods thoughtfully before eventually standing, and you grab the cup before he can even place it on the counter, heart freezing for a moment when your fingers brush. “I’ll take that. Back to duty?” He nods in return, slipping his leather gloves back on again and picking up his jacket from the chair. “Training, debriefs, the usual.” He leaves a tip at the table, something you’ve insisted he doesn't have to do, but he says it’s for his ‘overtime’ at your cafe. Besides, the last time you ran after him to give him the money back, he had already disappeared down the street, unable to be found again.
It’s Thursday morning, and you’ve dragged yourself out of bed at five am to allow enough time to get ready and start packing your car with crates, making sure you’ve counted it many times for the right amount for all the usual produce. As you told Simon before, you weren't exactly anticipating this ride, but it was what had to be done, even if you’re half awake. Well, at least the roads are empty. Closing the boot door, your hands clasp over your mouth, essentially muffling your own scream when you realise the masked figure that was ominously standing there was actually the Lieutenant himself as he steps into the porch light. “..Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya” His voice is visibly awkward for once, eyes glancing elsewhere, and you laugh nervously, still recovering from a pounding heart. “It’s.. fine. Almost thought I'd get robbed, just um.. say hi next time?” You watch him nod quickly in return, his hands shoving into the pockets of his jeans. Oddly casual.
“So why’re you here anyway?” You question, grabbing a few of the groceries and spices the farmer had asked you to bring down for him. After all, he didn't come down to town very often. “You need a lift to your base or somethin’ ?” That makes him chuckle, a cooler bag of seafood in his arms, farmer’s favourite apparently.
“I came to help you.” That causes your eyes to widen in surprise, watching as he easily places it in the back seat before nicking the keys from your pocket. He leaves you standing in confusion whilst he climbs into the driver's seat,the rickety truck starting up with a heavy growl. “This rusty thing is a Land Rover? Hard to believe tha’ “ He mutters gruffly, ignoring the look of offense on your face as you climb up into the passenger seat. “I can drive you know, if you’re gonna keep complaining!” You exclaim, nose wrinkling up as you turn to frown at him. He stifles a chuckle, eyes rolling beneath the mask as he reaches over your body, clicking your seatbelt in for you.
“Don’t bite my arm off now; I'm going, I'm going.”
The drive goes by smoothly, even with only one of his hands on the steering wheel. Only now have you actually looked over him since he terrified you. He’s got a thick jumper on and a zip up hoodie on top of the jeans you noticed earlier. “Starin’ at my bad fashion sense?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you snicker, relaxing in the seat as you shift your focus more directly over to him. You’re practically curled up on the seat, legs folded on the seat. “No, no, I'm no better either.” He glances over your own worn trousers, covered in straw and muck from your last visit. It was safe to say you both had the right idea, as any nice clothes would’ve likely been ruined by the time you left, if not as soon as you got there. Even so, he can't help but find the sight oddly domestic, a small grin forming beneath the mask at your hair pulled back and the fingerless gloves on your hands. Cute.
It’s ten o’ clock when you arrive due to a large pothole causing you to take another, rockier route. Directing him, he pulls into the small driveway and parks the truck as the farmer exits, a haybale over his shoulder. He looks no older than about fifty three, a wide grin on his face as you step out of the car. “Lass!” He exclaims, the Scottish man patting you so hard on the back you almost cough, and you make a dramatic sigh in return even if you’re unable to hide the grin creeping up.. “Good to see you too, Mr.Wheatley. I’ll put the things in the usual places?” He nods, leaning on a wooden pillar, the paint peeling off already. You head to the backseats, grabbing the crates for him when you suddenly hear a low whistle and what sounds like a large thwack. You turn on your heel, instantly feeling the embarrassment that will soon come as the farmer gives you a smirk, looking between you and Simon, who can only stand there awkwardly as he places down another bag. “Now who is this lad?” He asks, and you carry over the cooler bag, trying to seem unaffected but flushing nonetheless.
Simon can't help but find it adorable how you stand in front of him, almost like trying to shield him from the farmer’s mischief—it’s the same protectiveness you’d expect when someone’s partner is insulted. Except Simon is far larger than you in both height and muscle, and so he doubts anyone would be bold enough to insult him anyway. “He’s a friend of mine who came to help me out.”
”Just a friend?” The farmer raises his brow, tilting his body to peer round you at the masked man still setting up all the things the pair of you brought.
”Take the damn seafood!” You grumble, plopping the heavy cooler bag in his arms as he chuckles, entering the house to leave you alone.
“Mr Wheatley basically runs this farm on his own, ever since his brother passed last year. His wife lives here too, but she doesn't attend to much other than feeding the chickens—she’s actually a writer.” You explain, carrying around one of the crates as you lead Simon to the chicken coop. The air is much fresher here, even if it smells mostly like hay and animal poo, but the point still stands. Ghost nods along to your words, watching as you check the eggs before picking them up before following your same action. “Is that why you collect what you need yourself?” You nod in return, crouching down to pick up a chicken and carefully move it so you could grab another egg.
“That, and for quality checking.” Lifting up the egg to him, you show him the crack running up along the side, about to explain other things you check for when you yelp, falling forward on the dirt and causing the yolk to splash on the icy ground. “Ow!” The culprit stands behind you, clucking as it watches your movements and follows. He has to forcefully stifle his chuckles when you squeal again, desperately shooing the chicken who seems intent on pecking at your butt. “It’s trying to eat me!”
“I don't know; I think he likes you.” You’re met face to face with said chicken when the Lieutenant grabs it, keeping it just a short distance from your face as he teases you. “Simon!” You yelp again, and quickly you scramble back up and out of the chicken coop, the chicken still clucking away in his large hands.
For the next three hours, he follows you around like a lost puppy, which you find rather amusing yourself. He’s never been in a situation this unfamiliar before, and whilst he’d usually take initiative, he’s a bit afraid of accidentally getting you the wrong items. Instead he chose to hold the crates for you, using his strength to support you even when he couldn’t fathom how you milked a cow so easily. “So you have like a 1% chance of killin’ me when I drink yer tea?” He raises an eyebrow as you explain the dangers of unpasteurised milk, knowledge you picked up when you started working more shifts at the bakery. At his question you have to practically stave off the facepalm, shaking your head at his words as you now measure out the amount of milk your bakery will need until the next visit. “We only use fresh milk for our baked goods; this way the oven burns off any excess pathogens.” He probably should’ve guessed that, but it was worth the face you hadn't even known you pulled. “But, if you’re looking for a new way to kill your enemies on the field, I guess unpasteurised milk holds a good chance.”
“I am not throwing milk bombs at anyone.”
That makes you snicker, his grumpy self returning as you poke fun at his job again–only an hour ago you had giggled at the horse poo and asked if that was his duty. Even you know he can't hold it for long, especially when you poke him in the side with that cheeky grin. “I think you’re just scared your cap’ will hire me on the spot.”
You’re walking back to the car, the final crate full and ready to pack when it starts drizzling down, water pattering on the floor around. “Huh.. but I checked the weather forecast this morning..?” Only now had you glanced up at the darkening clouds, a soft frown sporting your face. “You really shouldn't be surprised with British weather.” He says gruffly, placing the final crate into your boot whilst watching the drops fall from the sky onto the concrete below. “Not the worst, but a storm might be brewing up.”
“Get over ‘ere you two, or do ye wanna get soak’d?”
Instinctively, you grab his hand and pull him into the warmth of the farmer’s house. Although the rain is falling so heavily now that it’d be likely impossible to drive home—for the next hour or so at least.
“Sorry..” You sigh, sitting on one side of the table, your hands warmed by the mug of tea you both prepared. He clutched his own, though his gloves protected him from the majority of the cold. Still, you can't help but feel like you inconvenienced him somehow, even if he had insisted on coming himself. “Are you sure this is okay, y'know, for your job?” He just gruffly nods, brown eyes moving to watch how aggressively the water patters against the glass. “I’ll drive us back in the evening. Don't fall asleep on me.” You grin cheekily, crossing your legs as you stand, placing your now empty teacup in the sink. “No promises.”
The banter is cut off when your stomach growls, your hands instinctively clutching it, a sheepish grin forming on your lips. “Didn't eat much for breakfast. Fancy a jacket potato for lunch?” He nods and stands to join you as you reach into the cupboard, pulling out two large potatoes. He takes them from your hands, washing them in the sink whilst you start grating some of the cheese.
“So how’d you know the farmer? I mean, you act close enough to be his niece.” Ghost comments, cutting a cross into the potato, and he can’t help but feel oddly warm at the way you easily fell into a routine.
“When I was about seventeen, I did some work experience here, ‘cause of university applications and stuff. His daughter grew very sick, and with the nearest medical services three hours away, I volunteered to nurse her back to health instead.” His eyes soften as he watches you, the way your eyebrows tug together as you concentrate. “Did you end up going to uni?” You shake your head this time, sliding over the plate of cheese before crouching in front of a cupboard in search of baked beans.
“I knew my parents couldn't afford it, so I didn't bother. The only reason we got the bakery was because the lady who previously owned it had left it in such a pitiful state it was rather cheap.” He pulls. out the steaming potatoes from the microwave, pressing into the potato to open it before fluffing it up with a fork. “Before that it was either working here on the farm or part time at the coffee shop down the road.” He hadn't realised someone as sweet as you could have that hand dealt to them; of course, it could be worse, but still it was different from the stories he usually heard. You grab a knife and spread butter across both of the potatoes, catching him off guard before you load up the baked beans and cheese. “Is that much butter really needed?”
Practically seconds later, he has his mask pulled up to his nose, scarred lips wolfing down the fluffy potato as he grunts. “I could eat this every day, flippin hell.” You laugh, taking a bite out of your own, the warm gooeyness of the cheese and baked beans warming your insides. Probably not the best dish, but definitely not a bad one. Though for him, who's used to eating dehydrated MREs with only the taste of cardboard—it’s practically luxury. “How bad is the military food?” You raise a brow, scooping another spoonful of the beans on his plate when he finishes his share. “Not bad,” The words are muffled by his full mouth, a sharp swallow quickly clearing his throat as he wipes his chin with a napkin. “On base, it’s fine; definitely not a lot of flavour, but it does the job. That’s why your bakery is such a trea’ love. Haven’t had food that tasted that good since Soap hosted a Christmas party.”
“Soap?”
”Member o’ my team.” He nods gruffly, stealing a baked bean off your plate and popping it in his mouth. His arms lean on the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the great muscle practically spilling over.He doesn't usually mention things about his work or his friends, so you decide not to pry for now.
Once you finish your plate, he takes the dishes to the sink and begins to wash them, whilst you grab a fresh towel to start drying them off. You tilt your head as you rub the plates with the towel, your mind wandering elsewhere. He’d been so nice to you recently, and all you’d done is give him a free tea a couple of times; you couldn't help but feel as if you should give him something in return. Couldn't you pack a lunch for him? It’d be in a nice container, a healthy sandwich loaded with meat and salad, a smaller version of his typical sausage roll on the side too. For dessert you could give him a muffin, or a little tart and then you couldn't possibly forget a flask of hot tea too. How would his coworkers react? You can almost imagine their faces when he opens it, randomly appearing with a pretty little box. A hand lands on your head, snapping you out of your stifled snickers, as it protects you from a cupboard opening just above you. “What’re you thinkin’ about now?” His voice is laced with suspicion, watching how you look far too amused despite the lack of jokes he’s made. That can only mean you’re up to something. “Nothin’, just thinking about what you’d like for lunch.” He raises a brow at that, but you quickly grab your keys from the table and pull your boots on. “C’mon, i want to get head back before it gets too cold.”
The ride back is quiet, almost silent if not for the soft hum of the radio. You decided to connect your phone to it, not really wanting club hits playing and rather something slower. It’s not awkward, though; more of a comfortable blanket over the pair of you as he drives through the narrow roads. Determined to talk for a bit, you showed him a few of your favourite songs and then some childhood favourites too. He nodded along, even gave you a few he often heard around. Tiredly, your head starts to droop closer and closer against the window, and you almost jump when Ghost lets his hand rest on your knee. “Sleep if you want. You’ve been up since early.”
“You’re always up early, though—how are you never tired?”
He can only shrug, knowing he probably shouldn’t delve into the aftereffects of his missions, even more so down the PTSD route. “Got used to it, I guess. Don't worry about me, okay?” Thankfully, you’re too sleepy to question down that route, asking him whatever tired question meets your mind until you’re quietly snoozing in the chair. It was probably his fault for cranking up the heating in the first place, making you all cosy like that, enough for you to completely fall asleep. He turns the music a little bit higher and finally relaxes his shoulders. He should really hang around you more; he hasn't felt this good in years.
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A/N: please comment ideas for the name of the penguin plush from ch2, he will make a return!!! I was thinking pingu but i wanna involve u guys too.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Part two of Sweet as Sugar Series. Part one here.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Prev Chapter Next Chapter
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: After receiving Ghost’s text, you havent been able to get him out of your head. Lost in a daydream, you may have forgotten an important detail, but luckily everything goes ahead as planned and you end up taking more than a warm heart back home.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 3k
To say he hadn’t consumed all your thoughts was a severe understatement, especially considering you were currently staring into the bathroom mirror at two am with your cheeks still flushed and that last sentence ringing out in your head. You have to forcefully drag yourself into bed and refrain from picking your phone up, reading his message again. Last week you were scolding yourself for still giggling over celebrity crushes—now look at you, practically squirming over a text! It probably wasn’t even like that in the slightest; maybe he just needed to talk to you about some orders from your bakery. With a huff, you finally pull the covers snug over you and force your eyes closed, willing your mind to shut up.
Now the sun has risen high, just like the dough for tonight’s stock, the little open sign turned to signal closed whilst you and your parents churn out as many baked goods as possible before it’s time to set up. Slowly, your knuckles knead through the sticky texture, hands speckled white from flour. You had nearly seventy-five different pastries out yesterday, but with the hunger of the soldiers, that was reduced to a measly thirty or so by the time they had left. A sudden ping rings out, cutting through the yeast-powered daze you were in, and the dough is almost flung across the room as you hurriedly pry your fingers out and douse them in water before grasping at the phone across the room. It’s from the lieutenant, as you had hoped, and you hurry your password into your phone before the chat appears.
If you had to decide between the time you idiotically ate lunch right before a plane ride and what you had right now, this would definitely take the tier for the stupidest thing in your life. The text, if not an accusatory message, is simple—so simple that it doesn't even include a single letter.
’?’
Too busy stuck in your daydreams, you had fallen asleep without responding, essentially doing the worst thing you could ever possibly imagine—leaving the man on read. If you had to explain the way your heart had just dropped, it’d be clear from the way your jaw was permanently screwed open until you fixed this mess you accidentally created. Hurriedly, your fingers dance across the keys of your phone, the remnants of the stringy mass making mistypes our best friend until it ends up looking more like a keyboard smash than an apology sentence.
‘You alright there?’
The hair on your head would’ve been clawed out by sheer embarrassment if not for the fact that you feel obliged to at least clarify you did not mean to leave him hanging like a beggar on the street, eventually ending up sending a voice message instead to convey your mortification. “Sorry—I read your text message last night, and I forgot to respond because I was really tired, and I was up all day baking and even now I got up early— I'd love to go around the fair with you but only if you still want to go. I know this is kind of last minute now, and you’re probably super busy—” You squeak out, trying to stop yourself from grovelling even further into the ground before the app does you a favour and cuts the message instead. He sends back a text before you can send a follow-up and you can only imagine he’s probably laughing at you behind the screen; after all, how does someone just forget to reply?
“All that I needed was a simple yes, but I'll take the clarification. So, when will you be done with your parents?”
“We can still go??”
”Yes, now how about six?
”Yes, please!”
You wipe your face with your damp hands, breathing out a lengthy sigh now that you have finally averted the crisis known as your mess of a social life. Unfortunately, in the process of your panic, you had flattened all the dough on the rolling board, some sticking to your elbows now too. This was definitely not good hygiene-wise, and so you let out a long huff, and grab the flour for another batch to be made.
Soft blows of wind pass by you, protected by your woollen scarf that’s wrapped around your neck and your thick coat that is lined with the softest fur. As you help adjust the last of the display for the stall, you notice there was a few more stalls, likely not able to keep up with the demand of running it for two days, and so today they all chose to run theirs. After all your bakes had been sold out yesterday, you may have claimed the same mindset and went overboard on the bakes in hopes people had caught on to the little logo on all the soldier’s cups as they walked around. Somehow hanging out with the lieutenant was at the back of your mind right now; you were more focused on adjusting the bow at the edge of the table, right before making sure there were plenty of tissues available for your parents to grab. Not to mention enough paper bags, plates, checking the card machine actually worked, and the pot of tea was at the right temperature and waiting to be served. You’re just about to add a little more icing sugar onto the fresh croissants when a gruff cough echoes behind you. “Ghost?” You spin around, his callsign falling off your lips easily from how many times you stared at the contact in your phone in the past ten hours.
“Mhm, that's me. Ready to go?” You nod quickly, dusting off any stray sugar specks before walking over to him and waving at your parents. He looks a little different, still clad in his hooded jacket and thick gloves, but far more relaxed than yesterday. Due to the hectic nature of running a stall, you barely got a minute to look around, thus missing the chance to fully enjoy the simple happiness that came with every time it got a bit chilly. Orange leaves had long since decayed, leaving the trees bare and allowing a clear view of small specks of white in the darkened sky, now a navy blue even though it's never really that bright in winter. You’re even a little hesitant with where you step, considering the ground is already starting to grow a little icier. It’s been years, you think, since you’ve felt this giddy around wintertime, with university, jobs, and life pushing out the happy things you desperately tried to cling to. At least you always had the bakery to fall back on, and you hoped Ghost felt the same about your pastries.
“No soldiers today?” You tilt your head up at him, looking around the decorated paths to see if there’s a hint of camo between the sparkling fairy lights and wooden stands that make up this market. “No, they’re too busy packin’ up for the holidays.” He murmurs, his hands shoved into his pockets as his boots crunch against stray twigs from a nearby weaving stand, premade hearths hanging from the canopy. You blink at that, having always forgotten that the military base wasn't too far off this small town. After all, you used to wave at the soldiers eagerly when you were little, a loopy smile forever on your lips when they acknowledged you—kind of like the one you wore yesterday. “Oh? Guess you’ll be gone soon then, I guess. Where are you headed back to?” He just shakes his head this time before he eventually starts to walk towards a chestnut stand, intrigued by the man roasting them. “I’m stayin’ at base. Nowhere for me to go.”
Gruff is the only word you can use to describe his tone, and yet you watch as he pays the man for a portion of the roasted chestnuts. He doesn't hesitate to hand you the cup to hold as you grin at him and cradle the warmth in your hands until it cools to an edible temperature. Though you decide not to pry into his last words, instead choosing to indulge your earlier curiosity in which you were dying for an answer. “So… why did you even want to walk around with me?” In truth, he had not the slightest idea himself; all he knew was that he’d been a lonely bastard for too long, and he was sick of it. There you were with your lips pulled wide into a pretty smile every time he went to your shop, and he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t clench when you realised his own soldiers had sold out your stock. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t meant to help you out; it was only convenient, and his soldiers were hungry. Instead of dwelling on it too long, he just steals a chestnut, slipping it beneath the privacy of his mask as he crunches on the velvety taste. “Figured you’d have an eye for the good stuff. Your tea isn’t something most would find around here.” That makes you nod, remembering the interaction you had with plenty of people.
“Yeah, had a few tell me that it was nothing like the chai tea bags they get in the shops.” His head turns to you, blatant distaste written in his eyes at whoever had the audacity to ask you that question. It’s funny, you think, that someone's eyes can show you that much emotion.
“Are they bloody stupid? Of course it’s not—it’s fresh! That’s like different by a mile!” He practically scoffs out, crossing his arms firmly as he shakes his head disapprovingly, earning him a bunch of giggles from you, who can only raise a brow at him cheekily. “Oh, are you a tea connoisseur now?”
“Oi, that’s Lieutenant to you, rookie.”
That makes you laugh loudly, his mask unable to stop itself from wrinkling at the corners as he gestures to you to follow him towards a stall. “C’mere, I'm gonna get you somethin.” He points up at the plush toys hanging from a stall you had subconsciously been eyeing whilst you walked, seeing as quite a few girls were carrying them tightly in their arms too. There’s a particular one, a penguin with grey fluffy fur and small eyes but a large beak, looking at you so innocently. It’s adorable, and even if you feel a little shy accepting it from him, you’d be damned if you didn't let him at least try. But then again.. it was the largest one,’ and knowing these stalls, it probably was rigged a little to stop people from getting the really large ones.. “If you get me one, I'll show you the best spots around. A fair trade, no?”
“Deal.”
All that the stall owner can do is watch in shock, jaw dropped, as the lieutenant easily picks up the rifle and hits down all six of the cans in seconds, practically speechless. “This one.” Ghost doesn't wait a second for him, pointing up at the large penguin, and your own jaw was agape too now, having expected a small little plush to carry for the journey.
“Whoa! It’s so fluffy, you really didn't have to, but—“ The words practically spill out your mouth, fumbling with your lips as your chest brims with excitement, now hugging it close to your chest. You can definitely tell he’s smirking now, especially as he ruffles the penguin’s fluffy fur with his hand, nodding in agreement. “Soft like you.”
The pair of you traverse around countless stalls, from fresh churros to a spiced burrito to fill your stomachs. Currently you stood in front of a tea store, one that sold a selection of tea bags rather than anything freshly brewed. Seeing as Ghost really did seem to be somewhat of a big tea enjoyer, you made it your mission to get him an assortment. So whilst he was taking a call, you were haggling the steep price down to something a little more affordable. “Don't you think fifty is a bit much?” You raise a brow, your arms crossed over your chest, which contradicts your calmer tone with something more accusing. “I mean, these are all imported anyway, they’re hardly homemade.”
“Well, they’re the finest quality—“
“No, if that were true, they’d be fresh. Come on, they’ve been sitting there since yesterday now—thirty five is much more reasonable for the effort of importing and covering enough for you to make a profit.” The owner can only sigh and roll her eyes fondly, handing you the selection of tea after your little bargaining. “Alright, have at it. Only because I taught you how to haggle a price that well.”
After his phone call was over, you followed through with your promise, leading him towards a small hill a little out of the town bounds. The further you go, the darker the surroundings around you grow but he stays close behind you, watching your feet in the small chance you fall. Eventually you reach the top of the cobbled steps, revealing an old stone plaza. There’s a shack not too far off, orange light streaming out and the sound of hushed cheers as they exchange drinks. What’s more important to him is the view from here, overlooking the entire market below. Everything had seemed too crowded before, with many bustling past to queue up for some hot doughnuts and little kids dragging their parents for a chance at the hook duck game. Here, it was entirely different; the lights reflected the night sky, a sea of stars in the midst of the darkness, and the soft music seemed so much clearer now.
Finally, you both settle on the edge of the stone, your shoes in the grass, and he peels off his own gloves, noticing how your hands were buried into the penguin’s fur for warmth. You take it graciously, slipping it over your iced fingers before rummaging through your own coat pocket. “A present for my lieutenant.”
“Your lieutenant? And I thought spoiling you was my job?“
“Well, call me the colonel since it’s mine now.”
He rolls his eyes up at you, but the affection is still visible, opening the box to look at the variety inside. Each one seemed to originate from a different part of the world, and even though he thought he tried most of the flavours, there was a lot more to learn. He can't help but meet your eager face. “Fine... Thank you. But I'm getting you one last dessert for that.”
Unfortunately, just like how his life had been going so far, everything good must come to an end. His phone startles you as it buzzes loudly, his free hand fishing it out before reading the messages there. His teeth grit in frustration, not wanting to levar you so early. You’re better than that, offering him a small grin in understanding. “Military emergency?” He wants to apologize, promise you that he’ll make it up to you, and give you something even better but he can't bring himself to.
He knows he could never be that soft.
With a gruff nod, he texts back hurriedly and pulls his mask a little higher upon his face. “Yeah..duty calls. Sorry.”You shake your head, waving your hands in front of you to reassure him, even if you were already missing the warmth of his palm in yours. He pushes himself up, and you follow as he nods for you to follow. “I’ll take you back to your parents' stall.” He offers and you nod with a small smile on your lips. That was much better than being left alone while he ran off—he didn’t owe you anything, and yet he still chose to make sure you got back safely.
But before he could take his third step, your eyes are widening, hands grasping his arm and desperately pulling him back. The touch catches him in surprise yet somehow exhilarating all the same, and thus he accidentally lets his guard down just enough for you to actually manage to pull him backwards. “The ice!” You squeak out as his foot slides, making him stumble back into you slightly, your grip now squeezing him. You couldn’t possibly catch a man of his stature, no less a person of a more regular size, and yet you still reached out for him and did your best to stop him. He’d be surprised if he’d even feel anything from falling ass flat on a bit of ice, knowing the extent of his usual injuries. Still, here you were like some guardian angel, doing your best to warn him.
“Thanks..” He mumbles, glancing down at your hands still on him before you hurriedly pull back, a nervous look on your face as you sheepishly grin.
“Sorry.. didn't want you to get hurt..”
“Guess we have to be extra careful, huh? I don't want you falling either.”
His now bare fingers gently nudge against your hand, wordlessly asking to hold it. A sinner would be his title if he said he didn't adore the way your eyes widened in wonder, grasping his own hand a little tighter and nodding, cheeks flushed from him and not the cold that bites your cheeks.
He keeps his grasp on you firm as he leads you down the cobbled stairs and back towards the centre of town, the little queue outside your stall coming into view. Reluctantly you part your hands, stepping back as you glance over at the amount of sales made already, a smile curving your cheeks higher. “I’ll see you again sometime soon… Lieutenant.” You hum, a little disappointed but genuine nonetheless. Today had been entirely perfect for you, like something you’d see in the synopsis of a movie. He nods gruffly again, steps a bit forward, and tucks your scarf a little tighter around your neck. “Simon.” He breathes out, voice a little raspy from how long it’s been since he’s said it from his own tongue.
“Huh?” Your head tilts up, confused.
Giving the large penguin plush a little pat, he steps back. “My real name’s Simon.”
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Trying to advertise your bakery is particularly difficult, especially when no one seems to want to try anything new lately, still stuck in their old ways. Thankfully, a particular masked man is also particularly fond of the tea you make along side your signature pastries.
ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 2.5k
NEXT
You’ve grown up in Wales nearly your entire life, living not too far from a fresh farm and yet so close to a little town you call home. The weather is typical for Britain, always a little dreary though sometimes the sun would shine so bright the grass on these hills looked like those in the movies. You’d run up those hills as a child, laughing as the sheep would make noises after your every whim.
Today was particularly dreary though; the sun struggled to peek through even with the large gaps between each cloud, only leaving behind a desolate grey on the town. It was your turn to take over the shop for the day, seeing as your parents were out of town on business details. A few named your shop to be ‘the littlest around’, since it wasn't exactly the biggest area nor did many know of it. After all, it had only opened recently after the last owner left their business to rot out. It took practically months to renovate the dusty walls of this shop even more so that your family were on a tight budget. However your parents believed in it and so did you.. or you thought you did anyway. Maybe you had watched too many movies as a kid because this business was definitely not booming, infact you had spent the majority of the past week trying to advertise the best you possibly could.
Either way, it was bound to be quiet today so you decide you may as well use it as a testing day. The menu was finalised already however you were eager about one thing to add, a selection of freshly brewed teas. It wasn't the most viable since it required a lot of customers at the same time in order to taste the actual freshness— otherwise it’d just go cold and icky. Placing the portable burner down— something you picked up since most days used to be spent in a caravan— you place a pot atop and light the flame. You had not travelled very far, but due to your grandparent who was particularly interested in plenty of cultures, you picked up a few handy recipes for delicious teas.
Unfortunately, you didnt have much on you today after using your last stock on the small opening party. So, you’d have to make do with what you had. You hum as you boil the water in the pan, before slowly adding the milk and some spices— cardamon and cinammon to be exact. It’d make a rich flavour which was perfect with the right amount of sugar, and so, you let it brew as you hummed, debating whether you were allowed to play your favourite tunes here or not.
Seeing as no one had showed up in a while, you plug your phone into the speaker system, letting a soft song play throughout the little patisserie as you grin and nod your head along. What you hadnt expected was the bell above the door to jingle, heavy boots dragging against the wooden floor as they grow louder. You snap your head up, looking a little startled before you quickly stand infront of the counter again, putting on your best sheepish smile.
“Welcome! What can i get for you today?”
The strange man wears a balaclava over his face, his eyes showing and a few tufts of blonde peeking out the back as he bends a little to look over all of the pastries available. Eventually he stops, pointing at one the sausage rolls, before his gruff voice finally breaks his silence. “Two o’ these.”
You nod quickly, grabbing a paper bag before carefully placing the two pastries inside and sealing the bag.
“Actually, since it’s a weekday, all the pastries come with a dessert or drink. Is there any one you would like?”
You tilt your head, as you place the bag on the counter, already tapping in the current bill. He pauses and glances over at the sweeter desserts, but even you could tell just from his appearance that he doesnt seem to be too fond of them. Instead, his height allows him to easily peek over the counter and he can instantly smell the pot of rich cardamom tea brewing. “Is that for sale?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you can only tell from how the mask lifts a little. You pause, wondering if you really should be giving them out to customers just yet.
“It’s a taster really.. would you like to try?” He lets out a grunt in agreement and you walk back over, ladeling a creamy cup of the tea for him before stepping over to him once more. He taps his card down for the items he bought, taking the steaming cup in his hand but he doesnt intend to drink it and reveal his face—clear from the way he glances around the shop. “Is it always this quiet or are you about to close?” He raises a brow, wondering if he had just accidentally forced you to stay open longer than you should. Your hands wave in front of you frantically as you shake your head. “No! No— um, it’s been a little hard to promote business recently. We only opened last month..” Today you decide not to mention that last weeks rain had nearly drowned the entire shop floor, instead just giving him another sheepish look. “I’m trying to look for any opportunities we can to show off our bakes. I’ve been looking at fairs recently.” You hum and he nods, before lifting his mask without a second thought and sipping down the hot tea you made him. “You should promote this aswell, i can see this tasting good with a dessert.” He offers his advice and you nod readily, smiling at him since he just indirectly said that the tea was good. “Well, i’ll make sure to have lots more flavours too!
A month later and unsurprisingly your family’s little shop isnt any more popular than the last time you took charge of it. That strange man appeared a few times afterwards but you hadnt seen him, busy with your own part time job to try and bring some extra income in. Today you were finally back though, the peak of winter hitting like a shock but it didnt stop the excitement brimming through the town.
At the start of December each year, the town would host a market in the main plaza, which was particularly big for the town’s size. There was everything from crafts and fresh fruit, flowers and trinkets to the toastiest hot chocolate and clothing. This year you were determined to make your mark, selling sweet pastries and the spiced tea at the same time. He did say it’d draw in at least a bit of attention, right? Well, you sure hoped so because you were using a portion of your personal savings to try again with the tea. You’d never know if you didn't try and, in the worst case scenario, you could give it for free to the other vendors as a sign of good sportsmanship— maybe you could even trade. You grin eagerly as you set up the stand, glass covers above all your decorated pastries, sweet and savoury waiting to be bitten into. Perhaps you went a little overboard with the baking but this was a big event—even neighbouring towns travelled here!
The fair kickstarts around five thirty, the time when most get off work and so many are already flocking to find something for their hungry stomach. You practically bubble with excitement when you get your first three orders, only to turn and see the hot burrito stall’s queue which looks like it’d shadow your stall next. With a small frown, your demeanour drops as the orders only get rarer, a few commenting on not being sure to try something so exotic. About tea. Literal chai. Customer service was not for the weak clearly, since you had to restrain yourself from lunging over the table right then and there, giving the lady a forced smile before she walked off. You let your head rest in your hands, groaning a little too loudly, but it wasnt like anyone was even close enough to your stall to hear anyway. The only thought that consumed you was frustration; you knew damn well that all the bakes here were delicious, that the recipes were to die for and the tea was an absolute soother for any cold or strain. Though, no matter how hard you tried no one seemed to want to hear you out.
“Are you taking a break?”
A voice rings out, gruff, a little muffled and stern but most of all— familiar. Your eyes snap up, meeting the gaze of that stranger from before, well now he looked entirely different. “You… from before.. you’re a soldier?!” You have to forcefully lower your voice before you cause his ears to bleed through his balaclava. He was decked out in full tactical gear, apart from the weapons of course and the helmet held in the crook of his elbow. Though not just him, an entire team of soldiers aswell who surrounded your stall, practically brimming with excitement at the tasty baked goods they’d finally try.
“Finished a day long training in the cold. Thought i’d bring ‘em to your stall for a break. You dont look good yourself though” He bluntly states the last part out, already suspecting that you’d sigh next. “Orders are still slow...” You murmur, and he nods, as if he’d expected that. Before either of you can speak, one of his soldiers perks up, “Miss, how much would it be for two of these pie slices and one of your sausage rolls?”
Your lips part in surprise and you hurry to the till, typing in the amounts before announcing the price to him. The reasonable cost of your goods and the great quality is enough to catch the attention of his teammates, and soon enough you have them lined up waiting to buy their share too.
You cough to get his attention when the queue finally draws to a blank and he slowly approaches as you gesture to the pots of tea steaming beside you. The soldiers had taken the majority of your stock, even asking for refills but one large cup was saved for him. “On the house, for a regular.” You say cheekily and he nods, the sides of his mask creasing up into what you think could possibly be a smile. “So, how did you even convince your boss to let you bring your whole team here anyway? I always thought those ‘sergeant’ people were like.. really strict.” He chuckles at you, deep and gruff and for a second you’re confused, tilting your head at him. “Hey— what’s so funny? I’m being serious!” He finally stops, his eyes crinkled slightly as he looks back at you. “I’m their Lieutenant.” ” He says still with that monotone voice and your jaw practically drops, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you groan loudly. “I’m very sorry..”
Now sitting upon the benches, they chatter amongst themselves whilst others eye the other trinkets available, looking for something for the loved ones back home. The man with the skull mask still stands nearby though watching you fill up a cup full of the tea before handing it to a customer.
“Do you take large orders too?” He finally pipes up, glancing over at you with that filled cup still in his hand. “Well.. we don't have any official set up..” Being his acquaintance was a severe exaggeration, and yet you couldn't stand to disappoint him right now. Especially seeing as much as he’s done so far,perhaps not intentionally, but what intrigues you even more is that his soldiers seemed to be over the moon about your pastries. You hadn't really thought about the fact soldiers are probably dying for the taste of a good home cooked pastry, especially in the winter months, and now it seems like this could really boost your business.
“But..I could just give you my number?” Putting that forward seems a bit odd, but in truth you were being completely innocent about it even if he seems to believe otherwise, smirking beneath the mask before he nods. He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and hands it over to you before gesturing to you to do the same. When you receive your phone back, you see the new contact, ‘Lieutenant Ghost (sausage roll)’ and snicker a little; you’re pretty sure you can remember him without the assistance but it’s amusing anyway. “I’ll text you later regarding any big orders we want to make.”
He gives you another nod and you quickly agree with his words, grateful for the opportunity he’s provided you with.
“Thanks for bringing all your soldiers here.. i dont think we would’ve garnered this much attention otherwise.” People had already noticed the brand on the soldiers' cups and bags, making their way to the stall and eyeing some of the goods left from their rampage. He only shrugs, ignoring the fact he had any part in this. “By the way..” You hum, glancing at the untouched tea in his hand curiously. “Why haven't you drank any yet— it’ll grow cold soon.” He leans against your table slightly before he just nods firmly again, looking back at the crowds. “Dont like to show my face.” That makes you blink, confused since he had easily shown you in the shop a month ago when he tried it for the first time. “But—“
Before you can answer, his phone buzzes and he glances down before beckoning his group over. “Oi, all of you. We’re leavin’ in ten— do not make us late.” Suddenly you dont feel at all bad for calling him strict earlier, even snickering a little at how stern his voice had suddenly gotten even if he’s usually monotone to you too. The soldiers eyes grow wide and they quickly jump to buy the rest of their things making you snicker.
“Guess that’s the last I'll see of you, ‘Lieutenant’. See you soon.” You grin, waving as he throws the now empty cup in the trash— when did he drink that? He lifts a hand to give a short wave at you too before stepping away to join the rest of his men. “Dont worry, you will.”
That night you’re left dumbfounded as you stare at your phone, the text lighting your eyes up in the darkness of your room. ‘Tomorrow night is the second day of the fair, right?’ The first part reads, and you mentally nod, remembering how your parents said you’d take the first day and they’d handle the second. When you responded with a yes, but also clarifying your stall is also available, he wrote back one more text.
‘Good. I’ll be taking you around with me this time.”
Your front door clicked shut. The sound vibrating through your empty flat. You had only moved here a week ago and had yet to go find furniture. Or proper dishes. Living off of paper plates, plastic cups and a single mattress in the center of the room.
You sighed loudly. Even that echoed.
This was pathetic. You moved out of your home, insisting that you could handle yourself in real life, that you were a grown ass adult but-
There was a loud clatter outside. Nearly making you jump out of your skin. "God, why me." You whispered.
Another shift outside. Near the back door where the creepy alleyway was. The one you had to go out of to take the trash out and dreaded every single second of it.
Heart pounding, you grabbed your purse. Was it a weapon? - no, not at all. Was it all you had? - yes.
Steeling yourself for the potential horrors on the other side, you whispered, "Yes, genius, do the dumb horror movie stuff." Then you pushed open the door.
You seized. Not expecting there to be an actual man there. Maybe a cat, a dog. Something.
His head snapped towards you. A mask covered everything but his eyes. He was tall but quickly hunched over again, gripping the opposite wall for support.
You were too busy being in shock to see that he was strapped to the teeth in weapons, a bullet proof vest and - blood.
Then he collapsed. Legs giving out as he braced himself and landed on the ground with a dull thud. His deep brown gaze cut towards you. "Leave."
That took you out of your shock. "Excuse me?"
He jerked his head. "Y' heard me. Go on." The corners of his eyes crinkled in what you assumed was pain. He was holding his thigh.
"Are you hurt?" You asked dumbly, wanting to punch yourself in the face for asking the obvious. He was not amused.
"If you're going to keep talking atleast bring me some damn guaze." He huffed.
You don't know why but you did. Running to grab the only type of preparation you did take with you. Then ran back but before you could get any closer than his legs, he held up a hand. "Close enough. Hand it over."
You scowled but tossed the kit at him. He began stemming the blood with calm skill that made you wonder how many times he's done this. "Are you military?"
He nodded. The amount of blood he was losing made you want to throw up. It was amazing he hadn't yet passed out. Or maybe you spoke too soon.
One second he was tending and the next he was limp and leaning to the side. Panic striked you. You weren't trained for this! "Oh! Uh, hey, wake up. Don't- uh die. Please don't die."
You grabbed his arm. And damn, was he heavy. Grunting, you slowly but surely managed to get him inside. Probably not your best idea. Letting a strange man in your home.
He remained impassive. You pressed down on his wound, it looked knife like. You couldn't tell if it wss deep or not. So you kept the pressure until you couldn't feel your fingers.
Slowly, he came to, blinking slowly. Observing but as still as a statue. His fingers twitched. "You brought me inside." He noted. "Of your home. Which is very unfurnished."
You stared at him in disbelief. "I'm trying to help you."
He sat up and removed your hand none too gently. "Don't need it." Then he grabbed the needle and thread. "What I do need is to get out of here as soon as possible."
You watched in mild horror as he pushed the needle through one side of the wound and out the other. He took the pain in a stride. "What if you pass out again?"
"I'm more worried about you, love. You look about ready to piss yer' pants." He snorted. Threading it in again.
You sighed in annoyance. "Fine. Let me atleast get you some water or something." You stood up and went to the kitchen.
He said nothing, only turned to watch you. Closely, like you were under his microscope before you came back.
Your hand brushed his as he took the water, downing most of it in one gulp. "What made you help me anyway?"
Crossing your legs beneath you as you thought of the answer, you messed with a stand of your hair. "Basic human empathy."
He raised a brow. "Love, you pulled an armed man inside your house. I think theres a bit more."
You sighed and threw your hands. "Why does it matter?"
His hands paused on the needle. "Because most people wouldn't have. Not in my experience."
Your expression shifted a fraction. A moment passed. Then too. And he was still looking at you. "Why do you keep calling me 'love'?" You asked quietly.
That’s the only thought looping through your head the second all of you finally step outside Gotham Mall.
The sky has long since darkened into deep shades of navy, the city glowing beneath the haze of Gotham nightlife—streetlights on, headlights streaking past damp roads, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
Your gaze drops toward the photostrips clutched loosely in your hand.
The glossy paper bends slightly between your fingers as you stare at the pictures lined across it—Stephanie half-laughing while Damian looked like a grouchy cat. Kon posing finger daggers with his tongue out while Tim was caught mid-blink in one of them because apparently even vigilantes weren’t immune to photobooth timing.
And then there was you.
Smiling. Actually smiling.
“…If I knew taking pictures would get you to smile this much, I would’ve dragged you into a photobooth way earlier.”
Damnit.
You immediately lift your head to find Kon beside you again. Not too close this time. Just… hovering nearby in that effortless way he always seems to do, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he peers down at the photos in your hand with obvious satisfaction at how they turned out.
“Today’s the only exception.”
Kon tilts his head slowly. “Are you sureee?” There it is again. That teasing tone. Like he gets a kick from watching you deny things he already knows the answer to. He definitely does.
You deadpan instantly. “Yes.”
Kon only chuckles under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.
But before either of you can continue, Tim suddenly steps forward and hooks two fingers into the back of Kon’s jacket collar, physically tugging him a step away from you. Not rough, just deliberate. Instinctive, almost. Like he’s trying to give you space to breathe without outright saying it.
Kon looks scandalised immediately. “Wow. Is today ‘manhandling Conner Kent’ day or something?”
Tim ignores him completely.
“She hates taking pictures.”
What?
You can’t help turning toward Tim at that. And somehow, those four simple words hit harder than they should. You hate that they do.
Because seriously—since when did Tim know about that too?
Why does he still know these small details about you so easily, like none of the distance between you ever really existed in the first place? Like the fracture between you was just all in your head?
It makes everything else feel worse somehow.
The arguments. The awkwardness. The things left unresolved between the two of you that neither of you seems capable of fixing no matter how badly you both keep circling around them.
And just as quickly as you look at him, you look away again before your eyes can meet for too long.
Kon blinks between the both of you slowly. And from the way his expression shifts, that tiny interaction alone probably told him far more than either of you intended.
“Oh? And why’s that?” You honestly aren’t even sure who he’s directing the question at anymore. But it’s there now. Hanging in the air between all of you.
And you feel it immediately.
Tim’s hesitation. The way his gaze flickers back toward you, uncertain.
It’s becoming a recurring thing lately. Something unfamiliar. Something that never used to exist between you before.
As if he’s trying to figure out whether he still has the right to answer questions about you at all. Whether he has the right to tell Kon about that incident.
The silence stretches between you both. Heavy.
”That’s..”
“It’s a story for another time,” you cut in quickly before Tim can say anything else. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.
But it looks like Tim got the hint immediately anyways. You see it in the way his expression stills for half a second, before his gaze drifts away from yours, shoulders subtly tightening as he falls silent without another word.
Thankfully—or unfortunately, depending on perspective—Kon decides the tension has existed for long enough. “Well,” he says lightly, grin already returning, “maybe you can tell me about it over din—ow!” Kon jerks sideways abruptly.
Damian had somehow materialised out of nowhere again and jabbed him sharply in the ribs hard enough to make an actual Super yelp in pain.
At this point, you were beginning to think Damian’s ability to appear out of thin air whenever Kon got too comfortable around you was some kind of instinctual power.
“I have already contacted Pennyworth,” Damian says coldly, like he hadn’t just assaulted someone in public. “He informed me he’ll arrive shortly.”
Kon recovers almost immediately, rubbing his side dramatically. “Aww,” he says hopefully, “free ride for me too?”
“Who says you are accompanying us?” Damian deadpans so flatly it borders on threatening.
And somehow, for the first time all day, you swear you can physically see the metaphorical sweatdrop appear over Kon’s head.
“Oh, come on,” Kon complains. “I thought we were all bonding near the end there. Cut me some slack, will ya?”
“You can literally fly,” Tim says this time, sounding exhausted already. “Why would you come with us?”
Why are you coming with us then? you almost say out loud to counter Tim. The thought sits right there on the edge of your tongue. But honestly? You’re too tired to start another argument tonight. So you keep your mouth shut.
Kon opens his mouth immediately anyway. “To spend more time with—”
“And,” Tim continues over him before he can finish, “don’t you have to get back to Smallville before your ma and pa report you to Clark for disappearing to Gotham unannounced again?”
Kon shrugs like that’s barely even an issue worth considering.
“Eh. I’ll survive.”
“You say that now..” Stephanie mutters. You almost forgot she was still here, were it not for her speaking up at that moment. Usually, she was… well, almost impossible to ignore. You exhale quietly through your nose before speaking up. “Let me talk to Kon for a second.”
Kon blinks before immediately straightening up. “Oh?” A grin spreads across his face instantly. “Trying to get me alone now?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
You ignore him entirely and start walking a few steps ahead instead, only for Damian to react almost immediately—halting you before you can get very far.
“You are not going anywhere alone with him.”
“Oh my god, Damian. I’m not twelve.”
“That Kryptonian has repeatedly demonstrated that he does not know how to stay out of people’s space.” Damian says flatly.
“And yet somehow, he still has more social awareness than you.”
Stephanie physically coughs to hide her laugh. Damian looks deeply offended. “I am being serious.”
“So am I,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I’m literally just going to talk to him for a bit.”
“Then do it here.” Damian crosses his arms too, still glaring suspiciously at Kon like he’s one bad sentence away from being publicly executed.
You stare at him in disbelief.
“Don’t you think you’ve already spied on me enough today?” you deadpan. “Seriously. Just let me have this one conversation.”
Damian opens his mouth immediately—only for Stephanie to suddenly pop up behind him and clamp a hand firmly over it.
“Yeah, of course!” she says quickly before Damian can protest. “Go ahead. I’ll get these two out of your hair.”
And before either Wayne boy can fully react, Stephanie is already somehow physically dragging Damian backward by the arm while simultaneously shoving Tim along with her.
Tim looks deeply offended to be included despite absolutely trying to subtly linger nearby. Damian, meanwhile, is actively fighting for his life against Stephanie’s grip.
“Brown. Remove your hand immediately—”
“Nope.”
“I will sue you.”
“You’re eleven.”
“I am genetically superior.”
You blink once, watching as Stephanie physically drags both boys farther down the sidewalk. The entire sight is ridiculous enough that it pulls a tired, raspy sigh from you. “Hah…Men.”
“Not all men though.”
Right. Kon was still here.
Your eyes flick back toward him now. He’s standing there with the shopping bags dangling loosely from one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. There’s something annoyingly relaxed about him—like he hadn’t spent the entire day bulldozing his way through your personal space and somehow rearranging the mood of your entire afternoon by sheer force alone.
And worse—he’s looking at you with that same expression again. That one look he always seems to wear around you now. Like spending time with you is the most natural thing in the world.
You let out another exasperated sigh, this one quieter. Almost fond despite yourself. “Yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Not all men. But you’re definitely included.”
Kon gasps dramatically, immediately pressing a hand against his chest.
“Wow, (Name). I’m hurt. Truly devastated. How could you say that about me after everything we’ve been through?”
You raise an eyebrow immediately.
“Define everything.”
Kon pretends to think deeply about it. “Well,” he says eventually, counting on his fingers, “I helped you snoop around the orphanage yesterday. And I took you out to have fun today.” He points at you accusingly now. “You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”
You hate how smug he sounds about that. More importantly—you hate that he knows you can’t deny it.
Because yes. You did enjoy today.
Somewhere between the photobooth, the stupid outfits, the way Kon kept dragging you into moments before you could think too hard about them—you’d actually enjoyed yourself. And somehow, that realisation feels more dangerous than anything else. Because it’s been a while since things felt this… easy.
And maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Because once you start enjoying someone’s presence this much, eventually comes the terrifying possibility of losing it too.
“And besides,” Kon continues easily, rocking back on his heels, “we still have plenty of time to create more memories to put it under ‘everything.’”
You gesture between the two of you, a soft scoff escaping your lips. “You and me?”
“Yes, you and me.” His grin softens just slightly. “The girl who’s going to uncover whatever secrets that orphanage is hiding—”
“I can’t even say for certain that there is something wrong with that place, Kon.” You interject, almost too firmly.
And that’s the part clawing at you the most. Because what if you’re wrong?
What if all of this suspicion, this awful gut feeling sitting in your chest whenever you’re near Mrs. Cole—and apparently now, Mr. Travers—what if it’s all just paranoia? What if you drag Kon into this and there turns out to be nothing there at all?
No hidden cruelty or corruption. No danger. Just you projecting… ghosts onto ordinary people because you’ve spent too long expecting the worst from Gotham. And somehow, the thought of wasting his time bothers you more than your own.
“But I believe you.”
The words come out so easily from him. No hesitation at all. Just certainty. Like trusting you is the simplest thing in the world.
“That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
You falter slightly at that. “Even if I end up being wrong?”
“You mean even if we end up being wrong.”
That one correction lands heavier than expected. Your gaze drifts back toward him fully now, meeting his eyes beneath the glow of the streetlights as he shrugs one shoulder casually. “Can’t exactly call myself your loyal partner if I ditch you halfway through, can I?”
…Loyal partner, huh?
You huff quietly through your nose, rolling your eyes to hide the way something warm curls annoyingly in your chest at the phrase.
It’s stupid. The title is stupid.
And yet—something about hearing it from him makes the exhaustion weighing on you feel lighter somehow. Familiar, too. Which doesn’t make sense, because this is the first time he’s ever called himself that. Partner? Maybe, but loyal? You almost want to scoff at the thought. Because really—it’s only been two days since you properly got to know Kon for yourself. Two days shouldn’t be enough to trust someone this easily.
And yet somehow, standing here beneath Gotham’s streetlights with him smiling at you like sticking by your side is the most obvious thing in the world, you can’t quite bring yourself to doubt him either.
Because it was nice. To hear someone say we instead of you for once. Like he’s already decided he’s standing beside you in this with no conditions attached.
You look away first before the feeling settles too deeply. “I better not hear you complain about this later.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You stare at him for a second longer before another sigh escapes you—this one softer around the edges, sounding dangerously close to a laugh.
“…Thank you, Kon.”
The teasing expression on his face eases slightly at that. Not disappearing completely. Just softening.
“For what?”
You glance away briefly, fingers tightening just a little around the photostrips still in your hand.
For distracting you. For believing you despite every reason he probably shouldn’t. For making today feel normal for a little while. For making you forget yourself long enough to laugh without thinking about consequences afterward.
“For today,” you settle on quietly. And for a second, Kon just looks at you. And something in his expression shifts into something almost unreadable. Like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to actually thank him.
But then, just as quickly, that familiar grin slides back into place again.
“Well,” he says proudly, “you really shouldn’t be surprised you enjoyed the company of the one and only Superboy.”
You raise an eyebrow at that, tilting your head slightly. “You do realise you’re not the only Superboy anymore, right?”
Kon immediately narrows his eyes. “…Are you trying to say that Jon’s company is more pleasant than mine?”
“Well,” you say thoughtfully, pretending to seriously consider it, “he is adorable. And nice.”
“Hello??!?” Kon gestures toward himself in disbelief. “So am I.”
“Nice, maybe,” you say with a shrug. “Adorable? Not as much as him.” A quiet laugh slips out of you afterward before you can stop it.
And Kon actually looks mildly offended for a second. Like genuinely offended. But then something in his expression eases unexpectedly as he watches you laugh, the fight draining from him almost immediately.
“…Argh, fine,” he groans dramatically, waving a hand. “As long as I’m your favourite Super, that’s good enough for me.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips twitching slightly.
“To be decided.”
Kon gasps like you’ve personally betrayed him. Again. Which was not far off.
“You Waynes and your terrifying ability to emotionally devastate people.”
You raise an eyebrow at that, before waving him off. “Well, sucks to be you. Now,” you gesture vaguely behind you toward where Damian and the others are waiting, “you should probably hurry off before Damian actually succeeds in kicking your ass tonight.”
“Excuse you,” Kon scoffs immediately, crossing his arms. “I let him do that on purpose to appease him. Somewhat.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”
Kon narrows his eyes at you for a second, before inevitably breaking into another grin anyway, earning an immediate eye-roll from you.
“Just make sure you come back tomorrow and apologise to that Bat Burger employee, alright?”
Kon perks up immediately. “At least this time,” he says brightly, “it sounds like I officially have an excuse to show up in Gotham again.”
Somehow, despite how ridiculous today has been—the idea of seeing him again tomorrow doesn’t sound nearly as exhausting as it probably should.
You shake your head exasperatedly instead of acknowledging that thought aloud. Kon only grins wider, clearly taking your lack of denial as enough of an answer. Then, with one final wave, he slowly lifts off the ground. You watch him hover backward a little, still smiling stupidly at you beneath Gotham’s streetlights before finally turning and taking off into the night sky.
You keep watching until he disappears completely from sight. Only then do you finally exhale quietly through your nose, before turning to head back toward Damian, Stephanie, and Tim.
But just as you turned around, you immediately collide straight into someone.
“Oh—shit, my bad. You alright?”
The voice stops you cold.
Your head snaps upward immediately.
Duke?
Your breath catches before you can stop it. Because standing there in front of you is Duke Thomas.
Only—younger. Noticeably younger than the Duke you remember. He just looks like… a normal teenager on Gotham’s streets after dark, blinking at you in confusion because you haven’t answered him yet.
And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because you hadn’t expected this. Not now.
Not here.
Not him.
And somehow, what unsettles you more is the realisation that he hadn’t crossed your mind at all ever since you woke up back in the past.
Not once.
How?
How did you forget Duke? How did you not think of him even once? How could you forget him when—to his credits—he’d been one of the very few people who made life seem more tolerable back in your first life? Who at least made you feel seen in some way that didn’t feel off?
The thought leaves you feeling vaguely sick.
Maybe it was because your sixteen year old self hadn’t met him yet during this point in time. Maybe your mind had unconsciously separated him from this version of Gotham because, technically, he wasn’t part of your life yet.
Was that really the only possible reason?
“Duke? Honey, come on.”
A woman’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. Your head turns instinctively toward the sound. And—your stomach drops. A man and woman were standing a few feet away, seemingly waiting for him to catch up to them.
Duke’s parents.
They still looked fine. Looked normal. Still untouched by what’s going to happen to them.
The realisation hits you so abruptly that your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You immediately step back from Duke like instinct itself is screaming at you to put distance between you and this moment.
“Ah—yeah,” you hear yourself say quickly. “I’m fine. Sorry for holding you up.”
Duke gives you one last slightly confused look before nodding politely. Then he turns and jogs back toward his parents.
And you—you just stand there. Watching them walk away beneath Gotham’s streetlights. Watching his father sling an arm around his shoulders. Watching his mother say something that makes Duke roll his eyes in embarrassment.
They look so normal. So painfully normal.
And all you can think is—they don’t know.
They don’t know what’s waiting for them. Because this is before it happens. Before Joker kidnaps them. Before his parents inhaled the toxin that ruined their lives. Before Duke has to watch his parents become shells of themselves while still technically alive.
Your throat tightens violently.
So… what now?
The question loops through your head immediately.
What are you supposed to do now? Just… let them walk away? Let history repeat itself right in front of you when you know what’s coming?
But if you interfere…what would happen then?
Your chest tightens harder. The question hits harder than it should, because you already know changing things definitely came with consequences.
Adrien flashes through your mind almost immediately. Him being comatose for a few days, All because one of Riddler’s bombs—one that never exploded in your first life—had gone off this time instead.
Because you changed something. Because you quit being Batgirl.
And somehow it feels like the universe… shifted around that choice like reality itself was trying to… rebalance its scales.
Your stomach twists.
So what happens if you did try to save Duke’s parents? Even though you know that eventually—his mom does het cured—wouldn’t it be better to just… prevent the situation from happening altogether? Or would something worse take its place? Would Gotham just… find another way to hurt people? Could you even stop it in the first place?
Maybe you could.
Maybe all you had to do was stop Joker before he got to them. Protect them before the kidnapping ever happened. You just had to remember when it was. You just had to—
Wait.
Your thoughts abruptly snag against themselves.
When did he kidnap them?
Your heartbeat stumbles hard in your chest
No. No, you knew this. You should know this. Because you’ve read the files—his files. Everyone’s files. Back in your first life, after everything that happened, you’d refused to let yourself remain ignorant ever again. Refused to be the one left in the dark while everyone else carried the truth around you. So you made sure you learned. Made sure you remembered every detail there is.
So why couldn’t you remember now?
Your mind starts scrambles desperately through your memories, trying to force the details back into place. But the harder you try to remember, the more everything slips through your fingers. Like trying to hold water in trembling hands.
Your breathing turns uneven.
Why can’t you remember? You remember the aftermath. You remember Duke. So why can’t you remember the actual event itself?
Your ears start ringing sharply. The sound cuts through your thoughts like static, loud enough that it almost hurts. But you push harder anyway, forcing yourself to think.
Remember. You need to remember.
Remember.
Fragments of memories flash too quickly behind your eyes now—but none of it is the right memory. None of it tells you when.
Why can’t you remember? Why does it feel like the harder you try to reach for it, the further it slips away from you?
You barely notice yourself taking an unsteady step backward. The ringing grows louder. Somewhere nearby, you hear familiar voices calling out.
Why does Damian sound so far away? Your head suddenly throbs, sharp enough to make your vision flicker.
And then you feel something warm drip past your lip. Your brows furrow faintly. Disoriented, you lift a hand instinctively, fingers brushing beneath your nose before pulling back into view.
Red.
Your vision blurs. For a second, your brain genuinely fails to process what you’re seeing.
Blood? Why are your fingers covered in blood?
“(Name)!”
Tim’s voice cuts through the ringing. Closer this time. When did he get here?
You barely register the sudden warmth of hands gripping your shoulders—steadying you before you can fall properly. Tim’s hands, you think.
But even standing right beside you, his voice sounds strangely distant somehow. Muffled beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.
Everything feels strangely disconnected now. Wrong. Like the world around you has drifted several feet away while you’re still trapped inside your own head.
“Hey—hey..! Look at me.”
Why does his voice still sound so far away despite being right next to you? And—
Why does he sound so desperate?
Your unfocused gaze drifts upward instinctively, trying to find him through the blur swallowing your vision.
You think you’re looking into his eyes. You can’t really tell anymore. But you feel him.
The tight grip of his hands against your shoulders. The way he’s holding onto you too firmly now, like he’s afraid you’ll slip right through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. And despite the cold slowly spreading through the rest of your body—your fingertips numb, your head spinning, your skin suddenly freezing beneath Gotham’s night air—that warmth stays.
His warmth.
It settles around you in sharp contrast to the terrifying emptiness creeping through your limbs. You can barely make out his expression through the haze, but even blurred, you recognise the panic there immediately.
You rarely see Tim panic. Not outwardly. Not like this. Not since his father died.
Ah.
As much as you and Tim clash now—as much as the two of you keep orbiting around each other awkwardly, unable to figure out how to exist around the other without it turning complicated—you never wanted to become the reason he remembered that moment again.
The moment that permanently altered the course of his life.
You know what losing someone in front of him did to Tim. You know how deeply that fear carved itself into him afterward. Hidden beneath all that composure and logic he clings to so tightly.
His brows are drawn together so tightly it looked painful. His breathing uneven despite how hard he was trying to steady it.
And his eyes—
God.
Why does he look so.. scared? It wasn’t like you were dying. Even through the haze swallowing your thoughts earlier, you knew this feeling was different. Different from when you actually died. And Tim knew that too. He’s smart enough to tell the difference between panic and death.
So then why had he reacted like that? Was the mere possibility of losing you enough to make him look at you that way?
The thought settles strangely in your chest.
Because it makes you wonder…If the Tim from your first life had been there during your death… would he have looked at you like this too?
Would he have sounded that terrified? Would he have reached for you just as desperately? And somehow, the thought that he might have—that he would have cared enough to panic over losing you too—loosens something deep in your chest you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding onto this entire time.
The thought barely forms before another sharp wave of dizziness crashes through you. Your body feels unbearably heavy now. Your head sags faintly forward before Tim’s grip tightens again instantly, steadying you before you can slump completely.
“Damnit, (Name)—stay with me.” you hear him say, voice lower now. Sharper. Desperate in a way that makes something ache painfully inside your chest. Warped beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.
Your knees weaken abruptly, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you.
Or maybe you’re the one tilting.
You can’t tell anymore. Your thoughts feel scrambled now, slipping apart faster than you can hold onto them. And before you can properly process what’s happening—your body gives out completely.
The last thing you feel is yourself collapsing into something firm. And somewhere through the haze, just before everything finally fades to black—you feel the vibration of the rapid heartbeat pressed beneath your cheek.
Stephanie practically drags them halfway down the sidewalk before finally letting go of Damian and Tim.
“Seriously,” she mutters, exasperated, “give them, like, five seconds alone before you start growling at Superboy again.”
“I was not growling,” Damian snaps immediately.
“You certainly looked one second away from committing a felony.”
“Tt. That fool deserves it.”
Tim barely hears the rest of it. Their bickering fades into background noise almost instantly as his gaze drifts back toward you instead.
Toward you and Kon. Again.
Earlier today, he’d watched you from across that cafe with Damian and Stephanie while Kon dragged you inside that clothing store. Tim told himself he was only keeping an eye on you because something felt off lately. Because Kon had dragged you all the way here. Because he was worried.
But standing here now, watching you talk to Kon by yourself again, he’s forced to confront something uglier.
You really looked… happier around him. Because somehow, Kon gets reactions out of you so easily.
The small smiles. The eye-rolls. The soft huffs that sound dangerously close to laughter.
And Tim—he can barely hold a conversation with you lately without it turning tense halfway through.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
How did things between you both become this fragile so quickly? Or maybe not quickly. Maybe it had been happening for longer than he realised.
Maybe Tim was just… always going to clash with you eventually.
The thought settles heavily in his chest. Because no matter how hard he tries, every interaction between you both feels like stepping around shattered glass barefoot. One wrong word and everything cuts deeper again.
Meanwhile Kon was just… able to exist around you effortlessly. Tim hates that it bothers him as much as it does.
He watches you laugh quietly at something Kon says, sees the way you shake your head at him again, and suddenly Tim has to look away for half a second just to breathe normally.
It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?
His gaze drifts back anyway. He watches you both finally wave each other off, watches Kon float backward into the air with that stupid grin still plastered across his face before eventually taking off into the Gotham skyline.
“Oh—looks like Alfred’s driving around the corner,” Stephanie says suddenly, and Tim blinks, dragged back to his surroundings. Sure enough, familiar headlights and the sleek black limo turn into the street nearby. Beside him, Damian folds his arms with a deep scowl.
“I am informing Father about this.”
“Absolutely not.” Stephanie immediately interjects. “If you narc on her after today, she’s gonna be upset with you.”
That shuts Damian up immediately. Not completely. But enough. He clicks his tongue irritably instead, muttering under his breath, “Why did she have to befriend him of all people?” He then abruptly points at Tim like this is somehow his fault.
“This is on you, Drake. If you had not been so insistent on befriending that Kryptonian—”
Tim stares at him in disbelief. “You are literally friends with a Kryptonian too.”
Damian glares at Stephanie instantly for the jab, already opening his mouth with what was definitely going to be an offended retort. Tim rolls his eyes, only half-paying attention now as his gaze flickers back toward you automatically. Expecting you to already be walking back over.
Except—you’re not moving.
Tim’s brows furrowed slightly.
You’re just standing there. Still. Something about it immediately feels wrong. And then he notices the way your shoulders rise sharply.
Your breathing. It’s too fast. Uneven. Not just uneven—erratic. Like you can’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you’re trying.
And then, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream slipping from beneath your nose.
For a second, his brain genuinely blanks. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up. He’s already running before he even realises he started moving. Somewhere behind him, he hears Damian shout his name in confusion, but Tim ignores it completely.
“(Name)!”
Please answer him.
If you answer him right now, he can still convince himself he’s overreacting.
That this isn’t serious. That you’re okay.
But then he gets closer and sees your expression properly. Your pupils aren’t focusing correctly. Your breathing keeps catching unevenly like your body’s forgotten how to do it naturally. There’s blood staining your lip now. Tim reaches you in seconds, grabbing your shoulders immediately like you’re the only thing keeping him upright now.
His eyes scan your face frantically. The blood. Your unfocused gaze. The way your body sways dangerously where you stand. The terrifying absence of recognition in your expression for half a second too long.
Damnit.
Damnit, damnit, damnit…!
Didn’t you say you were going to make sure he didn’t have to “bother” himself with you anymore? Wasn’t that what you said?
That you’d make sure he wouldn’t have any reason to worry about you or what you did?
Then what is this?
What happened in the few seconds he looked away? And why does it feel like if he lets go of you for even a second, you’re going to slip right through his hands?
If this is your way of getting back at him—of punishing him for all the times he had misunderstood you, for all the moments he had unintentionally pushed you away despite helping you clean up the aftermath of your mistakes and dead ends, for all the times his actions have caused you hurt—then at least don’t do it like this. Not when you look like you could barely hold yourself together.
“Hey—hey…!” His voice comes out sharper than intended as he grips your shoulders tighter instinctively. “Look at me.”
Anything.
Just keep your eyes open.
Your gaze finally shifts toward him weakly, but it does nothing to calm the panic building inside his chest.
Because you were looking at him like you were trying to recognise him through fog. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps approaching now—Damian, Stephanie—and Alfred.
But Tim can barely focus on them. Not when all he can think about is the terrifying weight suddenly settling in his chest. Because this—this feels familiar. Too familiar.
Unwanted memories try forcing their way to the surface of his mind again, and Tim immediately shoves them back down before he can spiral with them too.
Not now. He can’t afford that right now.
His fingers tighten further without him meaning to.
“Hey, (Name)—” he says again, and this time his voice cracks slightly. Quieter now. Shakier. “Stay with me.”
God, he hates how terrified he sounds. Hates the way his mind keeps flashing between you and the image of his father over and over again like some sick reflex he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries.
Snap out of it. This is different. It’s not the same.
It’s not like you were dying. Tim knows better than that. He can still feel your heartbeat beneath his hands where he grips your shoulders.
But your body is getting colder. Or maybe not colder exactly. Just… unnaturally cool against his own warmth, enough to make panic crawl further up his spine anyway.
Just as Damian, Stephanie, and Alfred finally reach the two of you—your body suddenly goes completely slack in his arms.
Tim’s heart drops.
“Tim..!” Stephanie’s voice cuts through sharply as she rushes closer, eyes darting between your unconscious form and the blood still streaked beneath your nose. “What the hell happened? Why is (Name)—”
“I don’t know,” Tim cuts in immediately, the words rougher than intended. “She just—she started hyperventilating and—”
“Stop talking and get her to the car,” Damian snaps. Normally, there’d be irritation in his voice. But this time, Tim hears the worry underneath it plainly.
“Master Tim,” Alfred says steadily despite the tension tightening the air around all of them, “we should get Miss (Name) to the manor immediately.”
Tim swallows hard before nodding once. Then, carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break apart if he holds you wrong—he lifts you fully into his arms and carries you toward the limo, Stephanie and Damian close behind him.
Tim can feel Damian gripping tightly onto the end of your sleeve the entire way there, the younger boy practically pulling him along like he’s trying to hurry all of them forward faster. He doesn’t say anything this time—no sharp remarks or scoffs.
Just silence.
Consciousness returns to you slowly.
First comes the light pressing faintly against your eyelids. Then the dull ache pounding behind your head. Then the uncomfortable heaviness settling deep inside your chest. Your eyes crack open gradually, vision blurry at first as the overhead lights force themselves into focus.
Cold metal. Dim lighting. The distant hum of computers. The Batcave. Of course.
“Ms. (Name), are you feeling alright? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” Your head turns sluggishly toward the voice.
Alfred stands nearby holding a tray with a teapot, cups, and what looks like medicine resting neatly at the side. His expression is composed like always, but there’s a subtle tightness around his eyes that tells you more than his calm tone does.
Right. You passed out. God, that was embarrassing.
“(Name)’s awake??”
Stephanie’s voice cuts through the cave almost immediately. Your gaze drifts past Alfred toward the Batcomputer where both Stephanie and Damian abruptly turn toward you.
Stephanie looks openly relieved, concern written all over her face as she practically rushes over. Damian, meanwhile—looks absolutely furious for some reason.
Which is admittedly a little terrifying coming from an eleven year old trained by the League of Shadows since birth. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass as he stalks over behind Stephanie like he’s personally offended by your collapse earlier.
Somehow, that’s almost touching. Almost.
Your eyes flick briefly past them toward the Batcomputer again, and that’s when you catch Tim glancing at you. Just for a second. A quick, sharp look.
The moment he notices you looking back, he immediately redirects his attention to the screen in front of him like nothing happened.
Well. Fuck him too, then.
“Hey…” Stephanie’s already beside your makeshift bedside now, staring at you like she’s trying to physically assess whether you’re still alive. “Seriously, are you okay?”
You open your mouth to answer, only for her expression to suddenly shift into alarm again.
“You’re not like… secretly diagnosed with some terminal illness, right?” she blurts out. “And that’s why you suddenly quit as Batgirl?”
What.
What the actual fuck.
Your brain genuinely stalls for a second trying to process how she even arrived at that conclusion. Did she think this was some kind of… tragic, melodramatic soap opera? Some horrible fatal secret you’d been hiding from everyone this whole time?
…Then again. Considering you somehow managed to die and wake up in the past, maybe you weren’t exactly in a position to decide what counted as unrealistic anymore.
Before you can even begin to process a response to that, Alfred speaks up for you instead.
“Fortunately, it is nothing of that sort, Miss Stephanie. I believe I would be the first to know if it were.”
Thank god for Alfred.
Stephanie visibly deflates in relief. “Okay, good, because that would’ve been really fucked up if you didn’t tell any one of us.”
Your throat feels painfully dry.
You shift slightly, about to ask for water when a glass suddenly appears in front of you. You blink, and see Damian standing there, holding it out stiffly. Still glaring. Honestly, he somehow looks even more irritated now that you’re conscious again.
“Drink,” he says flatly. And despite everything, your expression softens almost immediately. Because for Damian, this is his concern.
You carefully take the glass from him, fingers brushing briefly against his, and take a long sip before mumbling a quiet, “…Thanks.”
Damian clicks his tongue instantly and looks away like the gratitude personally inconvenienced him somehow. But he still doesn’t move from beside your bed either.
“We are fortunate Master Tim managed to reach you before you collapsed onto the pavement,” Alfred continues calmly as he begins pouring you a cup of tea. “A head injury on top of everything else would have been most unfortunate.”
Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that part.
The part where Tim had somehow gotten to you almost immediately the second your vision started blurring and your ears began ringing. The part where he’d grabbed onto you before you could hit the ground. The part where he sounded—
No. Nevermind.
Damnit.
Wasn’t this, like… the third time now?
The third time Tim had exceeded your expectations and openly helped you without it turning into an argument? Without him saying something that got under your skin or rubbed painfully against every sore spot between the two of you?
Fine.
You revoke your earlier fuck you.
Your gaze drifts toward him again almost unwillingly. Tim’s still standing by the Batcomputer, shoulders tense beneath the dim cave lighting, eyes fixed firmly on whatever’s displayed across the screen in front of him. Too fixed. Like he’s trying way too hard not to look over here.
What a fake idgafer.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Conscience biting at you uncomfortably now. Because despite everything, despite how complicated and messy things between you had become lately—he did help you. Again.
You exhale quietly before forcing the words out through your still-rough throat.
“…Thanks, Tim.”
For a second, you genuinely think he might turn around and look at you properly.
“Yeah.”
Instead, you get that. Just one flat response without even looking away from the screen. Not even a glance toward you.
What the fuck.
You’re revoking your revoke.
The cave grows quieter after that. Honestly, the silence probably would’ve been comfortable if not for the fact that you could physically feel everyone staring at you right now. Damian. Stephanie. Alfred. And as much as you genuinely appreciated the concern, it was also making you feel a little trapped. A little too perceived.
“So then, Miss,” Alfred says carefully as he hands you the tea, “would you mind telling us what exactly caused your earlier… episode?”
Oh. Right.
Here comes the hard part.
Because what exactly were you supposed to say here? What explanation could possibly make them worry less? There really wasn’t an easy way to tell them:
Oh, sorry, I’m actually twenty years old but I died and somehow woke back up in my sixteen year old body. Then I saw someone I know from the future and tried forcing myself to remember the details of the traumatic event that ruins his life to try and prevent it from happening here, only to fail so badly my body short-circuited.
Yeah. No.
That would absolutely create an entirely new set of problems. At best, they’d think you were delirious from stress. At worst? They’d start treating you like you were genuinely unstable.
You let out a soft sigh instead, fingers curling around the warmth of the teacup Alfred handed you. The heat seeps slowly into your palms as you bring it toward your lips, buying yourself a few extra seconds to think. Just deflect. “I’m not sure.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Damian stares at you in disbelief. “Not sure?” he repeats immediately, incredulous. His brows pull together sharply as he steps closer to the bedside. “What kind of answer is that? Clearly something triggered that reaction.”
You avoid looking directly at him, taking a careful sip of tea instead. “I know that,” you mumble quietly against the rim of the cup.
“Then explain it properly.”
Your eye twitches slightly. “I can’t explain something I don’t fully understand myself.” Which was true in a sense. Because even now, you still don’t understand how you managed to wake up in the past after dying. You don’t understand why you were given another chance—or whether this even was one. And if you can’t explain it to yourself, then how are you supposed to explain it to anyone else?
“That,” Damian says flatly, “is an incredibly poor excuse.”
“Damian,” Stephanie cuts in quickly, shooting him a warning look from beside your bed.
“What?” Damian throws his hands up slightly, clearly unconvinced he’s done anything wrong. “She collapsed in the middle of the street.”
“Yes, and interrogating her five seconds after she regained consciousness probably isn’t helping.”
“I am not interrogating her.”
“You literally sound like Bruce right now.”
“Tt.” Damian crosses his arms immediately. “Father would have asked better questions.” Would he though?
Despite yourself, you snort softly into your tea. Damian’s head immediately snaps toward you, looking vaguely offended that you dared laugh at him while half-conscious. Stephanie exhales before looking back toward you again, concern softening her expression slightly. “Okay… then do you at least remember anything from when you passed out?”
Your brows raise faintly at that, and instinctively tried to think back. Your expression tightens slightly.
Huh.
You slowly lower the cup from your lips as your thoughts scrape blankly against the attempt to remember anything beyond that point. Nothing comes up. It’s just blank. Like someone cut the film reel cleanly in half.
“…No,” you answer honestly this time. The word feels strangely hollow leaving your mouth. You shift slightly afterward, pushing the blanket away from yourself as you move to sit up more properly on the edge of the makeshift bed instead of lying there like some invalid.
“Do not stand up too quickly,” Alfred warns smoothly.
You pause mid-movement before muttering under your breath, “I’m fine, Alfred.”
Stephanie stares at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “…You literally collapsed and started bleeding,”
“And?” you deflect weakly. “It was just a nosebleed.”
“A nosebleed that came out of nowhere, (Name)!” Stephanie shoots back immediately, stepping slightly in front of you like physically blocking your path will somehow stop you from leaving. “You can’t seriously expect us to know what’s going on with you if you don’t tell us anything!”
Ouch. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Your gaze drops briefly toward the floor. But in a family full of detectives, you’re really only delaying the inevitable anyway. Eventually, someone’s going to notice something. Connect the dots and ask the right questions. That’s how it always is. That’s how it’ll always be.
You stand up fully despite the slight dizziness still lingering in your head and carefully step around Stephanie. “Well,” you say quietly, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your sleeve, “I appreciate the concern, Stephanie. Really.” Then you force out the next part anyway.
“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve ever been in a long time.” You immediately know how ridiculous that sounds considering you literally fainted less than an hour ago. Stephanie’s expression reflects exactly that disbelief.
But before she can argue further, you feel a tug on the edge of your sleeve. You blink and glance downward. Damian. Not grabbing your wrist like you half-expected him to. Just holding onto your sleeve instead.
…Huh.
Seems even Damian knows when to be considerate sometimes. His tone, however, remains significantly less considerate.
“Where are you going?” he demands sharply. “You are supposed to be resting.”
“I’d rather rest in my own room, alright?” you sigh, gently nudging his grip away. “I think I’ve had enough interactions for one day.”
That was probably the understatement of the century.
Before anyone else can continue prying—or worse, start asking the right questions—you immediately turn and head toward the cave exit. Only to abruptly stop.
A large shadow looms near the entrance.
You look up, only to come face to face with your father. Bruce—who was still in his Batman suit. His cape draped heavily around him.
When did he get back?
You thought he’d still be out patrolling Gotham or dealing with whatever crisis that usually demanded Batman’s attention at this hour.
Instead, he’s here. Looking directly at you. You immediately lower your gaze and move to walk past him without really acknowledging him.
“Are you alright?”
The question stops something inside you cold. More than that—it leaves behind this strange, uncomfortable feeling curling inside your chest.
Because why was he asking that?
Did Alfred really call him back just because you fainted? Was it seriously enough of an emergency for Batman to return immediately?
This feels wrong. Too wrong. Too different from what you’re used to. From him.
“…Yeah.”
That’s all you say. Just one word before continuing past him out of the cave. Never mind the faint sheen of sweat visible along the lower half of his face where the cowl doesn’t cover. Never mind the subtle clench of his fists at your answer. Never mind the way he looks like he still has a thousand things he wants to say—but doesn’t.
You find yourself passing one of the hallway mirrors and slow unconsciously. Your reflection stares back at you, and you frown.
Your reflection looked tired. Worse—your eyes looked red around the edges.
A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER
“Has the Court’s movement near Bristol narrowed yet?”
Bruce’s voice cuts through the cold night air as he stands near the edge of the rooftop, cape shifting restlessly behind him with every gust of wind. Beside him, Cassandra lowers herself from the ledge she’d been perched on, boots landing soundlessly against the concrete.
“Yes,” she answers after a moment. “But they’ve gotten quieter again.”
Bruce’s expression hardens faintly beneath the cowl. That alone bothered him. The Court of Owls did not retreat unless they were repositioning. His gaze drifts toward Bristol automatically, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The district had always been one of Gotham’s oldest pressure points—wealth layered over rot, history buried beneath architecture meant to intimidate more than inspire.
“The underground routes?” he asks.
“Still active.” Cassandra folds her arms loosely across her chest. “But abandoned on entry.”
Meaning decoys. Bruce exhales quietly through his nose. Of course they were.
For a few moments, silence settles between them again. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that only exists between people who’ve spent years learning how the other moves without needing words for it.
“…Report to me on her movements.”
Cassandra doesn’t need clarification about who he was talking about. She nods once.
“Same as usual. She frequents the orphanage with her two friends. Damian has started accompanying her.”
Damian. Bruce’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his youngest son.
That alone said enough. Damian did not linger around people unless he genuinely wanted to. And more than that—Damian trusted his instincts almost obsessively. If he kept seeking you out lately, then it meant he’d noticed it too.
The shift.
Bruce’s gaze lowers briefly toward the streets below. He had intended to speak with you eventually. After your friend’s condition improved. After things had… settled down. A conversation. A proper one. But somehow, that conversation never came.
Instead, the distance between you both quietly widened without either of you acknowledging it aloud.
It was obvious in hindsight. The way you deliberately adjusted your schedule to avoid him—eating breakfast later than usual, or dinner much earlier before his usual nightly patrol. The way you, who used to appear at the cave almost instinctively—no matter the hour, had stopped coming entirely. Not once. Not since the day you stood in front of him and told him you were quitting as Batgirl.
Maybe, in your mind, there was no reason to go down there anymore. No suit to maintain or patrols to report on. No purpose left tying you to him in the way Batgirl once had. And Bruce…didn’t push. Maybe that was his mistake.
Maybe he should have stopped you that day instead of simply watching you walk away with that calm expression on your face—the one that unsettled him more the longer he thought about it. Because that wasn’t calmness, was it?
He remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity. The slight quiver in your lips when you told him you were quitting. The way your fingers kept curling against your palms like you were trying to physically hold yourself together. And your eyes had looked at him like you were waiting for something. Pleading for it, even if you never said it aloud. For him to stop you. To say something that would justify you staying.
Something that sounded less like Batman approving a tactical withdrawal and more like a father asking his daughter not to leave.
But Bruce had ignored it. No—he had seen it and convinced himself not to act on it because your explanation sounded logical enough to excuse his own silence.
You just needed time for yourself, that’s what he told himself. Time had always helped wounds settle eventually. But time also had a way of solidifying things when left untouched long enough. And now Bruce could feel the gap between you both every single time you walked past him without lingering. Every time he caught himself noticing your absence before your presence.
People were not cases. He knew that. God, he knew that.
And you—you were his daughter before you were ever Batgirl. Maybe that was the difference. You had always seen him as your father first before you ever saw him as Batman. You had trusted him simply because he was Bruce. Because he was Dad. You had faith in him as your father long before you ever understood what Batman truly was.
Wasn’t that why you had tried so hard to stay close to him after Dick first left? Even though you hadn’t understood the real reason for the fracture between them back then—all because Bruce had kept that part of his life—that part of himself hidden from you. All because you were the one normal thing in his life. The one thing untouched by Gotham.
Bruce had wanted to protect that. Protect you.
He wanted to shield you from the rot of the city. From the brutality. From becoming someone like him. Maybe, in his own way, he thought if he kept enough of himself hidden from you, then you could still have the childhood he never did.
Maybe he genuinely believed he could separate Bruce Wayne from Batman cleanly enough that you would never have to carry the weight of the latter.
And for a while, he almost succeeded. Even if he hadn’t been so present. Even if he had failed, in more ways than one, to be the father you truly needed. He had almost succeeded in shielding you from the violence Gotham carved into everyone who stayed long enough.
Until he didn’t.
Until the truth came out. About him. About Dick. About Jason. About his death that Bruce carried around like a second skeleton beneath his skin. And maybe that was when everything truly changed between you both.
Because once the illusion shattered, it shattered completely. You had looked at him differently afterward. Not with fear. Not even with anger, entirely. But with hurt. The kind born from realising the person you trusted most in life had hidden entire pieces of himself from you. And after that, you started inserting yourself into this side of his life too.
Not because Bruce wanted you to. God knew he hadn’t. But because somewhere along the line, you had convinced yourself that if you wanted to stay close to him, then you had to become part of that world too. That you had to earn your place beside him.
Wasn’t that why you refused to leave when things got dangerous? Back when Gotham was declared a No Man’s Land. When he was accused of murder and had started pushing everyone away before they could get too close to the fallout. When the Court of Owls started targeting him and everyone connected to him. Why did you keep inserting yourself into situations that terrified him? Why could you never stand the thought of him carrying everything alone? And maybe the worse question was—why did you still care so deeply for someone like him? Someone who, despite loving you, had never truly known how to be there for you in the way you deserved.
Even as a child, you had hated watching people suffer quietly. Especially him.
Alfred used to say you inherited Bruce’s worst traits. Your stubbornness most of all. And at times, Bruce truly couldn’t deny it.
Stubborn in the sense that you refused to let him isolate himself. Selfless in the sense that you would ignore your own wants if it meant easing someone else’s burden. Even as a child, you had always gravitated towards the people who hurt quietly. Towards lonely people. Towards him.
Bruce’s brows furrow faintly beneath the cowl.
When had the tides shifted?
When had it become you trying to fulfill what he needed, instead of the other way around? Because somewhere along the line, Bruce had started relying on your understanding far more than he should have.
Your patience. Your willingness to stay. Your ability to sit beside him in silence without really demanding anything from him except honesty—something he often struggled to give. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
You did not want Batman. You wanted a father.
Not the resources Bruce Wayne could provide. Not the training. Not the protection. Not the contingency plans or the security or the endless attempts to prepare you for every possible danger Gotham could throw at you.
You wanted him. Something painfully simple.
But Bruce never truly knew how to give someone that properly. Not in the way you deserved. So he compensated in the only way he knew how.
He made sure you had everything you could possibly need. Education. Protection. Freedom. Training. He was able to give you everything except the one thing that he, for some reason—only realised now that had mattered most to you.
His presence. Outside of being Batman. As your father.
The simple ability to sit beside you—his daughter, and make you feel like you did not need to earn his attention through capability. To be loved without needing to prove your usefulness first.
Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.
The truth is—he did love you. Fiercely. Terrifyingly. Enough that the thought of losing you sometimes felt like someone driving a blade straight through his ribs. But love had always been easiest for Bruce to express through protection. Protection through preparation. Through control. Through distance.
And somewhere along the way, those things had started becoming indistinguishable from each other.
Maybe that was why your eyes had looked so tired lately whenever you glanced at him. Like you had spent years reaching towards someone who only knew how to reach back by building walls around the people he cared about.
Bruce didn’t know when exactly you stopped trying. Maybe it happened slowly. Or maybe it happened the moment he let Batman answer you instead of your father. Because when you were still Batgirl and he was Batman, things had been simpler, hadn’t they?
Cleaner. More structured. Easier to navigate. Strangely more transparent too, despite the fact that the masks themselves were what stood between you and him. When the masks were involved, Bruce knew the rules. So did you. Batman gave orders. Batgirl followed them.
If you made mistakes in the field that could have gotten someone killed, could have gotten you killed—he corrected you immediately. Sternly. Efficiently. As Batman, because Batman could not afford hesitation where lives were concerned.
That was what he always told you, wasn’t it?
That on the field, he was Batman first. That emotions could not interfere with judgment. That was how he maintained control. How he kept everyone alive. Or at least, how he tried to.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Batman always knew what to do.
Your father didn’t.
“Do you need me to keep watching her?”
Cassandra’s voice cuts cleanly through Bruce’s thoughts, grounding him back onto the rooftop.
Bruce stays quiet for a moment.
“…No.” The word feels heavier than it should. Because you were not Batgirl anymore. And the realisation still sat strangely in his chest every time he thought about it.
You were his daughter. Not a criminal. He shouldn’t be monitoring you like a case file waiting to spiral out of control. Tracking your movements now—after you had already made your decision—would feel less like protection and more like punishment.
And that would not be fair to you.
You had chosen to quit as Batgirl. That was your decision. The one Bruce had always known would eventually come, even if some selfish part of him had quietly hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.
So he had to deal with it. The aftermath too. As Batman. What he hadn’t expected, however, was how quickly the news spread. Apparently, word traveled fast amongst heroes. Fast enough that it had somehow reached Barry Allen’s ears all the way in Central City.
Barry Allen. His friend. The Flash.
Barry, who had arrived in Gotham the day before to discuss the situation involving the Trickster and Riddler, only to abruptly bring it up halfway through their conversation like it had been weighing on him the entire time.
Bruce could still remember the slight hesitation in Barry’s voice. The way he leaned back against the Batcomputer afterward, arms loosely crossed as he studied Bruce carefully.
“So… how’s (Name)?” Straightforward as always.
Bruce’s expression had barely shifted at the time. “What about her.”
Barry frowned faintly at that. Not judgmental. Just… concerned. Then, as though realising how direct the question sounded, Barry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and let out a small laugh.
“Okay, well—Joan decided to get everyone together for Jay’s birthday,” he explained. “And apparently, a certain grandson of mine mentioned how his friend Tim’s been moping around because his quote-unquote sister stopped talking to him.” Barry lifted his hands briefly in air quotes around “sister”, looking faintly sheepish afterward.
“Something along those lines… don’t take my word for it. Bart’s storytelling gets… dramatic.”
Bruce remembered the pause that followed. Because he hadn’t actually known how to answer that. Tim, moping? Because you weren’t… talking to him? The thought alone had almost earned a quiet huff from him at the time. Maybe even something dangerously close to amusement. It sounded absurd on paper.
But then Bruce thought about the tension between you both. The strange friction that had existed almost from the moment Tim entered your lives. The way conversations between the two of you always seemed to teeter between understanding and conflict without either of you knowing how to properly bridge the gap.
And suddenly, it didn’t sound absurd at all.
Because maybe Batgirl had been the last thing tethering you both together in a way that made sense. A role. A structure. Something familiar enough to navigate around. And now that you had quit… perhaps neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore without the masks in between.
Barry moved away from the Batcomputer then, wandering casually toward the evidence table like he always did whenever he was trying to make a conversation feel less serious than it actually was.
Which usually meant it was about to become more serious.
“You know,” Barry started lightly, picking up one of the loose batarangs sitting near the edge of the table before immediately putting it back down after Bruce sent him a look, “for someone who claims he’s fine all the time, Tim’s actually pretty terrible at hiding when something’s bothering him.”
Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “You got all that from Bart?”
Barry snorted softly. “Please. Bart inherited the Allen inability to mind his own business. Kid practically gave me a full emotional breakdown analysis over dinner.” A pause. “He sounded worried. Is it really that bad between those two?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. Because frankly, he couldn’t answer that. Instead, he simply turned back toward the Batcomputer, fingers resuming their steady movement across the keyboard as he said flatly, “Who knows.”
Barry leaned back against the console with a sigh, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Shouldn’t you?”
Bruce’s gaze lowered slightly at that. Right. He should know. But he didn’t. Not when it came to this.
Barry studied him for another moment before rubbing the back of his neck again, expression softening slightly. “She quit being Batgirl, huh?”
Bruce nodded once, and Barry sighed quietly. “Well… that can’t have been easy for her.”
Bruce’s expression remained neutral. “It was her decision.”
“Sure,” Barry said easily. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for anyone, right?”
Bruce didn’t answer. Barry’s eyes flickered toward him knowingly. “You know,” he said after a beat, “sometimes kids stop asking for things when they think they already know the answer.”
Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest at that. Because suddenly he could picture every moment lately where you’d looked like you wanted to say something to him—and chose not to instead.
Barry rubbed the back of his neck again before offering a crooked smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Bart says Tim’s been miserable enough that it’s apparently affecting his ‘brooding efficiency.’”
Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly.
“…That’s not a real term.”
“It is now.”
A quieter silence settled afterward. Barry glances toward him again. “Sooo…” he dragged out carefully. “Are you going to actually talk to your daughter anytime soon?”
Bruce had looked away then.
Before he could answer, Barry suddenly brightened slightly, snapping his fingers.
“Or..! You could let her stay in Central City for a bit. Change of pace, change of scenery, y’know? Iris and I could show her around. Give her a break from Gotham before she starts picking up your emotionally constipated habits.”
”Absolutely not.” The response came so immediate that even Barry blinked in surprise.
“…Okay, wow. Mr. Protective much?” Barry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I know you care about your kids, Bruce, but how long are you going to keep hiding her away in Gotham like this?”
Bruce’s expression hardened faintly. “Hiding?”
Barry shrugged, leaning his hip lightly against the console. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious how tightly you keep her tied here.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “She’s perfectly fine staying in Gotham.”
“Oh really?” Barry straightens slightly now, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And have you actually asked her that yourself?”
Bruce said nothing. Barry let out a quiet sigh through his nose at the silence before nodding once. “Yeah,” he muttered lightly. “That’s what I thought.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened slightly at that—not quite a glare, but enough to make Barry immediately lift both hands in surrender.
“Hey! I’m just saying,” Barry defended quickly, grin turning sheepish again. “It’s just a suggestion, that’s all!” Then, stepping backward slightly, he pointed toward Bruce once more.
“Anyway, if you get any more leads on Trickster’s location, ping me. I’ll be here in a flash.” Before Bruce could respond, Barry vanished in a streak of lightning and gold.
“…He’s been there for awhile,” Cassandra says simply, as Bruce catches the way her head tilts slightly toward the far edge of the rooftop.
A familiar voice answers from somewhere above them.
“And here I thought I was being quiet.”
Bruce’s gaze lifts. Clark descends from the night sky a second later, cape shifting softly behind him as his boots touch against the rooftop. The city lights paint faint gold across the blue of his suit.
Bruce gives Cassandra one brief glance. She nods once in understanding before stepping backward toward the ledge. Then, without another word, she drops cleanly off the building, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows to give them space.
Bruce turns back toward Clark slowly. “I don’t recall calling you over to Gotham,” he says flatly, crouching near the edge of the rooftop to retrieve one of the small tracking devices embedded along the gargoyle ledge, inspecting it briefly as though Clark’s sudden arrival barely warranted acknowledgement. Clark huffs out a laugh under his breath at the passive aggression woven into every syllable.
“Is that any way to talk to one of your oldest friends?”
Bruce slots the device back into place before straightening slightly. “That depends. Are you here as my friend or as Superman?”
Clark chuckles softly at that, folding his arms across his chest. “Still charming as ever.”
Bruce finally spares him a brief look. “You came here for something, Clark.”
The amusement lingering on Clark’s face shifts slightly then. Not gone entirely, but edged now with something more knowing. “Well,” he starts casually, “you didn’t tell me Conner and (Name) were friends.”
What?
Bruce stills. Only for half a second. But Clark notices. Of course he does.
Bruce’s cape shifts sharply behind him with the wind. “Explain.”
Clark exhales through his nose, faint amusement still lingering there. “Ma mentioned Conner’s been heading to Gotham a lot lately. More than usual.” He shrugs slightly. “At first I figured he was just going to see Tim again.”
Bruce says nothing. Which, for Clark, says enough.
“So I decided to check in on him before he accidentally landed himself on your radar again this month,” Clark continues. “But turns out he’s been spending time with your daughter.”
Bruce’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly beneath the cowl. Before he can respond, Clark points at him preemptively. “And before you tell me to reign Conner in again—”
“I don’t need one of your boys hovering around my children, Clark.”
Clark blinks once, before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “You let Jon spend time with Damian.”
“That’s different.” Clark raises an eyebrow slowly at the immediate response. Bruce doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he adjusts the gauntlet around his wrist with practiced precision before finally saying, “Damian requires socialisation with people his age.”
Clark tilts his head slightly, studying him. “And you’re saying (Name) doesn’t?”
“She already has her own friends.”
Clark stares at him for a second before spreading both hands loosely in disbelief. “Well it doesn’t hurt to expand her social circle now, does it?”
Bruce finally looks at him properly then. The signature Batman stare. Sharp enough to make criminals fold almost immediately. Clark only takes it with a grain of salt, smiling back instead as he rocks lightly on his heels.
“What?” he says innocently, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just advocating healthy teenage friendships here.” Bruce remains entirely unmoved. Which somehow only seems to amuse Clark more.
Clark chuckles softly under his breath before glancing back out toward Gotham’s skyline. “I think (Name)’s a good kid,” he says after a moment, tone lighter now. “And I think it’d do Conner some good too. Hanging around her.”
“I do not.”
Clark’s mouth twitches upward immediately at the blunt response. Of course that was Bruce’s answer. Deciding to push his luck further, Clark folds his arms behind his head casually and leans back slightly.
“Or,” he starts, far too casually for Bruce’s liking, “you could always let her come to Metropolis for awhile.” He grins. “That way I can personally make sure no funny business is going on.”
“No.”
The response comes so quickly Clark almost laughs. “No?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting.
Bruce deadpans beneath the cowl. “No.”
First Barry. Now Clark. Why were two of his closest friends suddenly offering to get you out of Gotham? At this rate, Oliver was probably going to show up next with some absurd invitation to Star City.
Absolutely not. Over Bruce’s dead body.
Clark looks seconds away from laughing again, but Bruce has already turned away from him, crouching briefly near the rooftop ledge to retrieve one of the trackers embedded beneath the stone gargoyle. His fingers move automatically across the device, checking readings out of habit more than focus.
A sharp ping cuts through his comm. Bruce answers immediately.
“Alfred.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end before Alfred’s calm voice filters through the static.
“Master Bruce, I apologise for interrupting patrol, but Miss (Name) collapsed earlier this evening.”
Bruce freezes. Completely. The tracker in his hand stills mid-adjustment.
“She experienced what appears to have been a severe episode of hyperventilation accompanied by a nosebleed,” Alfred continues carefully. “Master Tim managed to reach her before she lost consciousness. Her vitals are stable now, but she has yet to awaken.”
For one singular moment, Bruce genuinely blanks.
Your condition was stable. Alfred said your condition was stable. So why did his chest suddenly feel unbearably tight? Bruce straightens abruptly.
“What happened?” His voice comes out sharper than intended. Immediate. Controlled only by force.
“We are still uncertain, sir.”
Uncertain. Bruce hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved you.
Beside him, Clark’s brows furrow faintly. Of course he heard the entire conversation. Bruce barely even registers him stepping closer now.
“Bruce,” Clark says carefully, “I can get you back to the manor in seconds—”
But Bruce is already moving. The glider deploys sharply from behind his cape with a metallic snap as he steps toward the edge of the rooftop without hesitation.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice continues through the comm, calmer now, “Miss (Name)’s condition is no longer critical. There is no need for alarm.”
Under normal circumstances, Bruce would listen. Under normal circumstances, he would assess first. Think logically. Move methodically instead of emotionally. Instead, he launches himself cleanly off the rooftop. The wind tears violently against his cape as the glider catches. Something tight and restless coils beneath his ribs anyway.
Because what did Alfred mean you collapsed out of nowhere? You weren’t sick. At least—not physically. Were you?
Clark flies alongside him easily a second later, matching his speed with visible concern now replacing whatever amusement had lingered there earlier.
“Bruce,” he says again, quieter this time, “calm down. I’m sure she’s okay.”
Right. Alfred said you were stable. Consciousness lost, but stable.
Logically, Bruce understood that. But for some reason, none of those explanations loosened the pressure tightening around his ribs. Not when everything around him was reminding him of you. Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He needed to see you himself. That was reasonable.
It had to be.
The manor comes into view only moments later.
Bruce lands hard against the second floor balcony just outside the east hallway, already moving before the glider fully retracts behind him. Clark touches down seconds afterward, cape fluttering lightly as he follows close behind. Bruce strides quickly through the corridor leading toward the Batcave. Then abruptly stops. Clark nearly walks into him.
“Stay here.”
“Bruce—”
“I mean it.”
The tone leaves little room for argument. Clark’s brows furrow slightly, clearly preparing to refute him anyway—only for your voice to suddenly echo faintly from deeper within the cave.
“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in a long time.”
Bruce stills instantly. The words hit harder than they should.
More fine than you’ve been in a long time? Even after fainting? Even after collapsing badly enough that Alfred contacted him directly during patrol? How could this possibly be the best you’d felt in a long time? Unless—
Bruce’s expression darkens almost imperceptibly. Unless whatever you were feeling before had somehow been worse. His thoughts spiral unpleasantly from there.
Had he really pushed you that far? Had becoming Batgirl—working beside him, following him, trying endlessly to reach him—hurt you so much that quitting somehow felt relieving regardless of whatever replaced it? Was distancing yourself from him genuinely easier than staying?
Bruce clenches his fists tightly at his sides before he even realises he’s doing it. Beside him, Clark notices the shift immediately. And, for once, Clark says nothing. He simply steps aside silently, allowing Bruce to stand alone near the cave entrance just as footsteps begin approaching from inside.
Then you appear. Bruce sees you stop the moment you notice him standing there. And immediately—his eyes zero in on your face.
You look exhausted. Not physically exhausted alone. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion Bruce had spent years learning how to recognise in mirrors.
And then he notices your eyes. Red around the edges. Teary. No—not actively crying anymore. Your tears had long since dried. But the evidence remained there anyway. Something twists sharply in Bruce’s chest.
Because when was the last time he’d seen you cry? You used to hide it too well for that. And instead of saying anything—you try to move past him quietly.
Like avoiding him had already become instinct. Like slipping around him without confrontation was easier now than speaking.
Bruce hates how wrong that feels. How unnatural.
Once upon a time, you would’ve stopped immediately. Talked over him. Argued with him. Demanded answers from him even while upset. Now, you barely even look at him.
“Are you alright?”
The question leaves Bruce before he fully thinks it through. And even as he asks it, he already knows the answer is no. Of course you weren’t alright.
People who were alright did not faint in the middle of Gotham streets without explanation. People who were alright did not look at him like this. You pause slightly beside him.
“…Yeah, peachy.”
Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists almost instantly. Because the sarcasm isn’t what unsettles him. It’s the disconnect. The distance in your voice. Like you’d already decided telling him the truth wasn’t worth the effort anymore.
Or worse, maybe that was the truth. Maybe you genuinely believed this counted as fine now. Maybe things had gotten bad enough that collapsing and emotionally shutting down still somehow felt preferable compared to whatever you felt while standing beside him as Batgirl.
The thought lands like a bruise against his ribs. Because that meant you were slowly becoming exactly like him. The very thing Bruce had spent years trying to prevent.
Learning how to bury pain beneath functionality. Convincing yourself that if you could still move, still speak, still operate—then you were fine. Teaching yourself to endure first and feel later. Or never.
Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He had wanted to protect you from becoming someone shaped by Gotham the same way he was. Someone who mistook isolation for strength. Someone who thought suffering quietly was easier than burdening others with it.
And yet standing here now, watching you walk past him with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow sort of calmness—Bruce can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, you learned it from him anyway. He opens his mouth again, something—anything—already forming at the edge of his throat.
But by then, you’ve already stepped past him completely. Walking out of the cave without another word. And Bruce just stands there watching you leave, the faint redness around your eyes burned permanently into his mind long after you disappear from sight.
“Hellooo? Earth to (Name)?”
The sound of fingers snapping twice in front of your face finally jolts you out of whatever spiral you’d sunk into.
“Cait, I think we lost her.” Adrien leans back slightly afterward, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion.
“Oh—never mind,” Adrien says a second later as your eyes finally refocus on them properly. “We got her back.”
You blink once. Right. School.
The crowded hallway slowly settles back into focus around you—the noise of lockers slamming shut, students laughing too loudly somewhere nearby, footsteps echoing against tiled floors as everyone poured out for dismissal.
How long had you been letting your feet just drag you along the crowd whilst zoning out?
“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, rubbing at your temple lightly.
“Girl, are you okay?” Caitlyn asks immediately, concern evident in her tone. “You’ve been spacing out practically the entire day.
Right. You had.
Honestly, you could barely remember half your lessons. Not when your brain kept replaying yesterday over and over again in humiliating detail. Passing out in public. Tim practically catching you before you hit the pavement. Waking up in the Batcave with everyone staring at you like you were one bad cough away from dying dramatically in front of them. And your father.
God.
You exhale the biggest sigh of your life without meaning to. Both Caitlyn and Adrien pause mid-step at that. The two exchange a quick look before slowly turning back toward you with matching concern.
“…That bad, huh?” Caitlyn says carefully.
You drag a hand down your face tiredly. Yesterday genuinely felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. Meanwhile today had passed unnaturally fast, every lesson blurring together into meaningless noise while your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard you tried to focus.
“Yeah, bro,” Adrien continues, sounding both impressed and offended on behalf of the education system. “Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely upset he didn’t get a reason to single you out.” He gestures dramatically. “How were you mentally absent but still knew the answer to that ridiculous question he asked?”
You only offer a weak, sheepish shrug in response. Honestly, you barely remembered the question itself.
Caitlyn narrows her eyes at you suspiciously before suddenly leaning closer. “Also,” she whispers loudly into your ear despite there being absolutely no reason to whisper, “what the heck happened between you and Chloe?”
You blink at her. “…What?”
“She’s been glaring at you literally all day.”
Your brows lift slightly. “She has?”
Caitlyn throws both hands into the air dramatically. “Uh, yeah?? Oh my gosh. Sweetheart, you really were gone mentally today.”
That…honestly tracked. You hadn’t noticed much of anything outside your own thoughts since this morning.
Adrien suddenly gasps beside the two of you like he’s just uncovered some horrifying conspiracy.
“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at you, “did you secretly insult her outfit or something and now she’s plotting revenge with that terrifying death stare?”
You stare at him flatly. “…Adrien.”
“What? It’s Chloe.”
“…No,” you sigh tiredly. “It’s a long story.” A very long story.
“Oh?” Caitlyn immediately perks up at that, curiosity overtaking concern in record time as she hooks her arm through yours. “Now I’m curious. You better spill later.”
The three of you make your way out of the school compound together, sunlight spilling across the pavement in warm streaks while students flooded past in noisy groups around you.
Caitlyn is still hooked onto your arm, Adrien walking backwards in front of the both of you as he continues some dramatic retelling of whatever happened during PE earlier. Your phone suddenly buzzes against your pocket. The vibration startles you out of your thoughts almost immediately.
You pull it out absentmindedly, only to frown slightly at the unknown number flashing across the screen.
Probably spam.
Without much thought, you let it ring out.
“Who was that?” Caitlyn asks curiously, and you shrug loosely. “Dunno. Probably spam.”
Except your phone buzzes again almost immediately. Same number. Your brows furrow this time. Seriously?
You decline the call preemptively, thumb already moving to shove your phone back into your pocket—only for a message notification to pop up across the screen.
xxxx-xxxx: declining my calls, (Name)?
A second message appears almost immediately after.
xxxx-xxxx: and here i thought you wouldn’t ignore your loyal partner
Ah. Conner. Your expression deadpans almost instantly. Of course it’s him. And somehow, right as you finish reading the messages, your phone screen shifts back into an incoming call again.
You stare at it for half a second longer before finally sighing and picking up.
“Thought you were ghosting me for a sec there, (Name).”
Static crackles faintly through the speaker alongside distant shouting and what sounds suspiciously like metal crashing through concrete. You blink slowly.
“…I don’t recall giving you my number.”
You hear Kon laugh under his breath. Then a loud bang echoes somewhere on his end, followed by what definitely sounds like someone getting punched through a wall.
“Well,” Kon says casually over the chaos, sounding entirely unbothered, “safe to say even I pick up some stalker-level skills hanging around Rob.”
You immediately unhook your arm gently from Caitlyn’s, shooting her an apologetic look that silently asks for a second as you slow your pace. Caitlyn narrows her eyes suspiciously but lets you drift away slightly. Once you’re far enough, you lower your voice.
“…Are you in the middle of a fight right now?”
Another crashing sound answers you before Kon even does. Somebody yells something incoherent in the background. You close your eyes briefly.
Right. There was your answer.
“Eh—Cassie’s handling most of it,” Kon says easily. “Trust her to hard-carry, y’know? Also, I can literally feel you rolling your eyes at me through the phone, by the way.”
Caught. You pinch the bridge of your nose tiredly. “So what was so important that you had to call me in the middle of your fight?”
“Well,” Kon starts casually, followed immediately by another loud impact noise, “just letting you know I probably can’t make it to Gotham today.” Your brows lift slightly.
“Cyborg wants the whole team doing some… tactical coordination thing,” he continues. “Or whatever you call it.”
“Training.”
“Yeah. That.”
More fighting noises. You swear you hear someone getting launched. “So that means,” Kon continues, completely unfazed, “I can’t go apologise to that employee like you wanted me to today.”
Oh. Your eyes narrow slightly. “…Is this you trying to delay the apology?”
“Oh, come on,” Conner groans dramatically. “What do you take me for?” A pause. “…Actually, don’t answer that.” Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly.
“I would’ve tried sneaking out,” he continues, “but this would be like—the third time this week.” Another crash. “Starfire’s probably gonna blast me into orbit if I skip this one too.”
“…Right.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well,” you mutter dryly, “maybe I’m not.”
Kon laughs again.
Then abruptly grunts like he just punched someone. More crashing follows immediately afterward. Honestly, at this point you’re mildly concerned he’s fighting while holding the phone between his shoulder and ear.
“Also,” he says suddenly, voice turning oddly casual again, “Superman kinda caught me last night.”
You blink. “…What?”
“And he might’ve seen the photos we took.”
Your entire body stills. What.
Kon continues before you can even process that properly. “So it’s probably only a matter of time before your broody batfather tells you to stay away from me or something.” Another pause. “I dunno—woah—!”
A loud crashing noise erupts through the speaker. Someone’s shouting. Something heavy gets thrown. Then Kon’s voice comes back slightly farther from the phone.
“Okay, yeah, I really gotta go now,” he says quickly. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow.”
“Wait, Kon—”
The line cuts abruptly. You stare at your phone screen in complete disbelief. Slowly lowering it away from your ear.
“…What,” you mutter weakly to yourself. Because what the hell was that conversation?? Kon casually calling you mid-superhero fight. Kon somehow getting your number. Kon telling you Superman saw your photos together. And now apparently there was a nonzero chance your father was going to corner you about this later.
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.
You let out a long sigh before quickly jogging to catch up with Caitlyn and Adrien, who had continued walking ahead without you. The moment you reach them, Adrien immediately gives you a look. Not suspicious exactly. More… smug.
“You’re not being slick, (Name),” he says teasingly.
Your brows raise instinctively. “Huh?”
Caitlyn is sharing the same look as him. “You were talking to that Conner guy, weren’t you??”
You freeze slightly mid-step. Oh god.
Your silence alone apparently tells them enough. Caitlyn immediately grabs onto your arm again, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Is this the brother’s best friend trope playing out in real life?” she squeals. “Oh my gosh, sign me up immediately.”
You nearly choke. “What—no—”
“This,” Adrien cuts in solemnly, crossing his arms like some ancient scholar delivering prophecy. “will surely be a romantic story like none that has come before.”
You stare at him flatly. “Don’t quote Cyrene at me now...”
Adrien immediately breaks into laughter while Caitlyn nudges your shoulder. “So when exactly are you going to spill the deets.”
You groan quietly, dragging a hand down your face.
“Later,” you say firmly. “When we get to the orphanage.” Delaying the inevitable was genuinely the only survival tactic you had left right now.
Adrien gasps dramatically beside you. “Keeping us in suspense?” he says, placing a hand over his chest in betrayal. “How could you, (Name)? I thought we were friends.” He even pretends to wipe away tears that very obviously do not exist.
Seriously. How the hell did you end up befriending such dramatic people?
“Also,” Caitlyn suddenly says, crossing her arms as she walks beside you, “which one of your family’s gonna show up this time?”
“…Huh? What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Caitlyn starts counting on her fingers. “First it was your younger brother Damian, ” she says. “Then Tim showed up with his weirdly attractive friends.”
Adrien nods immediately. “Seriously, they looked suspiciously familiar.”
Your eye twitches slightly. Right. Note to self: Never let Adrien meet the them again or he was absolutely going to connect the dots eventually.
Caitlyn grins at you again afterward. “So who’s next?” she asks eagerly. “Please tell me it’s gonna be that ridiculously hot older brother of yours. Richard Grayson?”
Absolutely the fuck not.
“Nope,” you answer immediately. “And I pray he never decides to show up.”
Because the last thing you needed right now was Dick suddenly deciding he wanted to keep you close again. Not when you’d spent years carefully shoving all those complicated feelings somewhere deep enough that you didn’t have to think about them constantly. Not when one more conversation with him would probably crack open emotions you had spent an embarrassingly long time trying to bury.
Yeah. No thanks.
“Woah,” Adrien says slowly, raising both hands in surrender after seeing the look on your face. “That was… intense.”
You only sigh quietly in response. Then pause slightly. Your footsteps slow just a little. “…Wait,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you guys something?”
Caitlyn immediately narrows her eyes. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”
You ignore her.
“Do I…” You hesitate briefly before awkwardly gesturing toward yourself. “…come off as intimidating or something?” For some reason, you were immediately reminded of Kon’s words from yesterday.
“Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be.”
Surely that wasn’t true, right?
Both Caitlyn and Adrien suddenly slow down. And immediately exchange a look. A very suspicious look. Caitlyn squints accusingly at Adrien like he’d apparently revealed classified information somewhere behind your back. Adrien looks equally defensive.
You frown slightly. “Guys.”
Caitlyn sighs dramatically.
“Well,” she starts carefully, “no offense, (Name), but you do kinda give off those vibes.”
Your brows lift slightly. “…I do?”
“I mean,” Caitlyn gestures vaguely toward you, “especially to people who don’t really know you.”
Oh. What. You stare at her in mild disbelief while she rushes to continue.
“But obviously we know better,” she says quickly. “Because you’re actually just this sweet, nice girl who just sucks at expressing emotions properly because you’re emotionally constipated and chronically protective of your personal space.”
“…That sounded more insulting than complimentary.”
Adrien chuckles loudly beside her. “Okay but,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “your fan club definitely disagrees—”
“Adrien!” Caitlyn immediately yelps. Adrien slaps a hand over his own mouth too late. You stop walking entirely.
“…My what.”
Adrien is suddenly avoiding eye contact while Caitlyn looks very, very invested in the clouds overhead. Your eyes narrow slowly.
“What,” you repeat carefully, “do you mean by fan club?”
You watch Caitlyn visibly brace herself before sighing dramatically. Then she places both hands on your shoulders with far too much seriousness. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”
You immediately frown. “Now I’m even more scared.”
Adrien hides a laugh beneath a cough. Caitlyn shoots him a look before turning back toward you again.
“Okay,” she starts carefully, “so you remember that period a few years ago when your dad got accused of murder and Gotham’s media basically went insane?”
Your stomach twists slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, yes. You did remember.
The cameras shoved in your face every other morning. The articles. The way reporters acted like you were somehow acceptable collateral damage for headlines. You remembered learning how to lower your head while walking through crowds because eye contact only encouraged more questions. How every action suddenly became something people online dissected.
And it didn’t help that during that period of time—Alfred had been staying with Tim at his boarding school. Because him and your father had some sort of fight that you don’t really remember the details of now.
“…Yeah,” you answer slowly.
Caitlyn winces slightly. “Well… yeah, so basically while people online were slandering you too, a bunch of people you’d helped before started defending you.”
“What?”
Adrien perks up immediately beside you again. “Yeah, it was honestly kinda revolutionary,” he says. “Like—you had random Gotham citizens beefing with tabloids online on your behalf.”
You stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
Caitlyn laughs nervously. “Okay, see, this is exactly why we never told you.”
Your brows furrow. “And why exactly not?”
“Because back then you were already like—super uncomfortable with all the attention,” Caitlyn says more gently this time. “Like… really uncomfortable.”
Your expression stills slightly. Right. You had been. You hated that period of time. You hated people looking at you like they already knew things about you. Hated hearing strangers discuss your family like entertainment. Hated the way sympathy and judgment always seemed tangled together whenever people spoke to you afterward.
Most of all, you hated how that period of time reminded of you what happened after Jason’s death as well.
Adrien rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You kinda started avoiding social media entirely after that too,” he points out carefully. “And every time someone brought up articles or online discourse around you, you looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”
…Okay. That was unfortunately true.
Caitlyn nods quickly. “So we figured telling you ‘hey by the way there’s an entire group of Gotham citizens aggressively defending your honor online’ probably wouldn’t help your anxiety.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face now. Your soul was actively trying to leave your body. Caitlyn, meanwhile, looks way too entertained now that the truth was out.
“To be fair,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “it was actually kinda wholesome.”
“Wholesome?” you repeat weakly.
“Yeah!” Adrien says. “Most of them are people you helped personally. Kids from school. Parents from charity events. People from community centers. There was this one old lady who went viral online because she threatened to sue an entire gossip forum after they called you spoiled and ignorant.”
You stop walking entirely.
“…Who did what now?”
“She was iconic,” Caitlyn says solemnly, with Adrien nodding in agreement.
You genuinely don’t know how to process any of this. Because while you remembered the ugliness from that period vividly—you never really considered there might’ve been people defending you in the background too. People who remembered your kindness more than the headlines. People who cared enough to speak up for you even when you never asked them to.
And somehow…that realisation settles strangely in your chest. Warm. A little painful. Because how you genuinely not know about all this? Even if you had practically avoided social media at the time—even if Adrien and Caitlyn intentionally hid it from you because they knew how badly that whole situation affected you—it was really.. strange.
Too strange. Surely you should’ve come across it at least once afterward. A post. A mention. Something. Your brows furrow faintly at the thought.
But before you can sink any deeper into it, the three of you finally arrive outside the orphanage. The moment the gates come into view, a few of the younger kids immediately spot you guys and come barreling forward excitedly.
“Big sis Caitlyn!”
“Adrien!!”
Chaos instantly erupts.
Adrien dramatically stumbles backward after one of the kids launched directly into him while Caitlyn immediately crouches down to scoop another into her arms with a laugh. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your face at the sight. Warmth spreads quietly through your chest as you greet the children properly, offering soft greetings and ruffling hair affectionately as they crowd around you. You wave toward some of the caretakers nearby too, including Miss Jenkins, who smiles warmly the moment she sees you.
“That’s weird.”
Adrien’s voice suddenly cuts through the moment.
You glance toward him. “What’s weird?”
Adrien frowns slightly as he looks around the yard. “I thought Elliot would’ve already crashed into you by now.”
Your expression stills faintly. Oh. Wait. He’s right.
Ever since you started coming regularly to the orphanage, Elliot had always been one of the first kids to run toward you. Usually the first. Half the time the kid practically launched himself at you before you even fully stepped through the gates.
That was just… Elliot.
So the fact that he wasn’t here…
Your chest tightens slightly. No. Surely not. Surely—
“Eli says he doesn’t wanna see you anymore.”
You blink. A little girl—Emma, you recall—points directly at you while saying it with complete sincerity. “He says he’s mad at big sister (Name) because you didn’t come see him yesterday.”
Oh. Oh. You glance toward Miss Jenkins almost helplessly, only for her to offer you an apologetic smile.
“Ah, it’s really nothing serious,” she assures gently. “I’m sure he’ll calm down the moment he sees you.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel less guilty. You sigh softly under your breath before nodding. Miss Jenkins gestures for you to follow her. The further you walk toward the back of the orphanage yard, the quieter things become.
Eventually, Miss Jenkins stops near one of the large trees near the fence. You blink once. Then immediately spot a small figure very obviously hiding behind it.
Well. Attempting to hide behind it. You can literally see part of Elliot’s shoe sticking out from behind the trunk. Miss Jenkins coughs lightly into her hand, very clearly trying not to laugh.
“…I’ll leave you two be,” she whispers sympathetically.
And with that, she quietly walks back toward the rest of the children gathered near the yard. You let out a small sigh before slowly making your way toward the tree instead.
“Elliot, hey—”
The moment your voice reaches him, the boy jolts. Then immediately bolts. “Wait—”
Before you can even properly process what’s happening, Elliot dashes past you entirely—straight through the orphanage gates and out onto the sidewalk.
Your eyes widen. “Elliot!” You immediately sprint after him.
Damnit.
You rush past Adrien and Caitlyn so quickly you barely catch their startled expressions before they’re calling after you worriedly.
For a kid, Elliot ran ridiculously fast. Especially for someone with such tiny legs.
You weave through pedestrians quickly, your gaze darting frantically through the crowd as panic slowly starts tightening in your chest.
Brown curls. You just needed to spot his brown curls. Your eyes flick rapidly across the busy street, scanning every small figure you pass.
Your pulse starts climbing higher.
“Elliot!” you call again breathlessly, turning another corner. You catch sight of him briefly slipping between people farther ahead. Relief hits you so fast it almost hurts.
“Elliot!”
The boy glances back at the sound of your voice. And immediately runs faster. You almost groan out loud.
Seriously? Of course he runs faster. You watch as he veers sharply into a narrow alleyway, small feet disappearing between the buildings. You follow without hesitation, turning into the alley right after him.
You immediately skid to a stop. Because he’s no longer running. Elliot is on the ground, sitting back on his hands with a small, startled “oof,” eyes wide as he looks up.
And standing in front of him is a group of men. Three of them.
The smell hits you first. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. Something chemical underneath it—sharp and sour enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. Your body moves before your thoughts fully catch up.
“Elliot.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you hurry forward, shoes scraping harshly against the pavement. You crouch beside him at once, hands instinctively checking him over first before gently helping him back onto his feet.
“You okay?” you ask quickly, brushing dirt from the sleeves of his hoodie without even thinking about it. Elliot nods automatically, but his eyes are wide. Too wide.
And when you straighten slightly, pulling him behind you on instinct, you feel it. The faint trembling in his hand. Something ugly twists low in your chest immediately.
One of the men scoffs loudly. “The hell, kid?” he mutters irritably, smoke curling from the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “You knocked our stuff over.”
Another snorts. “Brat came sprinting in like someone was chasing him.”
Your jaw tightens, as you glance briefly toward the scattered contents near their feet. Small packets. Burn marks. A pipe and a baseball bat. Right. Great.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, already trying to guide Elliot away. “He didn’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll leave.”
Your voice stays calm. You just need to get Elliot out of here. That’s it.
You can feel the boy pressing slightly closer behind you now, almost trying to hide himself against your back. The realisation makes your chest ache unexpectedly. “It’s okay,” you murmur quietly to him, softening your tone immediately.
You start moving again. But before you can get more than a few steps away, the three men shift. Blocking your path.
“Listen here, missy,” one of them drawls, scratching at his jaw. “That little guy ruined our smoke. You think you can just walk away like that?”
“He’s just a kid,” you reply tightly. Your fingers curl slightly around Elliot’s sleeve. “And besides,” your eyes flick briefly over them before you can stop yourself, “you guys look like you could do without those anyway.”
Oh, great job provoking them. Stupid.
One of the men lets out a laugh completely devoid of humor.
“You trynna mouth off, missy?”
They’re crowding closer now. Too close. Your instincts kick in automatically as you pull Elliot fully behind you, backing up until your shoulders nearly brush against the alley wall. Elliot’s grip on your sleeve tightens harder.
One of the men whistles lowly.
“Damn, Rick,” he snickers toward the others, “looks like this princess doesn’t know when to shut up.”
Your pulse spikes immediately when movement catches from deeper inside the alley. Two more figures emerge from the shadows.
Shit. You hadn’t even noticed them before. “What the hell do you want?” you ask sharply, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Oh, nothing much,” one of them grins, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering alley light. “Little compensation’ll do.”
His eyes drift downward toward Elliot. The boy instinctively presses closer into your side, hiding his face against your hip.
“And this little guy—”
The man reaches out toward him. Your body moves before your thoughts do. You slap his hand away hard.
“Don’t touch him.”
The air changes instantly. The friendliness—if it could even be called that—evaporates immediately. The man’s expression darkens.
“The hell’s your problem?” He grabs for you instead. “You trynna start somethin’?”
“…Wait.” Another voice cuts through the alley.
One of the men further back lowers the crowbar resting against his shoulder slightly as he squints harder at your face. Recognition flashes across his expression. Then he barks out a harsh laugh.
“No shit,” he says. “Ain’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?”
Your stomach drops. Immediately, you tighten your grip around Elliot’s hand and instinctively shield him further behind you. Wrong. This is going wrong. You need to leave. Now.
A rough hand suddenly clamps around your wrist. Hard. You hiss softly at the pressure, immediately trying to wrench yourself free. “Lemme go,” you snap voice finally cracking with genuine anger.
The man’s grip only tightens.
“What’s the rush, princess?” he sneers, leaning closer. You can smell alcohol on his breath now. “Maybe your daddy can pay us a little for wasting our time, huh?”
“I said let go.” You twist your wrist sharply, but the movement only seems to irritate him further. His expression hardens instantly before he suddenly shoves you backward.
Your shoulders slam painfully against the brick wall behind you. “(Name)!” Elliot’s yelp cuts through the alley the moment he hears your sharp wince.
“Damn,” one of them whistles, looking you up and down openly now. “Wayne’s kid’s prettier up close.”
“You know how much cash we could get outta this?”
“Shit, enough to never work again,” one of them says crudely. “Rich people’ll pay anything to keep their image clean.”
“Nah,” another cuts in with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “Forget the money for a second. You think little miss princess here’s ever even been touched before?”
More laughter. Elliot presses tighter against you immediately. Your stomach churns violently. One of them leans closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin feel dirty.
“Bet daddy Wayne’d lose his damn mind if he saw his precious daughter right now.”
“Could probably get millions outta him easy.”
“Maybe we should keep her around awhile first,” another says with a disgusting smirk. “Teach her some manners.”
Your jaw tightens so hard it almost hurts. Beside you, Elliot’s breathing starts turning shaky. That does it more than the hands on you ever could.
“If you don’t let me go right now,” you warn, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, “I will scream.”
The man holding you against the wall scoffs directly in your face. “Go ahead.”
You inhale sharply, and screamed as loud as you could—only for the man to retaliate instantly. The slap cracks through the alley loud enough to echo off the walls. Your head jerks violently to the side. Your cheek is burning now, stinging. You taste iron almost immediately. Probably a small split somewhere near your lip.
Silence settles over the alley for exactly half a second. Then you slowly look back at the man. And scoff. The sound comes out almost disbelieving.
“…Right,” you mutter quietly, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand before glancing briefly at the smear of red left there. “I was trying to do this the easy way, but okay.”
The man barely gets a chance to react before you move. You seize his wrist suddenly, twisting it sharply enough for a sickening yelp to rip from his throat as his entire body folds awkwardly with the motion.
Then you drive your foot straight into his face. The crack of impact rings through the alley. He stumbles backward with a choked noise, blood immediately pouring from his nose as he crashes onto the pavement a few feet away from you guys.
The other men instantly freeze. Like none of them had actually expected you to fight back. You step in front of Elliot fully now, shoulders squaring slightly as years of instinct settle seamlessly into place beneath your skin.
“You hit me first,” you say evenly, despite the blood still lingering against your lip. “This is just self-defense.”
And before any of the guys could do anything, you lunge at the second guy nearest to you. Fast enough that he barely has time to widen his eyes.
”You—you bi—“ Before the third guy can finish his sentence—or swing the crowbar he’s raising toward you—you move. You sidestep easily, the metal barely missing your shoulder before your hand snaps out to grab his arm. Then your elbow slams directly into his ribs hard enough to force the breath from his lungs.
Once. Twice. And before he can recover, you sweep your leg cleanly beneath him. He crashes onto the pavement with a wheeze.
The fourth guy immediately tries taking advantage of your “distraction,” swinging his baseball bat toward you with a curse. But you duck beneath it automatically.
God, this almost feels insulting. Years of fighting assassins, gang members, trained killers—and these idiots thought they could overpower you because they were bigger.
Your fist connects sharply against his jaw. Then again. And again. Each hit lands cleaner than the last until the man stumbles backward directly into the alley wall with a groan, clutching his face as the bat slips uselessly from his hands. By the time the first man struggles back onto his feet nearby, clutching his twisted wrist, all of them look significantly less confident now.
“You crazy bitch—” one of them spits weakly, saliva mixed with blood hitting the pavement beside him. “You—you won’t get away with this. I’ll—”
You immediately grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward hard enough for a cry of pain to rip from his throat.
“You’ll what? Sue me? Get your revenge?” you ask mockingly.
You lean down slightly toward him, your grip tightening just enough to make him wince harder.
“Go ahead and try.”
Your voice comes out almost frighteningly calm now. “Let’s just hope you can actually afford a lawyer against Wayne Enterprises.”
You hated pulling out that card. But it always worked. And if it got these creeps away from Elliot faster—fine.
The man visibly pales.
Good choice.
You release him abruptly.
He nearly stumbles over himself trying to get away from you, clutching at his scalp with shaking hands. The others don’t hesitate either. All that bravado from earlier evaporates almost instantly as they scramble after him, muttering curses and threats under their breath while retreating out of the alley as fast as their bruised bodies allow.
Cowards.
The second they disappear from view, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins suddenly crashes hard against your ribs. You immediately grab Elliot’s hand again.
“C’mon,” you murmur quickly, your voice softer now. “Let’s get out of here.” Your pulse still hasn’t fully settled. Adrenaline continues buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin as you guide him out of the alleyway as fast as possible, eyes instinctively scanning every corner around you even after the danger’s already gone.
Old habits.
The second you both step back onto the main street, the world feels almost painfully normal again. You guide Elliot toward the quieter side of the sidewalk before finally crouching down in front of him.
“Elliot,” you say immediately, hands gently checking over his arms and shoulders in a near panic now. “Are you alright?”
The boy doesn’t answer. His head stays lowered.
“Elliot?” your voice softens further.
Then suddenly.. he bursts into tears. Not the quiet sniffles. Not the watery eyes. Actual sobs. Small, broken cries that seem ripped straight out of his chest as his tiny hands suddenly clutch tightly at the front of your shirt. And your heart drops so fast it physically hurts.
Oh god. Did he get hurt? Did they hurt him while you were distracted?
Your breathing catches sharply. Because you were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to keep him safe. And instead he ended up terrified. You’re the reason he’s crying. You let this happen. You made him run off. You let those men corner him. You let them scare him.
The guilt crashes into you so violently it almost feels suffocating. Your throat tightens painfully.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you say quickly, except your own voice sounds shaky now too. Without even thinking about it, you immediately pull him into your arms. One hand cradles the back of his head automatically while the other wraps tightly around his small frame, holding him close against your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself whisper immediately.
Then again. “I’m sorry.”
Again.
“I’m sorry.”
The words just keep leaving you before you can stop them. Over and over. Like apologising enough might somehow undo what just happened. Elliot cries harder into your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the back of your jacket as he hugs you back with surprising strength for someone so small.
“I thought—” he hiccups through tears, voice breaking badly, “I thought they were gonna… hurt you—”
Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels unbearable.
“No,” you say immediately, tightening your arms around him instinctively. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
But your cheek still stings. Your lip still tastes like blood. And somehow, what hurts most isn’t even that. It’s the realisation that Elliot saw it happen. Saw you get shoved around. Saw someone hit you. Saw you bleed. And he was crying—because he saw you get hurt. Not because he got hurt.
You close your eyes briefly.
God.
You hated this. You hated how quickly violence could become normal. How easily your body slipped back into fighting without hesitation. How part of you barely even reacted to being hit anymore because worse had happened before.
But Elliot reacted. Because to him, you weren’t someone trained for this.
You were just… you.
And somehow, despite everything, despite the tears still shaking his small body—he was more upset about you getting hurt than what almost happened to him.
That realisation alone nearly breaks something inside your chest. So you just hold him tighter. One hand gently smoothing through his curls while you keep whispering quiet apologies into his hair like a prayer.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”
The two of you sitting on the very same bench where you had first treated the scrape on Elliot’s shin weeks ago. The memory hits you almost immediately the moment you sit down. Now, a crumpled convenience store bag rested beside you, filled with hastily bought popsicles, ice packs, and a small towel the cashier had looked mildly concerned handing over.
Elliot sat beside you quietly, still sniffling every now and then as he sulkily nibbled at the popsicle you bought him. His eyes were puffy from crying so hard earlier, the skin beneath them swollen and pink. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… heavy.
You carefully unwrap one of the ice packs before wrapping the towel around it so it wouldn’t be too cold against his skin. “Here,” you murmur gently, holding it out toward him. “Use this for your eyes. Unless you plan on going back to the orphanage looking like… this.”
Elliot huffs quietly through his nose, clearly still upset, but he takes the ice pack from you anyway. He presses it against his eyes with a dramatic little pout that almost makes you smile.
You glance at him for a moment before asking softly, “Better?”
After a second, he gives a small nod. Silence settles again. Cars pass by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, people laugh faintly as they walk down the street, entirely unaware of how emotionally exhausting the last thirty minutes had been. You exhale quietly before speaking first.
“So…” you start carefully, resting your elbows against your knees slightly, “do you mind telling me why you didn’t want to see me earlier?”
Elliot’s pout deepens instantly. You wait anyway. Patiently. Eventually, he finally mutters, barely above a grumble, “Because… because you broke your promise.”
“Huh?” You point lightly at yourself, genuinely confused, and Elliot immediately nods vigorously.
“You said you’d come by every day…!” he blurts out accusingly. “But you didn’t yesterday and—and—” His voice trails off frustratedly. Your expression softens almost immediately as realisation settles over you.
“Elliot…” you say gently, “I said I would always come back for you.”
“Yeah..!” he shoots back immediately, looking at you like that somehow proved his point entirely. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Honestly… you couldn’t even blame him for thinking that. You sigh quietly through your nose before reaching over to ruffle his curls softly. “Okay,” you concede weakly. “Fine. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”
Elliot immediately huffs and turns his head away from you. “You don’t sound sorry.” That actually earns a small laugh out of you despite everything.
“Well… maybe because I didn’t really break my promise.”
The boy immediately looks back at you, visibly offended and confused at the same time. “What???”
You can practically see him trying to piece together a rebuttal in real time, brows furrowing so hard it almost makes you laugh again. “Okay, okay,” you say quickly before he can start protesting again. “How about this instead? I might not be able to come by every single day.” You pause briefly before adding more softly, “But I’ll try to, okay?”
The moment the words leave your mouth, Elliot’s expression crumples slightly again. “That’s what everyone says,” he mutters quietly.
Your smile falters slightly. Elliot stares down at the melting popsicle in his hands now, voice growing smaller with every word. “They always say they’ll try… and then eventually they stop coming at all.” Your chest tightens painfully.
“I thought…” His lip wobbles slightly as he curls inward a little. “I thought you were gonna be the same.”
Oh.
For a moment, you genuinely don’t know what to say. Because suddenly, so many things about Elliot begin clicking painfully into place all at once. Why he always waited for you near the entrance whenever you visited. Why he got attached so quickly. Why he looked genuinely relieved every single time you showed up again.
It wasn’t clinginess. It was fear. Fear that one day you would stop coming back too. Just like everyone else probably had.
“Who’s… everyone?” you ask gently, your voice softer this time. Careful. Like you were afraid pressing too hard might make him retreat back into himself again.
Elliot sniffles loudly, still clutching the half-melted popsicle in one hand. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his shoes dangling above the pavement, kicking them weakly against the bench leg.
“The kids that used to live here before,” he mumbles. “Before they got adopted. They always said they’d come back and visit,” Elliot continues, voice wobbling slightly. “They promised. But then…” He swallows hard. “They never do.”
Oh. Of course.
Elliot had spent almost his entire life in that orphanage. Long enough to watch people come and go over and over again. Long enough to learn what it felt like to get attached to someone, only for them to disappear afterward. Long enough that every goodbye probably started sounding permanent no matter what words came after it.
You glance down at him quietly. “And I don’t want that to happen to me,” he blurts out suddenly, the words rushing out of him now like he’d been holding them in for a long time. “Because I like Emma. And Jackson. And Ethan.” His small hands tighten around the popsicle stick. “I like everyone there. I don’t wanna leave the orphanage.”
Your expression softens almost painfully at that. Because you understood. God, you understood far more than he probably realised.
Elliot wasn’t scared of being unloved. He was scared of losing the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in his life.
The orphanage was not just a building to him. It was familiarity. A home, even if many people wouldn’t consider it as such. The people there were proof that even if others left, there would still be someone remaining afterward. And maybe, to Elliot, adoption didn’t look like being chosen.
Maybe it looked like abandonment in reverse. Like being taken away from everyone else instead.
Your throat tightens faintly.
How many times had he watched kids leave while promising they’d come back for him too? How many birthdays had passed afterward without seeing them again? How many times had he convinced himself not to care too much about the next person, only to end up attached anyway? You stare quietly at the little boy beside you, and for a moment, he suddenly feels far older than he should.
Children were never supposed to understand loss this intimately.
“…Elliot,” you say carefully. He refuses to look at you.
“I think…” You pause briefly, trying to find the right words. “I think people probably meant it when they made those promises.”
His brows furrow immediately, like he doesn’t understand why you’d defend them.
“But they still left,” he says stubbornly.
“Yes,” you admit softly. “They did.”
The honesty of the answer makes him finally glance at you. You look down at your hands resting in your lap for a moment before continuing.
“But sometimes…” Your voice quiets slightly. “Sometimes people leave because life keeps moving even when they don’t want it to. School. Families. Work. New places. New responsibilities.” You exhale slowly through your nose. “And sometimes people think too much time has passed to come back after they’ve already stayed away for so long.”
You knew that feeling too well. The longer distance existed, the harder it became to cross it again. Because eventually guilt settled in. And guilt had a way of making people hesitate until hesitation turned into silence. The kind that stretched for so long it started feeling impossible to break. And unless both people were brave enough to finally confront that silence—to reach across it despite everything—that distance remained exactly where it was. Uncrossed.
Elliot stares at you quietly now, listening carefully. “But that doesn’t always mean they forgot you,” you say. He looks unconvinced.
“…Then why didn’t they come back?”
And that question hurts far more than it should.
Because for a brief moment, your mind flashes elsewhere entirely. To Bruce. To Dick. To Jason.
To yourself.
To all the spaces between people that slowly widened until nobody knew how to close them anymore. You force yourself back into the moment before Elliot notices your expression shifting.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Elliot lowers his gaze again.
“But I do know,” you continue gently, “that being scared someone will leave doesn’t mean you should stop caring about people while they’re still here. About the people that choose to still be here.”
The boy goes very still beside you. You smile faintly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “And for the record,” you add, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”
That finally earns the tiniest reaction out of him. A weak sniffly laugh.
There he is. You feel something in your chest loosen slightly at the sound.
“…Even when I ran away just now?” he asks quietly.
You deadpan immediately. “Especially then. Do you know how fast you are? I almost lost a lung chasing you.”
Elliot giggles properly this time despite himself, quickly trying to hide it behind the popsicle. And somehow, hearing that small laugh after everything that happened in the alley makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.
Relief. Pure relief. Because he was okay. He was still here.
You push yourself up from the bench slowly before holding a hand out toward him. “So,” you say lightly, “should we head back now?” Elliot nods immediately. He hops down from the bench with a small plop before grabbing your hand with his non-sticky one.
“…Sorry for running away from you earlier, (Name),” he mumbles quietly.
Your expression softens almost instantly. “It’s okay,” you tell him as you start walking back toward the orphanage together. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”
He nods vigorously. Then, barely two seconds later, his entire mood brightens again. “But (Name)—you were so cool back there!” he blurts out excitedly. “Like, really cool! You beat those bad guys up like it was nothing! Like this, see!”
He lets go of your hand just to start dramatically reenacting the fight beside you, throwing tiny punches and exaggerated kicks into the air with special sound effects included. You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Oh really?” you tease. “Who exactly are you planning to use those moves on?”
“Uhh…” Elliot pauses mid-punch, seriously considering it before shrugging. “Bad guys! Like the ones from earlier!”
You laugh softly before ruffling his curls. “You’re literally, like, two apples tall. Maybe wait until you’re at least Damian’s height first.”
“That’ll be easy! I’m still growing!” He puffs his chest out proudly. “I can totally catch up to him.”
“Sure you can,” you say dryly, though your smile lingers anyway. The boy grins before grabbing your hand again, happily swinging it between you both as you continue walking toward the orphanage together.
By the time you return, the atmosphere outside has settled back into its usual warmth and chaos. You immediately spot Adrien in the middle of a group of boys, fully letting himself become their personal jungle gym while they climbed all over him as though he were playground equipment. Nearby, Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the steps with three little girls gathered around her while she carefully braided their hair, looking absurdly focused on making each braid symmetrical or something.
The sight alone makes something warm settle quietly in your chest.
“Oh thank goodness..!” You see Miss Jenkins hurrying over, before stopping short once her eyes land on your split lip.
“(Name)!” Concern flashes across her face instantly. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“(Name) fought off like…five bad guys who tried to hurt me!” Elliot beams proudly, practically vibrating beside you. “She was super cool!”
Miss Jenkins’ eyes widen in horror. “…What??!”
You immediately shake your head. “I’m fine,” you assure quickly. “Really. It looks worse than it is.”
Miss Jenkins gives you a very unconvinced look, gaze lingering on the faint bruising beginning to form near your cheek before she finally sighs.
“Well… if you’re certain.” Then she turns toward Elliot. “Now, Elliot,” she says gently, “Mrs. Cole wants to see you in her office.”
Elliot blinks. “Huh?” He glances between you and Miss Jenkins in confusion. “Why?”
Miss Jenkins smiles softly.
“It looks like someone’s here to adopt you.”
i be plotting guys… fucking 20k word chapter omfg. don’t be mad at me for the cliffhanger… 😅😵💫 (i genuinely kept rewriting so many parts bc i wasn’t satisfied with it someone save me pls)
“Seems like you’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
Tim lets the comment slip out with all the dry sarcasm he can manage, to make it clear this is less an observation, and more an accusation in disguise. His cape catches the wind as he moves across another rooftop with practiced precision. Gotham stretches endlessly beneath him, the city humming with that low, constant tension it never really sheds.
Beside him, floating several feet above the rooftop is Conner. Kon-El. Superboy.
The two of them move across Gotham’s rooftops like they’ve done this dance a hundred times before—or, more accurately, like Tim has and Kon simply decided to insert himself into it. Looking entirely too comfortable doing it.
“What?” Kon says, hands lifting slightly in mock innocence. “Can’t a guy sightsee nowadays?”
Tim finally glances at him, expression flat.
“Not when said guy is a Project Cadmus creation who absolutely can’t be left alone,” he deadpans.
Kon places a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense so theatrically Tim almost rolls his eyes on instinct.
“Ouch, Tim. And here I thought we were friends.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Didn’t think I needed permission just to exist in Gotham.”
“You always did.”
Kon pauses, actually considering that for a second. Then shrugs. “Fair enough. But it’s not like I can… rewire my DNA now, can I?”
Tim exhales through his nose, already regretting entertaining this. He adjusts his grapple line and keeps moving, eyes scanning the next stretch of rooftops with practiced precision. He then focuses on the scanner in his other hand, eyes sweeping over the layout of nearby blocks as he lands on the next rooftop.
“Can’t you wait one more hour ‘til I’m off patrol?” he asks, irritation threading through his voice despite his best efforts. “I’ll entertain your nonsense then.”
“Geez, Rob.” Kon places a hand over his heart again, somehow even more offended this time. “Who says I can’t be patient?”
Tim gives him a look.
“Have you ever been?”
Kon opens his mouth, pauses, then points at him.
“…Okay, you got me there.”
Tim almost smirks at that, but the feeling doesn’t quite stay.
“Listen,” he says instead, sharper than he means to, “I don’t have time for this right now. Flash suspects Riddler and Trickster are teaming up for something, and Batman wants these sectors scoped before tonight. So unless you’re planning to actually help, I don’t have time to deal with you.”
The words come out sharper than intended. Too sharp.
Tim knows it the second the words leave him. And that’s the problem. Because yes—normally, he’s serious on patrol. Patrol is patrol, and Gotham has never exactly been forgiving toward distraction. Patrol has always been one of the few things Tim knows how to treat with absolute focus.
That much is expected.
But the edge in his voice isn’t entirely about the current objective.
There’s weight behind it. Something tighter. Colder. A pressure he can’t quite shake.
And—annoyingly enough, he knows exactly where and when it started.
Yesterday.
At the orphanage.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the thought. Because somehow, within what felt like no time at all—you and Kon had gotten… close.
Not close, close. Tim isn’t stupid.
But close enough to bother him in a way he deeply resents.
Hours. That’s all it took.
A few hours of Tim being occupied elsewhere, letting his attention split for what felt like five seconds, and suddenly you and Kon were walking out of that building together like you’d been orbiting each other for years.
And worse—you looked lighter.
That’s the part that keeps replaying in his head no matter how much he tries to shove it aside.
That expression on your face.
Not dramatically happier. Not transformed into some entirely different person.
Just… lighter. Looser around the edges. Like something had momentarily unclenched inside you.
And Tim hates that he noticed.
Hates even more that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you look like that in the four years he’s known you.
Not with him.
Never with him.
Sure, Kon is friendly to a fault. Charismatic in a way that somehow never feels entirely accidental. Good with people. Good with women, especially.
Too good, honestly.
But you?
Tim wouldn’t have placed you anywhere near that category.
Not because you couldn’t get along with people—but because you don’t exactly let people in easily.
Especially not men like Kon.
Loud. Impulsive. Emotionally transparent to an almost offensive degree. The human equivalent of kicking a door open instead of knocking.
Granted… maybe that part is exactly why you got along.
There’s something to be said for emotional directness, even if Tim personally finds it exhausting.
Still. That’s not the point.
The point is that something happened in those few hours Tim wasn’t paying attention.
Something shifted. And he doesn’t know what. And no matter how much he tried to pry it out of Kon, the Super was relentlessly stubborn about whatever secret you two suddenly seemed to share.
That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But it does. Because was that really the problem here? Seeing you happier around Kon than you had ever been around him?
What did Kon say?
What did he do?
How had he managed to slip past defenses Tim had spent years bouncing off of?
And the thought that bothers him most—the one he refuses to sit with for too long—is the possibility that maybe it really was that simple.
Maybe Kon hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Maybe he’d just been himself. And maybe that had been enough.
Tim’s grip tightens slightly around the scanner.
Because if that’s true, then what does that say about him?
About all the years of careful steps and deliberate patience that somehow never got him there?
Was that the real problem?
Seeing you happier around Kon more than you’d ever been around him?
Seeing your guard melt for someone else when with Tim, it had always felt like navigating sharpened edges and carefully concealed knives?
The thought lands heavier than he wants it to.
And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.
Knives and distance. That’s what it had always been between you and him. And maybe that was inevitable.
Because Tim knew, from the very beginning, that you and him were never going to get the luxury of something normal.
Not after everything. Not when he had been the reason your entire life effectively imploded.
Not when he had been the one standing there while you learned the truth about your father. About Dick. About Jason. About everything that your family seemed to have hidden from you for years.
Not when, back then, he’d essentially been a stranger who somehow held the answers about your own life that you didn’t even know existed.
There was never a version of this where you met under better circumstances.
Never a clean slate. No uncomplicated beginning. Just fallout. And maybe that poisoned everything before it even had the chance to become anything else.
Tim’s thoughts are abruptly cut short when Kon floats directly into his line of sight, forcing him to stop short before walking face-first into a Kryptonian-shaped obstacle.
“Well,” he says, hovering there like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “if I help you out with your little patrol situation, wouldn’t that literally solve all your problems?”
Tim stares at him.
Of course.
Simple as always.
While Tim is busy dissecting every thought until it barely resembles itself anymore, Conner just… acts.
Sees a problem. Offers a solution—even if it’s reckless or half-formed.
No spiraling. No overthinking. Just straightforward certainty. Tim hates how irritatingly refreshing that is.
“Right..” he mutters, voice dry as he lifts his binoculars again, scanning the next stretch of rooftops like Kon isn’t hovering directly in his peripheral vision. “Of course. Save me from my crippling tendency to follow a set procedure, will you?”
Kon grins, entirely unfazed, and drifts a little closer—closer than necessary—just enough to be a nuisance.
“Hey, knock it out,” he says, tilting his head. “Some of us work better without a twenty-step plan and a three-page briefing.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose, lowering the binoculars just long enough to shoot him a look.
“Some of us like not causing unnecessary problems,” he shoots back, before turning his attention right back to the skyline. “Try it sometime.”
He forces himself to refocus. To think about literally anything else besides what happened yesterday.
Anything but the way your expression had looked—lighter, easier—standing next to someone who wasn’t him.
Anything but the way Kon winked at you yesterday and brought his finger to his lips, like whatever you’d confided in him was now some secret kept between the two of you and the two of you only.
Anything but the way you’d smiled back at the small, fleeting gesture so genuinely that, for a moment, it felt like it outweighed everything Tim had ever tried to do for you. Everything that he had done for you.
…Fuck.
There was no point dwelling on that.
Besides, it’s not like Kon’s here to see you anyway. So it doesn’t matter. It should be fine. As long as the two of you don’t run into each other again—
“Hey, isn’t that (Name) over there?”
What?
Tim’s head snaps up before he can stop himself, his gaze immediately darting to where Kon was seemingly looking at. And then his eyes land on you. You’re coming out of… a Bat Burger restaurant? With…
Tim’s eyes narrow slightly.
Helena?
Well. That’s a little shocking.
Shocking in the sense that Tim genuinely cannot picture a world where you would willingly spend time with her outside of the suits and whatever circumstances that had once forced you to work with her before in the same space. Of all people….
You’re standing close enough to her that it doesn’t look incidental, doesn’t look like some coincidence—that the two of you simply bumped into each other and exchanged a few polite words before parting ways. No. It looks… cordial. Easy, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right in Tim’s chest.
Since when?
Tim’s always liked Helena. She’s cool and has looked out for him a couple times before—something he’ll always appreciate. They have this… camaraderie that’s built up over the years.
But Tim also knows your history with her—or rather, the lack of one. You’ve worked alongside her when necessary, tolerated her when the situation called for it, but that was it.
Because Huntress doesn’t operate the way Batman approves of. Not exactly. And unlike Tim, you’ve always been careful about that.
Careful about lines and where you stand. Abour the kind of choices Bruce would or wouldn’t approve of. That was part of the reason you never really sought her out beyond what was required.
So then why are you here with her now? Why does it look like you chose to be there with her? Did the fact that you weren’t Batgirl anymore change the way you viewed Helena? Or was Helena the one that sought you out first—and you just went along with it because you had no real reason to avoid her this time around?
Possible.
Looks like Tim’s gonna have to drop by her apartment and ask her what you two were talking about…
“Woah,” Kon says, sounding far too smug to be unaware of it, “what are the odds?”
Tim doesn’t answer that blatant attempt at provocation, only because he’s still trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.
“Well,” Kon continues, already shifting midair like he’s made up his mind, “since you’re apparently too busy for me right now, guess I’ll just move on to the next Wayne.”
Tim’s head snaps toward him, already opening his mouth to fire off a retort. But Kon’s already drifting backward, that familiar grin settling into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He most definitely does.
Tim reaches out, catching the end of his jacket and yanking him back just enough to stop him.
“Don’t you dare, Kon—”
But Kon twists out of his grip with ease, hovering just out of reach now.
“Too late,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe drop me a text when you’re finally free to deal with my nonsense, Drake.”
And then he drops. Straight toward you. You, who had just parted ways with Helena and were about to go your own way.
Shit.
Tim’s jaw tightens as he watches Kon catch you off guard.
Of course this is happening. Of course it is. Because apparently one confusing interaction wasn’t enough between you and the Super.
Well, at least it seems like you weren’t actually buying into whatever Kon’s doing, Tim notes from above as he watches you start to walk away from Kon.
Good.
Wait.
Did he seriously just feel… relieved? Over the fact that you weren’t going to hangout with his best friend?
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to look away. Because he was supposed to be patrolling. Checking the areas Bruce told him to. He definitely wasn’t sent out here to babysit Conner. Or to make sure you didn’t get involved with him.
He knows that.
He knows better.
But that doesn’t stop the uneasy feeling sitting low in his chest—the same one that’s been there since yesterday, now settling in deeper as he watches Kon land a little too close to your personal space, refusing to let you get away.
Just reject him again, (Name).
Tim can’t believe he’s actually thinking that right now. Stop it.
But just as Tim manages to steel himself to look away and go about his patrol again—
What the hell.
Somehow, in the split second that he looked away, Kon’s changed out of his suit and… is carrying you away?
What the fuck just happened.
Tim’s whole head is spiralling now, like every thought is trying to outrun the next, as if he’s genuinely standing there weighing two completely life changing decisions.
But the more logical part of his brain is louder. Sharper and more insistent. Because this shouldn’t even be a question.
He should be continuing patrol. Finishing the sectors Bruce assigned him. Sticking to the plan like he always does, because that’s the entire point of being out here in the first place.
He should let Kon go. Let you go. You both were perfectly capable of making your own responsible decisions… Well, Kon less so than you.
He exhales through his nose, forcing his grip on the situation—on himself—to tighten. Patrolling the areas for signs of Trickster or Riddler was more important.
Not whatever mess that was inevitably going to unfold with you and Kon elsewhere.
…
Fuck it.
If he pushes through patrol fast enough—clears the remaining sectors, double-checks the areas Bruce flagged, cuts down every unnecessary delay—then it’s not really abandoning anything, is it?
It’s just… adjusting the order of operations.
Yes.
That works.
He can still fix this. Fix what?
He can still—
Tim’s hand moves almost on instinct, already pulling up the tracker interface. A small blinking signal still active on Kon’s body. The one he’d discreetly placed earlier.
Tim exhales, sharper this time, and pushes off the rooftop.
“Just a little detour…” he mutters under his breath, like that somehow makes this better. Makes him feel better about all this…
By the time you and Helena both finish your meals, the conversation you both had earlier was long since finished. You two slide out of the booth, heading toward the exit when a sudden commotion near the counter catches your attention.
A little girl crying.
Not the quiet, sniffly kind. The full-on, stubborn, teary-eyed crying, whilst clutching a…Red Robin figurine?
Her mother’s crouched beside her, trying to soothe her, while the employee at the counter awkwardly holds out a handful of other Bat-themed toys like that might somehow fix it.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the mother is saying gently, brushing the girl’s hair back. “It looks like they ran out of the Batgirl one you wanted.”
That doesn’t help.
If anything, it makes the girl cry harder.
You pause in your movements, and you weren’t even sure why you were so drawn to this commotion.
It’s not your business. You should just leave. Walk out, pretend you didn’t see it.
But your hand moves before you can really think it through.
“…Hey,” you say, stepping closer, holding something out. “Would this one do?”
The flimsy Batgirl figurine. The figurine of your Batgirl. The one you’d been feeling shitty about earlier.
The girl’s crying hiccups to an abrupt stop. She looks up at you, eyes wide, then at the figurine in your hand—and just like that, her whole face lights up.
She nods so vigorously that it looks like her head might just fall off.
“Yes! Yes! Mummy—look!” she tugs at her mother’s sleeve excitedly. “It’s the Batgirl I wanted!”
For some reason, those words tug at something in your chest… just a little.
Her mother looks up at you, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something grateful.
“Oh..! You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in lightly, already handing it over.
In the background, the poor employee who had to deal with this visibly deflates, letting out a quiet sigh of relief like you’ve just saved him from a problem he absolutely did not get paid enough to handle.
The girl clutches the figurine like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Thank you,” the mother says again, more firmly this time, like she means it.
You just nod, already turning to leave when you feel a small tug at your sleeve.
You glance down, and you see the girl looking up at you in an earnest, serious way that only kids can be when they’re set on doing something.
“Here!” she says, holding something out to you. “You can take this one! Mummy says I always need to give something in return when I get something.”
You blink, and look down.
Only to see the girl holding out the Red Robin figurine that she had just been refusing moments earlier. You stare at it for a good few seconds, something dangerously close to a deadpan settling in.
…Seriously?
You could refuse. You probably should.
Because why the hell would you possibly want a Red Robin toy? Hell, you’d even been silently agreeing with the girl’s outburst for not wanting it in the first place.
But the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, insistent, like this actually matters—
Yeah. You’re not winning this one.
You sigh softly, the edge in it already gone as you take the figurine from her hand.
“…Thanks,” you say, offering a small, admittedly weaker smile than usual.
Her face lights up again, bright and unfiltered, like you just did her a favour.
“Bye!” she chirps, already turning, her hand slipping back into her mother’s as they start to head out.
She waves at you with her free hand.
You lift yours slightly in return, watching as they disappear out the door before you physically slump in place.
A chuckle comes from your side, and your eyes dart toward Helena, who looks mildly—no, very amused at what just happened.
“Were you that eager to get rid of mini-you? Or well—mini-Batgirl?”
“As if.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “If I’d known I was going to end up trading it for a shitty Red Robin toy, I would’ve kept that Batgirl like a sacred shrine.”
Helena raises an eyebrow. “Why, not a fan of Red Robin?”
“Who even is?”
It’s a bold-faced lie. Lots of people are—and Helena clearly knows you know that, given the look she’s giving you right now.
“Didn’t think you and him had bad blood.”
“Not bad blood.” You sigh, shaking your head. “More like… awkward, strained, complicated blood.”
Which is true. Because to be honest—you don’t hate Tim. You two just seemed to… clash. One too many times. He was logical and measured. You were emotional and reactive. Or well—at least you used to be.
“Really? I thought you two would’ve gotten along quite well.”
You shoot Helena a scandalised look, as if you can’t believe she just said that out loud.
“Did you really just say that??” you say, pure disbelief bleeding through every word.
“Why not? What’s so bad about Tim?”
“Everything…!” You flail your arms now, as if that somehow strengthens your argument.
But Helena doesn’t budge. She just crosses her arms, steady and unimpressed.
“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Name one thing then.”
You freeze for a second.
Were you really about to do this? Sit here and list out everything you couldn’t stand about Tim Drake? Everything that had somehow led to this… strained, complicated mess between the two of you?
Well apparently, yes you are.
“…He’s insufferable,” you start, pointing vaguely like that explains anything. “And condescending. And he always shuts me down when I used to ask him anything about patrols or recon. Sometimes he acts like I’m asking the stupidest questions, and treats me like I’m some sort of idiot before taking over my stuff entirely.”
“Hm… but doesn’t that also mean he cares enough to be thorough and help you out?” she asks, and that stops you immediately. You open your mouth—then close it again.
Because, annoyingly, what she said makes sense. Because she’s right about that.
You notice it then—the way Helena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening just slightly at your silence, before she continues, quieter now.
“Sure, he probably could’ve been a lot kinder about it. Could’ve explained things better, or just… trusted you more instead of just—well, shutting you out. But I don’t think he meant to come off that way or make you feel like you were some idiot spouting foolish shit. He’s a good kid.”
That lands differently.
He’s a good kid.
Well, maybe that was right. No—it is right.
He’s trusted by almost everyone you knew—your father, Dick, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. Hell, even Helena too apparently. He’s a good leader, and no doubt a great Robin. A great friend too—you can see that in the way his friends treat him.
Maybe at one point…. you envied that. That Tim could so easily become the person you wanted to be for your family—for the people you cared about. He was smart, dependable, and he made it seem effortless doing it.
So was it just your arrogance—your pride that set off the alarms every time you and Tim attempted to get along? That…underlying grudge you never really acknowledged, the one that only seemed to grow stronger when he looked at you like he was already two steps ahead. Like he’d already figured you out before you even spoke. Like he was doing himself and everyone else a favour by outright taking over your leads and recons and pursuing them himself?
To you—all those times seemed to feel like he was trying to one-up you. Showing you exactly why you were never let in about the secret your family hid from you in the first place. Proving to everyone else why you taking up the suit could never make sense at all.
But to Tim… could he really have just been trying to help you? Just by stepping in entirely even if he’d been blunt and sharp about whatever doubts you had? Did he seriously not mean to shut you out by taking over whatever leads you had come across? Was that him just trying to make things… what, easier for you?
“…Yeah, I guess…” you mutter after a beat, a little less certain than before, as you push open the door and step out of Bat Burger.
But still.
That doesn’t suddenly mean you should pretend none of it hurt. That just because Tim might not have intentionally meant to make you feel small, make you feel… redundant, you were supposed to brush everything aside like it never affected you in the first place.
Because it did.
It did affect you.
And honestly, how much longer were you supposed to keep letting things go just because someone meant well? Just because they couldn’t properly convey their intentions through their actions?
It’s like Helena senses the slight shift in your expression—your thoughts spiralling all over again—because she sighs lightly before following you out.
“Look, I’m not saying you should suddenly go all… buddy-buddy with Tim,” she says. “I’m sure you and him have had your fair share of clashes and what not.”
She glances at you briefly.
“You’re more than entitled to feel however you wanna feel about the way things happened. I just don’t think either of you actually understood where the other was coming from. And yeah, maybe it’ll be a little unfair to not give yourselves a chance to understand.”
“Probably…” you mutter, feeling a little more frustrated now.
Because yeah, you definitely wished you’d treated Tim better when you first met. Definitely shouldn’t have subconsciously blamed him for “ruining” your life when none of it had actually been his fault.
If you hadn’t done that, would things between you and him have turned out differently? Would the two of you have gotten along better?
Or would it have ended up the same anyway?
Because what if in Tim’s eyes, he really had just been trying to help you—in his own blunt, overly controlling, slightly extreme kind of way.
You feel Helena nudge your shoulder with hers.
“Just think about it, alright?” she says. “Nobody’s telling you to run off and have some heartfelt reconciliation with the guy tomorrow.”
She laughs softly.
“If sulking in your unresolved issues for a little longer makes you feel better, then go for it. Everybody needs a little emotional constipation every now and then.”
You glance at Helena with exaggerated offence, letting the sarcasm sit in your tone. “Haha, Helena. I’m not one of your elementary school students, by the way. No need to treat me as if I need a lesson in feelings 101.”
Helena’s brows lift in mock surprise, like she’s genuinely considering the accusation for half a second before she gasps dramatically. “Oh, my bad. You might actually pass for one, though.”
That makes you open your mouth immediately—to fire something back—but she doesn’t even give you the chance.
Helena just reaches over and ruffles your hair again, unbothered, like she’s done this a hundred times and intends to keep doing it.
“Gotta run, though,” she says, already stepping back. “I was supposed to meet someone later. But hey—if you need someone to talk to again, you know where I live.”
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s debating something, then adds more lightly, “Or… we can always get you another Batgirl figurine if it’ll make you feel better.”
You huff under your breath, rolling your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it this time. Not really.
Because it’s… nice. In a way you don’t quite want to acknowledge right now.
So instead, you just lift a hand in a lazy wave as she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. You linger for a moment, and stare at Helena’s back for a few more seconds, before turning away yourself. But her words don’t really leave with her as you’d hoped.
About you as Batgirl. And about you and Tim.
Honestly? A very, very small part of you wanted to set things right with him. Just a tiny part.
But then everything he’s done just comes rushing to your head—and that tiny part just completely… dissolves. Because yeah, it had always felt like Tim had the upperhand when it came to you and him. Like he was always a step ahead, always seeing more in your half-baked leads than you ever did. You didn’t want to take another L again. To give in and go to him and try to fix whatever strained mess existed between you two.
Maybe it was just your stubbornness stopping you.
Something that had started to surface again after you quit as Batgirl and decided to live for yourself instead of constantly trying to fit into something that didn’t really have a place for you.
It definitely wasn’t because of what you had told him the day before. About making sure he wouldn’t have to bother with you again.
Nope.
….
Okay. Maybe that conversation you had with Tim yesterday still haunts you a little.
But hey! You’ll take whatever win against him anyday.
Even if said “win” quite literally ended with you storming away like you actually did something, when all it really did was leave you with unbearable second-hand embarrassment at yourself. And to make things worse—the entire thing was overheard by Conner Kent of all people—
”Well if it isn’t my favourite Wayne!”
Oh my god.
Before you can even process it, a flash of red and blue drops right in front of you, black leather jacket and the giant S symbol included.
This cannot be happening.
“Didn’t know I got promoted to that…” you mutter, the sarcasm automatic even as your eyes dart around instinctively.
Thankfully, there aren’t many people nearby. Most of the customers inside Bat Burger seem far too invested in their greasy fries and burgers to care about what’s happening outside, while an elderly couple further down the street are more focused on each other than the very obvious superhero standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Honestly, for someone as flashy as Kon, it’s kind of uncanny how nobody seems to care that he’s here at all.
Your gaze finally lands back on him, immediately meeting the grin stretched across his face. “Well,” he says casually, “after our little endeavour yesterday, I’d say you’ve moved up the ranks.”
You deadpan slightly, because of course he had to remind you that he overheard your entire conversation with Tim yesterday. And how he’d essentially blackmailed you with that information into letting him tag along while you were checking the orphanage for suspicious activity.
“You’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
It’s not even phrased like a question. More like an accusation. Or maybe it was you trying to deflect.
But instead of looking offended, Kon just grins wider, far too amused for your liking.
“Woah,” he says. “Freaky. You and Tim said the exact same thing to me.”
And just like that, the one name you seriously did not want to hear again gets dragged right back into the conversation.
You let out a frustrated sigh and immediately try to walk past him.
But Kon immediately floats right back in front of you, moving sideways when you try to walk around him again. “Hey now—you haven’t even heard me out yet.”
“Heard enough already,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.
Honestly, you still don’t even know why he’s here. And you didn’t really want to know the actual reason. Especially if it’s because of you and what happened yesterday.
“Oh, come onnn,” Kon drags out dramatically. “Aren’t we, like… partners in crime now?” He points at you accusingly. “I kept your little secret from yesterday, y’know. Do you have any idea how hard Tim was trying to pry it out of me?”
Your eye twitches slightly.
Nope. Not thinking about Tim again. Absolutely not.
Kon floats a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something deeply confidential.
“Seriously. I even had Damian Wayne on my ass about it.”
He grins suddenly. “I think I deserve a reward for surviving those two for your sake.” And there he goes again. Invading your personal space like he’s done it a million times before. At this rate, he’ll probably hit that number sooner rather than later.
You immediately shove your hand into his face and push him back.
Kon lets out the most dramatic, offended-sounding ow you’ve ever heard in your life—which is ridiculous, considering you’re pretty sure you could’ve punched him with full force and broken your own wrist instead.
“Ouch. Goddamn,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically. “You might actually go toe-to-toe with Cassie with that shove—”
“Just tell me why you’re here, Superboy.”
“Woah. Back to titles now?” Kon gasps. “I thought we were close—”
“I’m definitely not entertaining whatever this is if you keep walking around like that,” you cut in before he can say something particularly personal out loud. You gesture pointedly at his outfit.
The leather jacket. The giant S-symbol. The overall I am very obviously Superboy of it all.
Kon freezes midair for a second. Genuinely freezes. Like the thought had somehow never crossed his mind at all. And just as he opens his mouth to respond, the Bat Burger door swings open behind him.
Your eyes immediately land on the employee from earlier—the same exhausted cashier who’d dealt with the crying child. He’s changed out of uniform now, looking dead on his feet as he steps outside.
Kon glances at him once.
And before you can even process what’s happening—
A blur of red and blue shoots past you.
The poor employee yelps.
The Bat Burger door slams open again barely two seconds later.
And suddenly Kon is standing in front of you wearing the employee’s clothes, while said employee has somehow been shoved back into his work uniform, hair completely wrecked and expression utterly hollow—as if his soul briefly left his body during the experience.
Yeah. He definitely does not get paid enough for this shit.
“Good enough for ya?” Kon asks proudly, like this was somehow a perfectly reasonable solution.
You just stare at him.
Honestly, at this point, you’re starting to understand why Tim constantly sounds one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced migraine around him.
But before you can even form an actual response, Kon suddenly scoops you straight off the ground.
“What the—Kon?!”
“No take-backs, (Name),” he says far too smug. “You said you wouldn’t entertain me in that getup. Now I’m changed, which means you’re legally obligated to hang out with me for the next hour.”
“That is not how legality works—”
But he’s already flying upward. Fast enough that your stomach drops immediately.
Your hands instinctively latch onto him tighter before gravity can personally humble you in front of Gotham City.
Wind rushes past your ears as the streets disappear beneath you, Kon laughing like this is the most normal thing in the world while you seriously contemplate the possibility of dying a second time.
This might actually be the longest day of your life….
MEANWHILE…
“Where’s Father, Brown?”
Stephanie looks up from where she’s half-slouched in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest as she watches Damian descend the cave stairs like he personally owns the whole place.
Which, honestly, he probably thinks he does.
“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “Probably already went out somewhere.”
“Tt. At least attempt to make yourself useful.” Damian scoffs as he walks past her, already making his way toward the Batcomputer.
Stephanie watches him with narrowed eyes.
You’d think after working alongside him as Batgirl and Robin for a decent amount of time now, Damian would’ve developed at least a tiny bit of tolerance toward her existence.
Nope.
Still prickly and condescending as ever. And somehow still capable of sounding personally offended every time she breathes too loudly near him.
Honestly, some things really do transcend character development.
But seriously—where the hell was everyone?
Even Barbara was gone. Stephanie had already checked the Clocktower first out of habit—and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra wasn’t around either. The cave felt weirdly empty today.
Not that being left out of things was exactly unfamiliar territory for Stephanie Brown.
But at least this was better than before. Back when she was still Spoiler and almost everyone treated her like an outsider and acted like she was one wrong move away from accidentally blowing herself up. Which she… well, kind of did. But everyone’s gotten over it. At least—that’s what she hopes.
Damian’s already typing something into the Batcomputer now, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Stephanie glances over automatically.
Sue her for being curious, but he’s literally typing directly in front of her like she’s invisible or something.
“Narrows Children’s Home?” Stephanie reads aloud.
Damian immediately shoots her a sharp glare. “Do you not know how to mind your own business?”
“Well, is it a crime to look?” Stephanie shoots back. “Besides, you’re literally typing it out in front of me.”
Damian scoffs under his breath and pointedly ignores her existence again, eyes fixed back on the screen.
Stephanie rolls her eyes so hard it almost physically pains her—before leaning back toward the monitor herself.
Narrows Children’s Home.
Long-running orphanage in Gotham’s Narrows district. Privately funded alongside support from the Martha Wayne Foundation and two other organisations.
Stephanie zones out halfway through the wall of information because, wow, Bruce-related charity archives somehow manage to be even more boring in text form. So instead, she spins the chair around toward Damian.
“Okay, so why exactly are you searching this up?”
Damian ignores her again. Because apparently basic communication is beneath him.
He clicks another file open instead. Stephanie only catches a brief glimpse before the screen changes.
“Warden, Margaret Cole…?” she reads aloud slowly.
The screen immediately fills with an entire profile page. Damian’s expression doesn’t change much, but Stephanie notices the way his eyes narrow slightly as he reads. Focused and quiet.
Which is honestly more unsettling than when he’s actively insulting people.
“Okay—what gives, Damian?” Stephanie says, sitting up straighter now. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’re doing the whole creepy silent brooding thing.”
“Seems like nothing,” Damian replies flatly.
Stephanie’s eye twitches. But then the wording catches up to her.
“…Seems?” she repeats, brow raising slightly.
And wow.
Stephanie genuinely cannot believe she’s at the point where she misses Damian being openly bratty instead of weirdly contemplative. At least the insults were something familiar—as much as she hates every bit of it.
Damian’s gaze remains fixed on the screen for another second before he finally speaks.
“(Name)’s been wary of her.”
Stephanie blinks.
Oh.
Wait—what?
“Hold on,” she says immediately. “I thought you two were, like… fighting or something.”
“Old news, Brown,” Damian says dismissively. “Seriously, how thickheaded can you possibly be?”
“Okay—rude,” Stephanie huffs. But then she pauses. “…Since when were you even close enough to know who (Name)’s wary of?” she asks slowly. “Didn’t think she’d willingly let a judgmental piece of shit like you be around her long enough for that.”
The comment’s meant to provoke him. To get Damian to snap back with some dramatic insult about her intelligence or genetics or whatever he decides to weaponize today.
But instead…Damian smirks.
“Think again, Brown.”
Stephanie stares at him in mild horror.
Wait. Was he seriously looking smug right now? Over the fact that he was apparently… close with you??
“You’re telling me she lets you of all people stay close to her??” Stephanie gestures at him wildly now. Because this was Damian Wayne—the boy who quite literally held a blade right at your neck on your first meet—the one who called you the “inferior” child. And Stephanie knew very well that you definitely wouldn’t have liked that.
Damian barely even reacts. Which somehow makes it worse. If anything, he just looks more self-satisfied now. “Unlike you, Brown,” he says coolly, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining relationships without incessantly irritating the other party every five seconds.”
“Well, that’s a first,” she says flatly. “Are you sure you’re not talking out of your ass right now?”
“Additionally,” Damian continues, completely ignoring her outrage, “she simply has superior taste in company and enough intelligence to appreciate my better qualities.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes immediately.
“Okay, now I know you’re making things up for your ego.”
Damian only scoffs softly before turning back toward the Batcomputer, attention already shifting away from her like the conversation has ceased being worth his time now that he’s won it in his head. Which, annoyingly enough, probably means there’s at least some truth to what he’s saying.
Because seriously—how the hell did he manage that?
How was Damian Wayne, of all people, somehow able to get past whatever defenses you had up around yourself?
Stephanie likes Damian in the weird, sibling-adjacent way most of the Bats eventually end up tolerating each other, but even she can admit his personality is… a lot.
He’s bratty. Condescending. Aggressively judgmental. Possesses approximately zero social finesse and somehow even less patience.
So why him?
Why did you let him get close? And not her?
“You must’ve bewitched her or something,” Stephanie mutters, slumping farther back into the chair with a slight pout.
Damian clicks his tongue at that, looking vaguely offended by the implication.
“Or perhaps,” he says coolly, “she simply has valid reasons to be selective with the company she keeps.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable. Are you trying to say that I was a bad influence—and that’s why she acts like I did something wrong just by being around her??”
“You are Brown. Formerly associated with Cluemaster,” Damian replies without missing a beat. “Need I elaborate further? Father most likely intervened back then, would he not?”
Stephanie opens her mouth immediately, a retort already loaded—because ouch. Even if Damian technically wasn’t wrong, being reduced to just that sucks. But then she pauses.
Because suddenly, she’s pulled back to a certain moment from a few years ago. Back when Cassandra first started being Batgirl. Around that time, Stephanie had started getting close to her, patrolled with her—even trained with her. But Bruce had intervened.
He had told Cass to stop going on patrols with her. To stop the training.
Stephanie remembers how much that stung at the time. Not because Cass had listened—well, partially because of that—but because for a while there, it genuinely felt like Bruce had already decided what kind of person Stephanie was before she’d even gotten the chance to prove otherwise. Like one mistake had already sealed her into place. And everything else she did—or tried to do afterward—just… didn’t matter enough to outweigh it in his eyes.
Back then, she’d been upset with Cass for choosing Bruce over her. For not trusting her enough to handle Gotham’s lowlifes and crime.
But eventually, they’d made up. Moved on from it. Still…
Stephanie’s gaze drifts slightly.
Could it be the same thing here?
Could Bruce have said something to you before you and Stephanie ever really had the chance to properly know each other?
Was that why, after you helped her back then, the two of you somehow just… never crossed paths again afterward? No follow-ups or accidental run-ins despite how ridiculously interconnected the vigilante community usually was?
Oh.
Huh.
That… would actually explain a lot.
And honestly, you wouldn’t even really owe Stephanie anything in the first place. You were the one who’d gone out of your way to help her.
Still… Damn.
Even if you and Stephanie had never particularly been close after all this time, she could tell from a mile away how much approval meant to you. Especially Bruce’s.
The way you carried yourself. The way you listened and tried to adjust yourself every time.
Stephanie knew what that looked like because, honestly, she’d wanted the same thing once too. Bruce’s approval. Proof that she could be more than Cluemaster’s daughter—that there was something genuinely good in her worth acknowledging.
So the thought that Bruce’s opinion might’ve robbed her of ever really getting the chance to know you properly in the first place leaves something sour curling in her stomach.
She immediately tells herself she’s jumping to conclusions. Damian made one comment and now her brain’s running with it.
But then again…
She really wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.
After all, this is Bruce Wayne they’re talking about.
Batman.
Batman whose words somehow become law the second he says them out loud. Batman whose orders are quite literally absolute. Batman who—
“Of course the one thing you’d inherit from that insufferable Drake is his tendency to overanalyse every insignificant detail. Snap out of it.”
Stephanie blinks hard, abruptly pulled out of her thoughts.
Damian’s staring at her now with a deeply unimpressed expression, like he’s mildly offended she stopped paying attention to him mid-conversation.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stephanie immediately shoots back.
Damian lets out a dry, disbelieving scoff.
“Are you actively attempting to prove how much of an idiot you are by not understanding basic implications?”
“You—”
Before Stephanie can properly retaliate—or verbally destroy him, preferably—a sharp ping cuts through the cave. Both of their attention snap toward the Batcomputer as the screen redirects automatically to a live map feed. Red Robin’s tracker.
Except… he’s off-route. Far off-route from the standard patrol sectors. The blinking marker is currently heading towards… Gotham Mall?
Damian narrows his eyes.
“Timothy.” The comm line clicks open. And immediately, a loud, deeply frustrated sigh crackles through the speakers.
Stephanie snorts quietly.
Yep. Definitely Tim.
“Why,” Damian says flatly, “are you deviating from patrol?”
“I already checked the sectors Batman assigned me,” Tim replies a little too quickly.
Vague. Suspiciously vague.
Damian clearly catches it too.
“That did not answer my question.”
“It’s handled.”
“You are currently heading toward Gotham Mall.”
“I’m aware.”
“That statement somehow raises more concerns.”
Stephanie physically watches Damian’s interrogation tactics start kicking in now, relentless in the exact same exhausting way Bruce’s usually are.
Honestly, sometimes she forgets how similar those two actually are until moments like this. Tim clearly notices it too, judging by the increasingly strained silence coming through the comms.
“…It has to do with (Name), alright?” Tim finally admits, sounding like he’d rather eat concrete than say that aloud.
Stephanie immediately straightens in her seat. What?
Damian’s expression hardens instantly.
“Explain. Now.”
Tim exhales sharply through the comm.
“…Kon took her with him.”
Silence. Heavy silence.
Stephanie actually sees the exact moment alarm bells start going off in Damian’s head. “Wait—hold on,” she cuts in quickly, finally making her presence known over comms. “Did you just say (Name) got picked up by…Superboy?!?”
“Stephanie? You’re there too?”
But before Tim can continue, Damian abruptly grabs one of his blades from the nearby table and immediately starts striding toward the cave exit. Stephanie’s eyes widen.
“Woah—woah woah woah!!!”
She practically lunges forward to grab his arm before he can leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re bringing that?!”
“That Kryptonian clearly failed to comprehend my warning from yesterday,” Damian says coldly, trying to yank himself free. “It is only appropriate that I demonstrate more thoroughly what occurs when he—”
“He hasn’t even done anything!” Stephanie interrupts incredulously.
Damian looks genuinely offended by that statement, brows furrowing sharply like Stephanie just said something personally absurd.
“He placed his hands on her,” he says flatly, as if that alone should immediately justify attempted murder.
Stephanie stares at him for a long second before dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god,” she groans, looking at him in disbelief, “you sound insane right now.”
Damian straightens slightly at that, expression going cold with offense as he tugs his sleeve back from her grip.
“I sound perfectly reasonable.”
“You are literally trying to bring a sword into a shopping mall,” Stephanie shoots back immediately, gesturing wildly toward the blade in his hand like she cannot believe this conversation is real.
Damian glances down at the weapon briefly before looking back at her without even a shred of shame.
“A precaution.”
Stephanie throws both her hands up into the air.
“That is not what precaution means..!”
Damian clicks his tongue impatiently, clearly already done with this conversation.
“Brown, release me.”
“No?!?” Stephanie says, still hanging onto his arm. “You can’t just stab every guy that mildly inconveniences (Name)!”
“I have shown remarkable restraint thus far.”
Stephanie stares at him blankly. “…That was restraint?”
“Obviously.”
Oh, that is deeply concerning.
“Damian,” Stephanie says slowly, like she’s talking down an especially hostile stray cat, “I think she can survive one outing with Superboy without you going full medieval executioner.”
“You say that as though I distrust her judgment.” Damian scoffs. “I distrust him.”
“Additionally,” Damian continues over her, “my sister has demonstrated an astounding tendency to attract reckless individuals.”
Stephanie freezes. Her grip on Damian’s sleeve loosens slightly.
Wait.
Did he just say—
My sister?
Stephanie just stares at him.
Because seriously—what the fuck is going on?? What the hell happened while she wasn’t looking?
Last she remembered, you and Damian could barely survive a conversation without sounding one inconvenience away from attempted manslaughter. Damian used to undermine you at every possible opportunity. Every patrol turned into some weird dominance battle where both of you acted personally offended by the other’s existence.
And now he’s out here calling you his sister?
Casually too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Stephanie feels like she skipped five seasons of character development of Damian Wayne.
“Hold on,” she says immediately, pointing accusingly at him now. “Since when did you use the word sister here??”
Damian looks at her like she’s the idiot for being shocked.
“She is my sister.”
“That was not how you used to act about her!”
“People are capable of developing relationships over time, Brown. Surely even you comprehend such a simple concept.”
“Don’t get philosophical with me right now!” Stephanie snaps. “You literally threatened her with a blade when you first met!”
“And yet she still possesses enough sense to tolerate me. Curious.”
Stephanie squints at him.
Oh, he was definitely smug about this.
Somehow, Damian Wayne had apparently managed to worm his way into your good graces, and now he was acting like he’d won some invisible competition nobody else knew was happening.
Which honestly explains a lot about the weird attitude he’s had lately.
Damian attempts to move again. Stephanie immediately grabs him harder.
“Nope. Absolutely not. You are not storming into Gotham Mall armed like a tiny assassin.”
“Brown.”
“No.”
Damian’s eye twitches faintly in annoyance. Stephanie exhales sharply through her nose before finally relenting a little.
“…Fine,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m coming with you.”
Damian raises an eyebrow.
“And only if you put the blade away,” Stephanie continues immediately. “Because contrary to whatever assassin upbringing you had, security will call someone if they catch you carrying that thing through a literal shopping mall.”
Damian looks deeply dissatisfied by this compromise.
“And,” Stephanie adds quickly before he can argue, “someone clearly needs to make sure you don’t overreact when you see (Name) and Conner together.”
Damian scoffs. “I do not overreact.”
Stephanie gives him the flattest look imaginable.
“You were two seconds away from hunting Superboy for sport.”
“…Irrelevant.”
“Also,” Stephanie mutters mostly to herself now, already heading after him, “apparently I need to make sure Tim doesn’t lose his mind too, seeing how he’s literally speeding there already.”
Because wow.
Whatever weird thing was going on between you, Tim, Damian, and now somehow, Conner Kent?
It was definitely becoming everybody else’s problem. Hers too, apparently.
“Seriously, can’t people come up with more creative names for malls around here? Gotham Mall is such a lazy name.”
Somehow, against all odds, you’ve managed to end up in this predicament.
Kon had dragged—well technically, flown you all the way here under the excuse of “having fun”, because apparently you looked like someone who forgot how to.
Which was ridiculous. You absolutely knew how to have fun. …Probably.
Still, somehow, Kon had spent the last hour making sure you’d seen practically every corner of the mall imaginable.
Honestly, you were starting to suspect he just enjoyed dragging you around to random places for the sake of watching your reactions. And now, you’ve ended up inside one of Gotham’s ridiculously high-end clothing stores.
Entirely because you physically refused to let Kon continue walking around in that poor Bat Burger employee’s clothes.
Seriously.
That guy definitely did not get paid enough to experience whatever the hell that was earlier. You’re definitely making Kon apologises to him tomorrow. Assuming the employee still worked there, at least.
Because honestly? You genuinely would not be surprised if the guy quit immediately after getting borderline kidnapped by Superboy after his shift.
Which, now that you think about it, feels like something that should probably violate at least several workplace safety laws. (Because wasn’t he supposed to be one of the good guys?)
“You’re thinking really hard over there.”
Your eyes flick upward from where you’re leaning against one of the walls, only to see Kon stepping out from the fitting room wearing a dark red jacket over a dark grey shirt, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who technically committed clothing theft less than an hour ago.
“I’m thinking about how you probably traumatised that Bat Burger employee for life,” you reply flatly. “Poor guy’s gonna develop fight or flight responses every time he sees the Superman logo now.”
Kon snorts, glancing at himself in the mirror again before tugging lightly at the sleeve of the jacket.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”
You stare at him.
“Kon. You literally superspeed-swapped his clothes off his body.”
“Temporarily borrowed,” he corrects immediately, raising a finger like that somehow changes the situation legally. “And hey, he’ll get them back.”
“Yeah, after getting whipped around like a human ragdoll.” you say, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head slightly, arms loosely crossed like that alone proves your point.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
Kon grins at that, completely unbothered.
Which honestly should probably concern you more than it does by now. He turns toward the mirror again, tilting his head slightly as he looks himself over.
“So?” he asks casually. “How do I look?”
You glance up at him briefly.
Unfortunately, annoyingly, the outfit actually suits him. Not in a subtle way either—he’s got that effortless kind of confidence that makes even questionable fashion choices look intentional. He’s got taste. Funky taste, a borderline obnoxious sense of style… and somehow it works. Because it’s Conner Kent.
And that somehwo feels unfair.
“Like every other overly confident guy in Gotham with a superiority complex,” you answer dryly, leaning back a little more against the wall.
Kon presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow, (Name).” he says, voice dripping with mock betrayal. “ And here I thought we were bonding.”
“This is bonding. I’m insulting you instead of actively trying to ditch you.”
“Aw.” Through the mirror, you catch his grin widening, bright and unbothered in a way that makes the entire exchange feel like it’s something he’s enjoying instead of tolerating. “So we are making progress.”
You deadpan immediately, because of course he’d frame it like that. It feels weird—because you know you’re probably not exactly the best company right now—but he still looks like he’s enjoying every bit of it. Like he actually wants you to be like this because it’s more… what—fun?
That thought sits a little too oddly in your chest.
“Don’t push it, Kon.” you mutter, glancing away as if the wall suddenly became very interesting, heat creeping up your neck at the realisation.
“Too late,” Kon says easily, already slipping back into the fitting room to try on another outfit.
You stare at the closed fitting room door for a second longer than necessary before exhaling quietly through your nose.
Then you drift over to one of those deliberately placed store chairs—meant for waiting customers who clearly aren’t getting out of here anytime soon—and drop into it with a small, resigned slump, letting your weight settle as you wait for Kon to inevitably emerge with yet another outfit.
Somehow, against every logical decision your brain could’ve possibly made today, you’d ended up spending an evening at Gotham Mall with Conner Kent. You’d even had to call the orphanage earlier just to let them know you wouldn’t be coming in that day.
Damn.
Kon’s emerging now, this time in a dark blue jacket, adjusting the black fingerless gloves on his hands, as he checks himself out in the mirror. Two of the female employees trail just behind him, chatting and laughing a little too easily, clearly caught in whatever gravitational pull he naturally came with.
Yup. That was his mojo apparently.
You watch as he gives a quick flex—not subtle, and absolutely intentional, before walking over toward you.
“What do you think?” he asks, completely unfazed. “This or the dark red?”
You blink at him.
“Don’t you have your little fan club over there helping you decide?” you say, nodding vaguely toward the employees still lingering a few feet behind him.
Kon shrugs, grin curling like he’s been waiting for you to say that.
“Well, maybe,” he says lightly. “But I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
He leans in just slightly, then reaches for your hand. Before you can properly react, he’s already pulling you up from your seat with effortless ease. Surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it.
“And who’s to say Gotham’s princess wouldn’t have the best taste around here?”
You let out a short, incredulous huff at that, immediately shaking your head.
“Gotham’s princess?” you repeat flatly. “What kind of title is that supposed to be?”
“You fit the criteria, don’t you?” Kon says matter-of-factly. “Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be. Safe to say you are exactly that.”
You stare at him for a second. Does he not know what shame is??
“Intimidating?” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most questionable part of his statement.
Kon nods immediately, completely serious.
“Yeah, y’know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You kinda give off this aura sometimes that says ‘leave me alone or I’ll tell you to fuck off personally.’”
Your brows furrow slightly at that. Did you really? Was that actually how people saw you? No way, right?
“That’s…” you start automatically, trying to defend yourself out of pure instinct—but the words stumble halfway through.
Because honestly? You didn’t have enough faith in yourself to believe otherwise. Maybe you really had become like that.
Closed off. Easier to keep people at arm’s length before they could misunderstand you first. Before they could make you feel like too much or not enough all over again.
“But that was before I saw who you actually were yesterday.” Kon’s words snap you cleanly out of your thoughts.
You look back at him—and there’s that stupidly easy grin again. Confident. Warm. Like he says things without overthinking whether he should.
“You’re caring,” he says simply. “With the way you are around kids. And honestly? It seems like you think you care too much about the people you care about.”
Your stomach twists slightly. He’s talking about Tim now, isn’t he? About yesterday. About the conversation he overheard.
“Isn’t that why you were trying so hard to hide this from me?”
Kon lifts something between his fingers.
Wait—Isn’t that…
Your eyes immediately dart downward toward your pockets, hands patting against them frantically before realisation hits. The Red Robin figurine. The one from the little girl at Bat Burger. It’s not there.
Which means the figurine currently dangling from Kon’s hand is very much yours.
“When did you even—”
“Why?” Kon interrupts innocently, though the grin on his face completely ruins the act. “Embarrassed after getting caught with this? Didn’t know you were secretly a Red Robin fan.”
“That’s not—!” You immediately try to snatch it back, heat rushing straight to your face as panic spikes through you.
Damn it.
Damn it, damn it, damn it—
But Kon just laughs outright, effortlessly lifting the figurine higher out of your reach like this is the funniest thing he’s experienced all week.
“Oh?” he teases. “So you do want it back?”
And that—unfortunately—makes you freeze.
Because wow.
That definitely made it look worse.
You immediately pull back, crossing your arms tightly as embarrassment crawls even further up your neck. You didn’t even want the stupid thing in the first place.
You were just embarrassed Kon found it on you and immediately jumped to conclusions.
Kon chuckles softly at your expression before finally lowering his hand and offering the figurine back despite your stubborn silence.
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice lighter this time. “You know I was joking.” His grin softens just slightly.
“Don’t go back into your shell on me now.”
You let out an exasperated sigh before finally looking at him properly again.
“You’re genuinely insufferable, you know that?”
But instead of faltering, Kon’s smug grin only widens further, like he takes that as a compliment at this point. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. And definitely won’t be the last.”
You roll your eyes at that, though the embarrassment from earlier has mostly settled now into something more manageable. Kon notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His expression eases a little after that, less teasing now as he gestures toward the Red Robin figurine still in your hand.
“Well,” he says casually, “since I’m apparently keeping another one of your secrets, I think you owe me a jacket or two.”
You deadpan instantly. “…What.”
But Kon’s already wandered off toward another rack before you can properly process that statement, flipping through clothes like he fully expects you to entertain this nonsense. You stare at him for a second before sighing dramatically.
“What am I?” you call after him. “Your sugar mommy or something?”
“Well,” Kon says, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “if you’re offering—”
You immediately raise the figurine like you’re fully prepared to launch it directly at his face.
Kon reacts on instinct, laughing as he throws both hands up in surrender. “Woah now—no need for attempted assault!”
You shake your head, lowering the figurine with a quiet scoff. Honestly, you can’t believe yourself right now.
Somehow, somewhere between getting dragged through half the mall and arguing with him over jackets, you’d apparently started… giving in.
Maybe it was because Kon tolerated you just as much as you tolerated him.
No weird expectations. No walking on eggshells around you. No carefully measured responses like he was trying to figure out the “right” version of you to talk to. He just… dealt with whatever attitude you threw at him head-on and somehow still stuck around afterward.
Weirdly enough, that made it easier to breathe around him.
“Fine, fine,” you mutter eventually, dropping back into the seat with a resigned slump. “Pick out whatever. I’ll play that role for you just this once.”
Kon practically lights up.
“Hell yeah!” The sheer excitement in his voice makes you let out a quiet, involuntary huff of amusement before you can stop yourself.
Honestly, there were definitely worse ways your father’s endless amount of money could be spent. You’ve always preferred using it on other people anyway, if it meant making them happy—even temporarily.
But suddenly, Kon points dramatically at you from across the store like he’s just realised something deeply offensive.
“You,” he says accusingly. “Why are you sitting back down?”
You blink once. “…Because I’m tired?”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” He gestures toward the clothing racks around you. “Pick something for yourself too. I can’t be the only one buying stuff here.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “So now you have a conscience.”
“Hey!” Kon protests, already grabbing several more hangers off a nearby rack. “Everyone deserves a little dress-up moment every now and then.”
He points at you again with one of the hangers dramatically.
“I better see you trying something on by the time I come back out.”
And before you can even properly argue against it, he’s already disappeared back into the fitting rooms again. You stare after him for a second before finally dropping forward, elbows resting against your knees as you bury your face in your hands with a long, exhausted exhale.
Were you seriously going to entertain him like this?
The answer apparently comes before your brain can even process it properly, because next thing you know, you’re already standing back up.
Well.
Yes, apparently you are.
You make your way toward another section of the store, aimlessly flipping through clothing racks without much thought behind it.
It’s been a while since you last shopped for yourself like this. There was a time you actually used to enjoy it.
Back then, you’d usually drag Jason along because there wasn’t really anyone else you wanted to go with. He’d complain the entire time—about the waiting, the crowds, the number of stores you insisted on checking “just in case”—but even then, he still stayed. Grudgingly. Dramatically. But he stayed.
…
Your hand shifts absentmindedly against one of the hangers before your gaze catches the faint redness along your knuckles—mostly faded now.
Damn you and your stupid sentimentality.
You groan softly under your breath, immediately forcing yourself to snap out of whatever emotional spiral your brain was threatening to crawl into. Which somehow leads to holding up a blue jacket that looks suspiciously similar to something Kon himself would wear.
You stare at it for a second longer before a quiet, helplessly fond smile slips through despite yourself.
“Ew. I didn’t know they’d let strays into this store.”
The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts.
…Oh.
You recognise that voice immediately.
You glance to your side only to see Chloe Travers standing there with her arms crossed and one hip tilted sharply, staring at you with the kind of exaggerated disgust only rich school girls seem capable of mastering.
Beside her stood her poor valet, absolutely drowning beneath an unreasonable amount of shopping bags.
Your expression immediately flattens.
And honestly?
You just blatantly ignore her.
Because no way in hell were you letting Chloe Travers of all people ruin what was somehow turning into a weirdly decent day.
Apparently, though, being ignored is the greatest offense imaginable to her.
“Wow,” Chloe continues loudly when you don’t respond. “That color is really not helping your case.”
You keep flipping through the rack.
“And that jacket?” she scoffs. “God, your taste is still so tacky.”
You finally glance at her over your shoulder.
“You done?”
Chloe gasps slightly like she genuinely can’t believe you interrupted her performance.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just asking,” you reply calmly, tone almost painfully flat. “Because if this is building up to one of your usual monologues, I’d rather prepare myself mentally first.”
That apparently offends her even more.
“You know,” Chloe snaps, folding her arms tighter, “no matter how hard you try dressing yourself up, it’s not suddenly going to make people pay attention to you. Especially not your little daddy.”
…Wow.
Way to weaponize your underlying daddy issues even outside of school.
You feel irritation spike instantly in your chest—
Only for it to abruptly stall when an arm suddenly hooks itself casually around your shoulders, pulling you slightly sideways into someone’s side.
You blink in surprise before glancing up.
Kon. Somehow now wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute menace he is.
He pushes them down slightly along the bridge of his nose, peering over them toward Chloe.
“Oh wow,” he says lightly, “and here I thought Gotham people were supposed to be nicer than Metropolis people.”
Where the heck did he even get that idea from??
You fully expect Chloe to get even more annoyed after that. But when no immediate insult follows, you glance back toward her—and holy shit.
Chloe looks completely entranced.
Right. You almost forgot.
Kon is, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Like—offensively so. He has that effect on people.
Chloe’s entire demeanor visibly shifts in real time, expression smoothing out almost instantly as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, voice noticeably sweeter now. “I didn’t realise you were with someone.”
You stare at her in disbelief.
No way. There is absolutely no way she switched sides that fast.
Meanwhile, Chloe’s already leaning slightly closer toward Kon, posture shifting entirely as she offers him a polished smile like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes insulting your existence.
“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” she asks smoothly. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing you around.”
Kon tilts his head slightly behind his sunglasses. “Damn,” he says casually. “That sounds either really flattering or really threatening.”
Chloe lets out a light laugh a little too quickly. “Maybe both.”
You physically feel your soul leave your body a little. And somehow, Chloe continues talking like you’re not even standing there anymore.
“You seriously came shopping here?” she asks him, glancing around dramatically. “You should try somewhere downtown instead. This place is kind of…”
Her eyes flick briefly toward you. “…tacky.”
Ah.
There it is.
You were wondering how long it’d take before she circled back to insulting you indirectly again. But instead of feeding into the flirting like you expected him to, Kon just casually talks right over her.
“Fortunately, seems like I like tacky.” He turns his attention fully back toward you like Chloe’s suddenly become background noise. “Hey, do you think this blue looks better or the red?”
Chloe visibly falters for half a second.
“What?”
“The jackets,” Kon says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m letting Gotham’s resident fashion expert decide.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t drag me into your poor financial decisions.” You muttered out, averting your eyes.
“Too late. You’re already emotionally invested.”
Chloe’s smile strains slightly now.
“Well,” she says, trying to slide herself back into the conversation, “if you’re looking for actual fashion advice, I could probably help more than—”
“Nah.” His words cut straight through her sentence anyway. Kon gestures toward you with complete confidence.
“I trust her taste more.”
The silence afterward is painful. Chloe’s expression tightens immediately. “Seriously?” she says with a short, disbelieving laugh. “Her?”
You can practically hear the judgment dripping off the word.
“I mean, no offense, but she literally looks like she picked her outfit based on whatever was lying on her floor this morning.”
…Okay.
Rude. But she wasn’t that off—
You open your mouth automatically, fully prepared to snap back. But Kon beats you to it.
“And somehow,” he says bluntly, “she still dresses better than whatever rich mean girl cosplay you’ve got going on right now.”
Silence. Complete silence. Even you stare at him for a second in shock.
Because wow.
That was vicious.
Chloe looks genuinely offended now, eyes widening slightly like nobody’s ever spoken to her like that before in her life. Kon, meanwhile, doesn’t even look remotely bothered.
If anything, he just seems mildly unimpressed.
His arm slips from your shoulders then, hand sliding naturally down until his fingers curl loosely around yours instead.
Gentle. Easy. Completely at odds with the absolute verbal destruction he just unleashed two seconds ago.
“C’mon,” he says lightly, already tugging you away with him. “I think we’ve reached today’s limit for brain damage.”
You’re still halfway processing what just happened as he leads you farther down the store, leaving Chloe standing there looking utterly scandalized behind you.
A tiny part of you almost feels bad. Almost. But it seems like she wasn’t done yet.
“Hey—you don’t just—!” Chloe starts somewhere behind you, clearly not finished with whatever social war she was trying to wage—
“There you are, (Name)!”
…Huh?
You blink immediately, turning toward the new, familiar voice—and freeze.
Stephanie.
She’s calling out to you with the kind of casual familiarity that makes it sound like you two were longtime friends meeting up at the mall on purpose.
Which is alarming already. But then your eyes shift slightly past her—
And you physically feel your soul begin leaving your body.
Damian is storming toward you at concerning speeds—wearing one of those fake sunglasses with a moustache disguises that absolutely nobody over the age of five should be taking seriously.
And right behind him—Tim.
Oh my god.
What in the actual intervention is this? Where the hell did those three even come from?!
Your brain immediately starts trying to piece together the situation in real time. Meanwhile, beside you, Kon goes suspiciously still.
“…Uh oh,” he says quietly.
You slowly turn toward him.
“Uh oh?” you repeat. “What do you mean uh oh?”
Kon subtly jerks his head toward the chaos rapidly approaching behind you.
“Pretty sure your brother’s about to murder me in a Forever 21.”
“That’s your takeaway from this?!?” you whisper-shout, immediately face-palming.
From across the mall, tucked into the seating area outside one of the cafes nearby, three highly trained vigilantes were currently conducting what was, objectively speaking, the stupidest surveillance mission Gotham had probably ever seen.
Which was apparently watching you shop with Conner Kent. Or more accurately—watching Kon drag you all over Gotham Mall while you tolerated him with steadily decreasing resistance.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Stephanie mutters under her breath, hiding half her face behind one of the laminated café menus. She points dramatically across the table toward Damian.
“First of all, we probably look insane right now.”
Damian barely reacts, arms crossed tightly as he stares across the mall with intense focus beneath the ridiculous fake disguise he was wearing—the oversized sunglasses attached to a plastic moustache.
“Second of all—where the hell did you even get that thing?!”
Damian doesn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was a gift.”
“From who?”
Damian refuses to elaborate further. Which only makes it worse. He continues staring outward toward the clothing store where Kon had just disappeared into another fitting room while dragging you along with him.
Stephanie groans loudly before turning toward Tim for support, gesturing pointedly at Damian like please say something about this.
Tim only sighs tiredly into his drink. Which tells Stephanie absolutely nothing except the fact that he, too, has apparently committed himself fully to whatever this situation is now.
Honestly, both of them looked like idiots.
Stephanie watches the two of them silently track your movements through the store windows and realises with dawning horror that these idiots are genuinely too far gone to be self-aware anymore.
“Seriously,” she says slowly, lowering the menu. “Even though I love a good stakeout… why are we spying on their date?”
“It’s not a date.”
The response comes instantly. Simultaneously.
And Stephanie blinks in disbelief, because both Damian and Tim had said it at the exact same time. She stares at them flatly.
“…I’m actually surrounded by morons.”
Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.
“That Kryptonian is growing excessively touchy with (Name).”
Stephanie rolls her eyes automatically, but Tim’s gaze shifts back toward the store anyway. Toward the exact moment Kon casually grabs your hand to pull you back onto your feet. Toward the way he leans too close into your space afterward, grinning at something you say.
Tim’s jaw tightens slightly before he even realises it.
Because the annoying thing is… you don’t actually look upset.
Embarrassed sometimes? Sure. Exasperated? Definitely. But not uncomfortable.
Which, for some reason, is what sticks.
Then Kon pulls something out, holding it right in front of you. Something bright, obnoxiously red. Tim squints slightly.
Wait.
Is that… supposed to be him? Or well—Red Robin??
And then he watches you reach for it—only for Kon to lift it just slightly out of reach, laughing.
What.
“Tt.” Damian scoffs beside him. “Why would she even want that thing. Clearly a Robin one is far better than whatever that is.”
Oh.
Tim glances over at the boy. Is he… sulking?
Before he can even process that, Damian is already pointing at him like he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“Don’t misunderstand her, Drake. She is likely intending to give it to that Elliot child.”
Ah. Elliot…
Right. The kid from the orphanage you’d seemed to gorw unexpectedly fond of.
Tim’s gaze flickers back toward you again. So it wasn’t for you. That makes sense. That’s… fine. That much was expected.
Still, there’s that brief, irrational thought that comes to his head before he can stop it. Did he really just let himself get even a little hopeful over something like that?
He pushes it down immediately. Because, objectively, nothing had been confirmed. You weren’t even necessarily getting it for the kid. It could’ve meant nothing at all.
“…Maybe not,” Tim says at last, voice even.
Damian’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s almost comical.
But whatever argument was about to happen gets cut off immediately.
“Okay, wait” Stephanie says, leaning forward, “who even is Elliot?”
Both boys go silent. Which is never a good sign.
Stephanie stares between them, offended. “What the heck you guys? I didn’t come all the way out here just to be left out of the loop.”
Damian crosses his arms. “No one invited you here, Brown.”
“Oh yeah?” she shoots back instantly. “Like how (Name) invited you to spy on her? Oh wait—she didn’t.”
That earns her exactly what she wants. Damian going momentarily silent, jaw tightening as if he’s actively reconsidering every life choice that led him to this cafe table.
Stephanie doesn’t waste the opening. Her gaze snaps to Tim instead. He exhales, like he’s already tired of all of this. “Elliot’s a kid (Name) met at an orphanage.”
Stephanie raises an eyebrow, gesturing to Damian now. “What—the orphanage you were looking up earlier?”
This time, Tim turns slowly toward Damian. “You were searching up the orphanage? What for?”
Damian doesn’t answer.
Stephanie, unfortunately, does it for him. “Apparently—.”
”Brown.”
“(Name)’s been wary of the warden there.”
What.
That pulls the air out of the moment. Tim’s focus shifts instantly—something colder threading through the confusion.
Wary.
So that’s what this is about. That’s why you started going to the orphanage in the first place.
But what exactly, were you wary of about the warden?
The question settles in his chest and doesn’t quite leave. It sits there, uneasy and persistent, like a detail he should have already noticed but somehow hasn’t.
Tim’s gaze lingers a second too long on the store front before he makes a quiet decision of his own. He’ll look into the orphanage later.
His gaze returns to you without thinking.
Kon has disappeared back into the fitting room again. You’ve sunk briefly into your seat, shoulders loose—then stood again, drifting toward another rack like you’re moving on autopilot. Aimlessly checking out the clothes.
But then Tim notices it. The shift.
Your body language changes subtly—just enough that it catches his attention. A fraction slower in your movements, a slight dip in your posture.
You look… a little sad.
And it doesn’t make sense.
Why?
What changed? What thought slipped in just now that pulled that expression out of you?
Tim’s mind starts working before he can stop it, turning over possibilities, trying to find out the cause like it’s an immediate problem that needs solving. And the worst part is how easily it spirals—how quickly it stops being just observation and starts feeling like concern he can’t quite place a reason for.
Why is his brain doing this to him?
But then he sees you pick up a certain blue jacket, something in your expression softening—almost fond. For a second, it looks like whatever had weighed on you earlier just… disappears.
Like it was never there at all.
The moment was short lived though as this blonde girl walks up to you.
“Now who the heck is that?” Stephanie whispers under her breath, leaning forward slightly as she watches the exchange unfold.
The girl says something to you—too quiet to fully hear over the cafe noise—but your expression shifts almost immediately. A slight frown. Tim notices it instantly.
The change in your stance. The way your shoulders tighten. The way you look away instead of directly engaging.
Then fragments of the girl’s words drift through—broken by distance, swallowed by background chatter.
“…not… going to… pay attention…not… daddy…”
What?
Stephanie lets out a low groan. “Ugh. Should’ve known she was going to be one of those mean girls from the way she strutted in.” She pushes back her chair.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Damian snaps at her. Stephanie doesn’t even look back. She gestures sharply toward you instead. “Duh. Are you seriously going to sit there while that bitch is talking to (Name) like that?”
Tim doesn’t respond. Because his attention has already shifted back to you. And he freezes.
Because Kon has appeared again. His arm slides across your shoulders—casual and effortless, pulling you slightly into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something in Tim’s chest tightens before he can name it.
And beside him, Damian is already on his feet. He’s storming out of the cafe, following after Stephanie. Straight toward you without a second thought.
But Tim’s quick to follow after them.
Stephanie is the first one to reach you—cutting through the small knot of tension forming in the store. She doesn’t even hesitate before rudely shouldering past Chloe on her way in.
“Hey—!” Chloe snaps, whirling around immediately, offended. She looks ready to fire something cutting back, but Damian is right behind Stephanie and does not bother with diplomacy.
He doesn’t shove her. It’s worse.
A sharp, precise hit to her ribs with the back of his hand that makes her gasp mid-sentence.
“Watch yourself,” Damian says flatly, already moving past her like she’s not worth more than a passing obstacle. Chloe opens her mouth again, fully prepared to escalate—until she sees Tim.
“Oh..! Tim Drake?”
Her entire expression flips in an instant. The irritation melts into practiced charm, shoulders straightening, voice going syrup-sweet.
“I’m Chloe Travers,” she says, stepping forward as if the previous confrontation never happened. “I’m sure you know my father—”
Tim walks straight past her. Chloe freezes mid-introduction. Tim doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of you instead.
For a second, he seems like he’s hesitating—like the words he wanted to say felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
“…Are you alright?”
It comes out slightly awkward. Careful. Not quite like the Red Robin or Tim Drake you knew. Not exactly.
What the fuck.
Behind you, you feel Kon’s hand suddenly get smacked away—Damian clearly not appreciating the contact anymore. Kon lets out a quiet, betrayed “ow” and—to his credit, actually releases your hand without argument.
Stephanie hovers near Tim’s side, close enough that it looks like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to intervene or just… observe. Her expression is something of.. concern? Worry?
Even Damian, who was usually allergic to emotional ambiguity—is watching you now, still tense, still ready to act.
It’s… weird. All of it.
You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of the attention pinned on you.
“I—uh,” you say, glancing away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
It sounds weaker than you intend. More embarrassing than anything else.
And then Chloe clears her throat loudly. Very loudly. Like she’s demanding the entire scene reset itself around her presence.
Every head turns sharply back toward her.
Chloe straightens immediately, smoothing her posture, already back in control of her tone as she clasps her hands in front of her.
“As I was saying,” she continues, eyes fixed on Tim now, “I’m sure you know my father. I’m also sure he’d be very pleased if we got to know each other—”
“And why’s that?” Tim cuts in.
His voice is unexpectedly firm. Clean-edged. Not unkind, but not indulgent either.
It makes Chloe falter for half a beat. And somehow that makes you want to laugh despite every reason not to right now.
”Sweetheart? What are you doing here?”
The voice—for some reason, suddenly sends a chill down your spine before you even look up.
A tall man approaches, composed and polished in that effortless way that suggests he’s used to being listened to.
Chloe brightens instantly.
“Dad!”
He places a hand on her shoulder before looking over all of you.
“Now, now,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene when you go out?”
Then, as if nothing happened at all, he continues smoothly, “Ah—allow me to introduce myself. Wilson Travers. My apologies if my daughter has been… a little difficult.”
“A little?” Damian repeats immediately, scoffing.
Stephanie, faster than him, reaches over and physically clamps a hand over his mouth with a tight, apologetic smile aimed at Wilson like please do not take him seriously under any circumstances.
Mr. Travers just smiles politely in return, unbothered. Then his gaze shifts, landing on you. Something in his expression softens immediately.
“Ah,” he says, a gentler tone slipping in. “It’s been a while, (Name). I hope you’ve been doing well.”
Right. You know him.
A presence that once felt reassuring in a way you didn’t question at the time.
So why does your body react like this now?
That same instinct. That same quiet, crawling alarm in your chest—the same one that flickered whenever you were around… Mrs. Cole.
Your throat tightens before you even understand why. Still, you manage a small smile.
“Yes. I have.”
But even as the words leave your mouth—you can’t shake the feeling that something here is wrong.
Mr. Travers doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already guiding Chloe away with a practiced ease, tone smoothing itself out as he adds, “Once again, I apologise for my daughter. We’ll be on our way now.”
Over his shoulder, Chloe shoots you one last look—sharp, deliberate, promising that this isn’t finished.
You don’t really feel threatened by it. Not in the way you probably should. Instead, your attention lingers on something else entirely.
Because this feeling—it’s familiar in a way you don’t like. The same uneasy, instinctive alarm that had flickered when you met Mrs. Cole’s. And now it’s here again.
With Mr. Travers.
“So… are we going to talk about anything or are we just going to brood and walk.” Kon is seriously not helping the situation here at all.
You’ve long since left the store, but somehow the group has just… stayed intact, wandering aimlessly through the mall. This is stupid.
Damian walks between you and Kon like some guard dog, whereas Tim is on Kon’s other side, with Stephanie trailing slightly closer to Tim.
Damian suddenly points at you.
“You,” he says sharply. “Why were you associating with this fool?”
Ah. So the interrogation begins…
“In my defense,” you say flatly, “this guy picked me up.”
Kon turns to you instantly, looking personally betrayed. “Hey—come on,” he protests. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy my company.”
You did. Unfortunately. Admitting that out loud, however, feels like voluntary self-sabotage, so you just shrug instead.
Which apparently is enough confirmation for Damian to immediately lose interest in you entirely and go chase after Kon for reasons only Damian Wayne and Conner Kent understood.
Kon, to his credit, runs.
And just like that, you’re left behind. With Tim. And Stephanie. The sudden drop in noise is immediate. The mall feels louder for it somehow, even though nothing has changed. You glance between them.
Yeah. This is definitely worse.
You think back to earlier—Stephanie’s expression when she looked at you. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not after everything that’s happened between you two.
And yet it does. Because despite everything… she still looked concerned. Still looked like she genuinely cared. That alone tugs at something uncomfortable in your chest.
Even if, yes, she also kind of spied on you with Damian and Tim.
…Yeah. That detail does not help.
You exhale through your nose, then turn your attention to Tim.
“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice coming out sharper than intended.
Tim freezes. You see it immediately—the way his posture stills, the way his eyes lift to yours like he’s trying to read you before he answers, carefully sorting through every possible response that won’t make this worse. But you don’t let him find one.
“And don’t say it’s a coincidence. Kon already told me you were on patrol.”
That lands. You can tell by the way Tim runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in a quiet, frustrated motion—like he’s been caught out and hates that he has.
“I was just—” he starts, then stops. “I was just worried, okay?”
“Worried?” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “About what—me hanging out with Kon?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks away, like the answer he needs just isn’t sitting in any of the usual places. And it frustrates you more than it should.
Dammit, Tim. Just say something. Anything.
Something that would settle the noise in your head. Something that would make sense of everything that’s happened between you and him. EVerything that led to this moment.
You wanted—no, needed him to say something that proves to you that he actually cares.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because no matter what he says—or doesn’t say, no matter how carefully he phrases it… is there even a version of this that fixes everything? A definitive answer that straightens out all the misunderstandings, all the half-spoken thoughts, all the things that have been said and have been left unsaid for too long?
Because it feels like there isn’t. And that realisation sits there, heavy and unresolved, right between you both.
You let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Because honestly? You just want this day to be over.
One bad conversation with Jason already feels like more than enough. Helena’s blunt honesty and Kon’s chaotic presence had helped—somehow—like a temporary distraction from everything sitting too heavy in your chest. But it only just gave way for something else. With Tim.
And you don’t want that. You really don’t.
You don’t want to turn this into another problem between you and him. You’ve had enough of those already—too many unresolved edges, too many things left hanging in the air until they start to rot.
Especially not like this.
Not with the way he’s looking at you right now. Like this isn’t just affecting you.
Like it’s hurting him too.
And that thought, more than anything else, makes everything feel worse than it already is.
“Never mind,” you mutter. “Forget I said that. I don’t even want to know the answer.” You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a hand catches yours.
Stephanie stands there, grip gentle but firm, like she’s decided she’s not letting this end the way it feels like it’s about to. Her expression is serious now. Less… defensive. Just honest.
“Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re probably pissed at us for spying on you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want you walking away thinking that’s all this was—”
“No,” you interject, letting out a tired sigh as your free hand drags across your face. The one Stephanie is still holding stays there. Warm, grounding in a way you don’t really want to think about too much.
“I mean… I wasn’t really pissed,” you admit. “More like… in disbelief.” You glance back at her, the words catching slightly in your throat before you force them out anyway.
“And… thank you,” you add, quieter now. “For stepping in earlier. Even though we’re not exactly—well... friends. You still chose to help me back there.”
Stephanie visibly blinks at that, like the words don’t quite compute at first. Shocked. Caught off guard.
Which, honestly, makes sense. You can’t really blame her for it.
Because you remember this period of your life too clearly—the way you’d been around her. Defensive. Sometimes outright unfair in a way that sits a little uncomfortable in hindsight now.
Not because she deserved it. She didn’t. She definitely didn’t. She didn’t deserve half the attitude you gave her.
But despite all that, she still chose to step in. She really is a good person. Unlike you.
The tension snaps the moment Damian reappears—already dragging Kon back by the collar like he’s somehow concluded a full fight off-screen. You’re not even sure if Kon resisted or if he just… let it happen at this point.
“…Let’s go,” Damian says flatly, eyes flicking between you, Stephanie, and Tim, who’s still hovering slightly to the side like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to exist in all this. He doesn’t elaborate further.
Kon, of course, immediately ruins the attempt at a clean exit.
He straightens up like nothing happened, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity. “Excuse you,” he says, pointing vaguely in Damian’s direction. “I haven’t finished commemorating my day out with (Name).”
You raise a brow at that. Commemorating?
Before you can even question it, Kon suddenly grabs both you and Tim. One hand on each of you.
“Wait—what are you—” Before you can question him, he moves.
There’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift in gravity, and Kon bolts off at impossible speed, dragging both of you along with him.
You vaguely hear Damian shouting behind you, voice sharp with outrage as he takes off in pursuit—but it fades quickly, swallowed by wind and movement and the sheer absurdity of what’s happening.
When everything finally stops, you’re standing outside a… photobooth store? Kon looks far too pleased with himself, as he turns to you now.
”I’m sure you know what a photobooth is, (Name). Unless..?”
You click your tongue immediately. “Of course I do.”
Your gaze drifts toward the rows of brightly lit booths before flicking back to him. “This is your way of commemorating today?”
“Why not?”
Dammit. He answers way too fast for someone who definitely improvised this entire plan three seconds ago.
Before you can say anything else, Kon steps into one of the empty booths and grabs your hand again to tug you inside with him. You glance back just in time to see Tim about to follow after you both.
Only for Kon to abruptly hold a hand out toward him.
“Ah-ahh, Tim. You’re standing guard.”
Tim blinks. “…What?”
“You know,” Kon says easily, already pulling the curtain halfway closed, “making sure Damian doesn’t storm in and photobomb us.” Then he points dramatically toward the outside.
“You can have your turn after me.”
And with that, he shuts the curtain directly in Tim’s face. You let out a half-amused laugh at that scene, shaking your head.
“Kicking your best friend out?” you ask. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“Well,” Kon says dramatically, “serves him right for spying on us in the first place. Guy clearly couldn’t handle leaving me alone with you.” He sighs like he’s personally suffered today before immediately perking back up and reaching for the pile of photobooth props. Within seconds, he’s shoved a pair of sparkly star-shaped sunglasses onto his face.
“Come on,” he says, hitting the start button on the machine. “Pose and smile.”
Then he points at himself proudly.
“Do I look good?”
He strikes the most unserious pose imaginable. You stare at him for exactly one second before laughing under your breath in disbelief.
“You look ridiculous.”
Which, apparently, is the correct answer because Kon’s grin only widens.
“That’s the point.”
The countdown begins flashing on the screen.
Kon immediately grabs another prop—a plush cat-ear headband—and before you can stop him, he carefully places it on your head himself. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Perfect.”
You deadpan at him. Meanwhile, Kon’s already cycling through all the props, somehow making every single one look weirdly natural on him. Then he suddenly looks at you again, expression softer beneath all the theatrics.
“Now remember this day,” he says dramatically. “The day Conner—Kon-El—Kent brought you out to have fun.”
“Even though he used me for my money?” you ask, raising a brow.
Kon gasps like you’ve deeply wounded him.
“I prefer the term that you willingly embraced your role as my sugar mommy for the day.” he says, leaning closer.
You immediately point a threatening finger at him.
“Never say those words again. Ever.” But there’s already a smile tugging at your mouth anyway as the camera flashes.
And honestly?
Maybe today really wasn’t that bad after all.
The timing, unfortunately, betrays you.
Because the second the photostrip finishes printing, the curtain violently gets pulled open.
Damian appears.
Kon barely even has time to react before Damian physically yanks him out of the booth by the sleeve, sending the Kryptonian stumbling backward with an offended yelp.
Damian immediately slides into the empty seat beside you like this was always his rightful place. You blink at him, equal parts amused and confused.
“…What’s this?”
“Tt.” Damian completely ignores the question, already leaning forward to rummage through the prop basket. A second later, he straightens back up—with a ridiculous frog headband now sitting atop his head.
“You cannot seriously allow that imbecile to be the only one taking photographs with you.” he says stiffly, adjusting the headband like this is a matter of pride and dignity.
You stare at him for a long second. Then your mouth curls despite yourself.
“Just admit you wanted a pic with me too, Damian.”
“As if,” Damian says instantly, refusing to look at you even once.
Which honestly tells you everything you need to know.
Outside the booth, Kon presses a hand dramatically to his chest.
“I’m being replaced in real time,” he says mournfully.
“You were never occupying the position to begin with.” Damian replies without missing a beat.
“I definitely was if you had to literally throw me out.”
“And I should do it again.”
Before Kon can launch himself back into the booth, another face suddenly appears between the curtains.
“Well,” Stephanie says, peeking in with blatant curiosity, “can’t we all?” And before Damian can object properly, she’s already squeezing herself into the booth beside you. Damian immediately points at her like an outraged prosecutor.
“Get out, Brown.”
“No thanks,” Stephanie says, completely ignoring him and picking up a headband herself.
Safe to say—you end up taking a lot of pictures. With everyone.
finally done omfg… (lowk had to push back a few scenes to part 4 so… 😟🫡) 16k words chapter here… might kms if there’s typos lmfao 💀 unfortunately not as angsty as i would have liked it to be but oh well 🤣🤣 hopefully yall enjoy this…. also new character alert! (he’s an oc, not a dc character…)
She woke up early, not because she needed to, but because her mind refused to stay quiet past a certain point, already turning over unfinished threads from the night before, already reaching for feeds and data before she was fully out of bed.
Coffee came first, always. Though it often sat untouched for longer than it should as she worked, fingers moving across keys with practiced ease, pulling up reports from the night shift, cross-referencing incidents, scanning for inconsistencies that others might overlook.
She couldn’t even ignore them if she wanted to. Information came to her constantly, most she pulled out of habit more than necessity sometimes, because staying informed had long since stopped being a choice and started becoming instinct.
There was always something to fix. Something to monitor.
Something that needed her attention.
Even if she wasn’t out there physically anymore, Barbara still moved through Gotham in her own way, through screens and systems that bent just enough under her hands to give her access where others didn’t have it.
Gotham never really slept, and neither did the systems that kept track of it.
And, by extension, neither did she.
There was a kind of comfort in that.
Not a pleasant one, not something she would ever describe as good, but something familiar. Controlled. Predictable. Safe, in a way she didn’t always like to acknowledge.
It gave her structure. Kept her from thinking too hard about the things she couldn’t change, even if she wanted to.
By midday, she had forced herself out.
Not for anything major.
Just the usual—checking in on things that didn’t require a screen, picking up small things she could’ve easily ordered instead, moving through the city in a way that reminded her she was still part of it beyond wires and data. A quiet check-in at the precinct, more out of habit than necessity, exchanging a few words with familiar faces who had long since stopped treating her presence as unusual.
Normal.
Or at least something close enough to pass.
It grounded her. Reminded her of the reason why she does what she does.
After that, she stopped by a cafe, though she couldn’t say she remembered much about it. The drink had been decent, she thinks—warm enough to serve its purpose at least.
It should have ended there.
Just another stop in a day that had followed its usual rhythm.
But before she even fully registers it—before she can pinpoint the exact moment her route shifts from familiar to something else, Barbara finds herself here.
Narrows Children’s Home.
The very orphanage you’d been going to.
Again and again.
For the past few days, after your lessons ended, instead of heading straight back to Wayne Manor like you always had, you came here instead.
It wasn’t that Barbara had meant to track you. Not intentionally. It was just… hard to ignore.
She hadn’t actively kept tabs on your movements in a long time—not like she used to, not like she could have if she’d allowed herself to—but that didn’t mean she’d stopped noticing when something was off. And lately, something was.
Your behavior had shifted too suddenly to dismiss. The way you quit being Batgirl without warning, without explanation, without any of the signs that should have led up to a decision like that. It left too many loose ends. Too many questions.
And Barbara had never been good at leaving things like that alone.
So no, she hadn’t been tracking you.
But she had been paying attention.
Something she should’ve been doing from the moment she took you under her wing. From the moment you chose to be Batgirl.
Barbara knew very well that old habits don’t just… disappear because you want them to. She knew that better than most—she had seen it happen, over and over again, in the people she knew and cared about. Bruce, Dick, Dinah, Cassandra, Stephanie…. You.
Which was exactly why she knew something was off now.
The change hadn’t been gradual. It hadn’t been something she could trace back to a slow buildup of events, something that made sense when laid out piece by piece. It had been abrupt. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped overnight.
It was like you weren’t the same girl anymore. Not the one who would take whatever patrol came your way without hesitation, who would throw yourself into whatever situation needed handling, no matter how messy or unpredictable it got. You had always been… persistent, in your own way. Stubborn, even. Willing to push past your limits just to prove that you could.
To prove that you belonged.
Though to who? Barbara wasn’t entirely sure anymore.
And maybe—maybe—she could have written it off. Said it was the weight of everything finally catching up to you, incident after incident piling on until something in you gave way.
That would have been the easy explanation. The convenient one. But it didn’t sit right.
Because you had been so adamant. So insistent on staying, on pushing forward, on proving something even when it cost you more than it should have.
So why now?
Why, when Gotham had finally settled into something resembling calm—calm, at least by Gotham’s standards—would you choose to walk away?
The thought lingers longer than she likes.
Because it makes her uncomfortable. Because it makes her feel like she’s missing something she should have already caught.
Barbara exhales slowly, her fingers shifting against the wheels of her chair.
It feels hypocritical.
No—she is a hypocrite.
She had been the one telling Stephanie to give you space. Telling Dick not to push, not to corner you into a conversation you clearly weren’t ready to have. That at the end of the day, that decision was yours, and they had no right to press you on it, no matter how much they wanted answers.
She had no right to press you on it.
And yet, here she was.
Right outside a place she has no real reason to be at, drawn here by subconscious thoughts despite telling everyone else to leave this alone.
As if, on some level, she had already decided that it wasn’t enough.
As if she wanted more than distance. More than silence.
A real conversation.
Not… whatever that had been at the cafe.
Barbara’s expression tightens faintly at the memory, something sharper cutting through her thoughts.
That had been a mistake. A careless one.
She shouldn’t have let herself get carried away like that, shouldn’t have assumed she could… bridge a gap that clearly hadn’t been ready to close. Inviting Dick without telling you first? Without even giving you the chance to decide if you wanted that kind of conversation? That had been shortsighted on her part.
She should have known better.
There were still things left unresolved between the two of you. Tension that hadn’t been dealt with, feelings that had been left to sit and harden after everything that happened when Bruce was lost in the timestream and Dick had to step into a role neither of you were fully prepared for.
Barbara knew that.
She just… hadn’t accounted for how deep it still ran.
She exhales quietly, her shoulders easing just slightly as her gaze lifts back to the building in front of her.
The orphanage stands there, unassuming in the way places like this often are when they’ve managed to survive Gotham long enough to become something steady. The grass field out front is neatly trimmed, the kind of careful upkeep that doesn’t happen by accident, and the exterior of the building is clean, well maintained in a way that suggests effort rather than abundance.
Her eyes drift further, settling on the children scattered across the yard.
They’re running, laughing, chasing each other in uneven circles, their voices carrying faintly through the air. There’s a lightness to it—something unguarded, something easy. A few caretakers stand nearby, watchful but not overbearing, stepping in only when needed, letting the children exist without hovering too closely.
Normal.
Or at least, as close to normal as Gotham ever allows.
Barbara watches for a moment longer than she means to.
And a thought slips in, quiet but persistent.
Was that why you were drawn to a place like this?
Because outside of Gotham’s grit—the dirt and the crime and the constant weight of everything pressing down on it—this felt like something else entirely?
A haven.
A reprieve.
She almost calls it a distraction, but the word feels wrong the second it forms, too dismissive for something that looks like this.
No—this was something steadier than that.
Something grounding.
A reminder, maybe, that outside of the masks and the patrols and the endless cycle of violence, there was still something resembling normalcy left in this city, fragile as it might be. Gotham had been through worse and still managed to stand back up again. After the earthquake, after being cut off and declared a no man’s land, after everything that should have broken it beyond repair—it endured.
Rebuilt.
Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough.
Barbara exhales again, softer this time, her fingers shifting lightly against the wheels of her chair.
She’s overthinking this.
She knows she is.
Reading into something that might not be as complicated as she’s making it out to be, projecting questions onto something that doesn’t necessarily have answers waiting for her.
And you? You hadn’t asked for any of this.
Her gaze dips briefly before lifting again.
She should go.
Before she runs into you and turns this into something else entirely. Another misunderstanding. Another conversation that goes wrong before it even has the chance to start.
Barbara begins to turn her chair, the motion slow and deliberate, when—
“Ms. Gordon?”
The voice catches her mid-movement.
She pauses, and turns slightly, her brows drawing together just a fraction as she looks toward the source.
An older woman stands a few steps away, her presence quiet but assured. Silver hair is neatly tied back into a bun, a soft cardigan draped over her shoulders, paired with a long skirt that moves gently with the breeze. Her gray eyes are warm, attentive, settled on Barbara with a familiarity that suggests recognition rather than curiosity.
“Ah, so it is you,” she says, her voice gentle but certain. “I’m Mrs. Cole. Margaret Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She extends a hand.
Barbara hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking it, returning the handshake with a polite nod. “Barbara Gordon. Likewise.”
“Leslie told me about you. We’re old acquaintances, she and I.”
Barbara exhales softly through her nose, something in her posture easing just a little at the mention.
Of course.
Leslie Thompkins had a way of being everywhere that mattered without ever making it feel intrusive. A constant, steady presence in Gotham, connected to more people than most would ever realise.
Mrs. Cole tilts her head slightly, her expression open, inviting.
“Would you like to come in for some tea?” she asks. “I’d enjoy the company, if you have the time.”
Barbara’s fingers rest lightly against her wheels again, her gaze flicking briefly past the woman, toward the orphanage behind her.
Toward the place you’ve been returning to.
Again and again.
For a moment, she considers declining. Going away like she intended. Leaving this alone, like she told everyone else to.
But then, her attention shifts back to Mrs. Cole. And something in her pauses.
“…Alright,” Barbara says after a beat, quieter now, but certain enough.
Just this once.
Barbara now finds herself seated inside Mrs. Cole’s office, looking around.
It’s… modest.
Not in a lacking way, but in a deliberate one. The kind of space that’s been built over time rather than decorated all at once. Shelves lined with books that look well used. A few framed drawings—clearly done by children—hung a little unevenly along the walls. A desk pushed neatly to the side, papers stacked in a way that suggests order without rigidity.
Lived-in.
Barbara’s gaze lingers for a moment, taking it all in, before it shifts back to Mrs. Cole just as she returns with a tray of tea.
She sets it down with practiced ease, the faint clink of porcelain filling the otherwise quiet room as she takes a seat opposite Barbara on the couch.
Barbara watches as she pours.
One cup.
Then another.
“Thank you,” Barbara says, her voice even as she reaches forward to take it, the warmth seeping into her hands almost immediately. She brings it up for a small sip. Chamomile, it seems. Softened with a hint of honey.
Gentle. Calming. The kind of tea meant to settle nerves, to ease tension without drawing attention to it.
But chamomile has always been like that—something used to soothe, to lull, to make things feel safer than they actually are.
Barbara lets the taste sit for a moment longer than necessary before lowering the cup slightly, her eyes flicking back up to Mrs. Cole.
Comforting. And just a little too deliberate.
The kind of warmth that isn’t accidental—carefully chosen, carefully offered, meant to ease something before it’s even been voiced. Barbara recognises that instinct immediately. She’s used it herself, in different ways, in different contexts. Offer something steady. Something harmless. Something that lowers a person’s guard just enough to make the rest of the conversation easier.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“So, is there any particular reason you found yourself here today?”
Barbara smiles. It’s easy enough to do—natural, practiced, something that doesn’t give away more than she intends.
“I was just taking a different route, that’s all. Happened to pass by.”
It’s a clean answer. Simple. The kind that closes a door without making it obvious that there was one to begin with.
It should be enough.
Mrs. Cole hums softly, as if considering it.
“Are you sure?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly. “You seemed rather deep in thought before I came up to you.”
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup. Just a fraction.
“Is there perhaps something you were concerned about?”
There’s a pause. Not long. But long enough.
Because the question settles somewhere it shouldn’t, brushing up against thoughts Barbara hadn’t planned on voicing—hadn’t planned on acknowledging, even to herself.
She could deflect.
She should.
But before she can—
“Or perhaps…someone you were concerned about?”
That—
That makes her look up.
Barbara’s gaze meets hers again, sharper this time, searching.
But there’s nothing overt there. No accusation. No knowing smirk. Just that same calm, open expression, as if she’s simply stating an observation rather than prying.
It would be easy to dismiss it as intuition.
As perception.
Or—
Barbara’s mind flickers, unbidden, back to the past few days. To the quiet, repeated appearance of one name in a place it hadn’t been before.
To you.
Even without an answer, Mrs. Cole is speaking up again, as if the silence itself had already told her enough.
“(Name) Wayne truly is a remarkable child,” she says, her tone softening just slightly. “Very kind. Very attentive. She’s been a tremendous help here… especially with the younger ones. And the friends she brings along as well.”
Barbara lets out a quiet scoff at that, not sharp enough to be rude, but not entirely devoid of meaning either. It slips out before she can stop it, more reflex than intention.
So that’s what this is.
Mrs. Cole hadn’t approached her because of Leslie. Not really.
Barbara shifts slightly in her seat, her gaze settling more firmly on the woman across from her now.
“You seem like you have something you want to say to me,” Barbara says, her tone measured, but not unkind.
About (Name), she leaves unsaid, but it was unmistakably implied.
Mrs. Cole doesn’t react the way most people would. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t deflect. If anything, her smile deepens just slightly, still as warm and composed as before.
“I suppose I do,” she admits gently, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
Her gaze meets Barbara’s, steady and unhurried.
“But I think…” she continues, tilting her head just a fraction, “…it might be more accurate to say that you came here because you have something you want to understand.”
The words settle between them.
Not accusatory. Not forceful. Just… there. And deep down, it definitely was true. She came here, agreed to have tea purely because there was something she wanted to understand. About you.
Mrs. Cole gestures lightly toward the cup in Barbara’s hands.
“You’re welcome to ask.”
Barbara studies her for a moment longer, weighing that—how easily the woman turns the conversation without ever sounding like she’s doing it. It’s subtle. Careful. Intentional.
Barbara has done the same thing before.
Which is exactly why she recognises it. Still, she keeps her tone polite. Even.
“How would you know we’re acquainted?”
Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t falter.
“Oh,” she says lightly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “she’s mentioned you before. In passing, mostly. While helping out with the children.”
Barbara stills, just slightly. It’s not obvious—not outwardly—but internally, something shifts.
Because that—that she hadn’t expected.
Her mind turns it over immediately, searching for gaps, for inconsistencies. You mentioning her. Here. Casually. Not with tension. Not with distance.
Would you have?
Barbara doesn’t know.
And the fact that she doesn’t know—that she can’t confidently say one way or another—sits heavier than it should.
But… if you really did…
Then that means something, doesn’t it?
It means that there’s still something there for heer to work with.
That whatever distance had formed between the two of you hadn’t fully severed things the way it sometimes felt like it had.
Right?
Her grip on the cup steadies as she clears her throat softly, lifting it for another sip—not because she needs it, but because it gives her a second to collect herself.
“I see.”
Mrs. Cole watches her over the rim of her own cup before taking a slow sip, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world.
“She’s very good with them,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational. “The children, I mean.”
Barbara nods once, the motion automatic, practiced.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“No,” Mrs. Cole agrees, a small, knowing smile forming as her gaze softens just slightly. “It shouldn’t.”
There’s a pause after that—one that lingers just a little too long to be entirely natural, but not long enough to call out. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, but instead settles in, patient, waiting to see what rises to meet it.
“She doesn’t raise her voice,” Mrs. Cole continues eventually, as if picking up a thread that had never truly been dropped. “Even when they test her patience. And they do, quite often. Children always do. One way or another. Without meaning to most of the time.”
Barbara’s fingers shift faintly around the porcelain of her cup, the warmth no longer quite as grounding as it had been a moment ago.
“She corrects them, of course,” Mrs. Cole adds, tilting her head ever so slightly, her expression still gentle, still composed. “But she’s very careful about it. There’s a certain… deliberateness to the way she chooses her words, as though she’s always weighing how much is too much… and what might leave a mark if she isn’t careful.”
Barbara exhales quietly through her nose, her gaze dropping for just a second to the tea in her hands.
Careful. Measured.
It’s not unfamiliar. It never had been.
“She takes instructions well, too,” Mrs. Cole goes on, her voice thoughtful now, observational in a way that feels almost detached. “Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push back unless she absolutely has to. If anything, she adapts very quickly to whatever is expected of her.
Barbara’s jaw tightens, faint but unmistakable.
Because that word—
Adapts.
It lands somewhere deeper than it should.
“She seems… used to it. Adjusting herself to meet expectations that may not have been entirely fair to place on her in the first place. Especially at her age.”
Something shifts. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.
But enough.
Barbara feels it before she can name it—the way certain memories begin to surface, uninvited, threading their way into the present with a clarity she hadn’t given them permission to have.
Back when you first became Batgirl. Back when you first learned the truth about your family and came to her—full of questions, not acceptance. You hadn’t been someone who simply… absorbed whatever was placed in front of you then. Not after learning the truth.
You questioned things, whether it was because you couldn’t let them sit unanswered or because you refused to accept them at face value anymore? Barbara didn’t know. But what she did know was that you needed to understand why.
Why Bruce made certain decisions. Why Dick handled things the way he did. Why she was correcting you in ways that sometimes felt sharper than necessary.
You pushed.
Not recklessly at first. Not loudly. But persistently, in the way someone does when they still believe they’ll be answered honestly if they just ask the right questions.
And you did get answers.
Just… not always the kind that encouraged you to keep asking.
The way they responded—the way she responded—hadn’t been unkind in intention. Not always, but it had been firm in a way that left little room for uncertainty. Instructions given as facts. Decisions framed as necessity. Silence where explanations might have—would have helped.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, something in you began to shift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But gradually, the questions came less often. The hesitation to accept instruction faded. The pushback softened, then disappeared entirely, replaced by a kind of quiet compliance that made everything easier on the surface.
As if the safest way to move forward was simply to stop resisting what was being asked of you.
Barbara had told herself that that was progress. That it meant you were learning. Adapting. Fitting into the role.
All the training sessions that stretched longer than they should have, pushing past the point of usefulness into something closer to endurance. The kind that left no room for pause, no space to breathe, just repetition layered over repetition until it stopped being about learning and started being about proving something—though she isn’t sure now who it had been for.
Every correction she made, precise to the point of excess. Every small mistake she picked apart, not always because it mattered in the moment, but because focusing on that was easier than sitting with everything else she didn’t have answers for. Easier than acknowledging how much weight she might have been adding without meaning to.
And then there was Bruce.
Bruce with his impossible standards. His silence where there should have been answers. The way he allowed it all to continue without ever truly stepping in, without ever clarifying where the line was supposed to be when it came to your training. Detached. Unyielding. Unkind with his words. Expecting more without ever saying it outright, saying more than necessary. As if that alone justified it.
And you—
God.
Barbara doesn’t know why that image keeps resurfacing so clearly now, as if it had been waiting somewhere just beneath the surface for the right moment to return.
The way you stopped pushing back entirely with her.
Not because you stopped thinking. But because somewhere along the way, pushing against her became less effective than complying.
Nodding when she corrected you, even when the tone was sharper than it needed to be. Adjusting immediately, without argument, without hesitation—without ever asking if she was being unfair. As if pushing back hadn’t been an option you allowed yourself to consider. Not anymore.
As if you’d already decided that whatever was being asked of you—without pushing back, each time you absorbed it like it was simply part of what you were supposed to do. No protest. No argument. Just that small pause before acceptance, as if you were checking something off internally rather than engaging with it outwardly.
As if whatever discomfort you felt was something to be managed internally, neatly, without ever spilling outward where someone else might have to deal with it.
And now, she wonders, uncomfortably, if the corrections that went too sharp, the moments she sidelined you, the times she pushed you harder than necessary, those moments had all been a way to level something she didn’t want to name. To make it feel less like she’d lost something you still had.
Being Batgirl.
Except that wasn’t what it was.
It wasn’t just that.
Right?
She stops it there. Firmly. Cuts the thought off before it can take shape into anything more concrete, anything harder to ignore.
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again, grounding herself in the present as she forces the thought back down carefully—deliberately—before it can turn into something she can’t sit with here.
Not now. Not here.
But it doesn’t leave. Not really.
She can’t help but wonder why it feels like this.
Why words that are, by all accounts, observational—harmless, even—are landing with this kind of precision. Why they’re managing to press against things she hasn’t consciously revisited in a long time.
It’s not the tone. It’s not the intent.
Mrs. Cole hasn’t even said anything outright. Hasn’t accused. Hasn’t blamed. But it was something about the way she speaks. The way she frames it. It makes it harder to dismiss.
Harder to ignore.
Like she’s not uncovering anything new, but rather… brushing against things that were already there, waiting.
And Barbara doesn’t like that.
Doesn’t like how easily it pulls at ends she’s purposely left alone. Doesn’t like how quickly it makes those memories feel relevant again.
Necessary, even.
Even when she knows they shouldn’t be.
“Ms. Gordon, is everything alright?”
Ah.
Barbara’s starting to find that voice increasingly difficult to sit here and listen to.
She lifts her gaze, the shift almost seamless as she smooths her expression back into something practiced, something familiar. A small smile follows, measured and polite, slipping into place with the ease of long habit.
“Yeah,” she says lightly, “just got a little lost in my thoughts.”
Mrs. Cole simply smiles. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what thoughts. She doesn’t even seem curious about what Barbara had been lost in.
And somehow, that feels worse.
Because there’s no probing, no follow-up—nothing that would suggest she’s trying to get something out of her.
It’s as if she already has.
It’s as if she knows.
As if the things she said were placed there knowingly, nudging, guiding, pressing in just the right places to bring those thoughts to the surface.
Wait. What?
No, that can’t be right.
Mrs. Cole hadn’t said anything out of line. Hadn’t overstepped in any way that could clearly be pointed out.
And yet, the timing of it—the way each observation seemed to land exactly where it shouldn’t, exactly where it couldn’t have been guessed so precisely—
Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again.
No.
She’s reading too much into it. She has to be.
Because the alternative doesn’t make sense.
She takes another sip, finishing what’s left of the tea in a few measured swallows. The warmth no longer feels grounding—if anything, it feels like it’s holding her in place longer than she wants to be here.
She sets the cup down with a soft clink, her fingers withdrawing almost immediately.
“I should get going,” Barbara says, tone polite, composed—already pulling back.
Because staying any longer would start feeling like an obligation. Like she’s being edged toward something she hasn’t agreed to confront. And maybe it’s irrational, maybe it’s nothing more than her own thoughts turning in on themselves, but sitting here—across from a woman who is nothing but warm, nothing but pleasant—still feels… wrong. Like there’s something just beneath the surface she can’t quite name.
And Barbara doesn’t like that.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Cole asks, calm as ever. It’s gentle. Casual. But it almost sounds like she doesn’t want her to leave.
Barbara opens her mouth to answer, but a knock interrupts.
“Mrs. Cole? It’s me, Miss Jenkins.”
The door opens before a response is needed, and a woman steps in, pausing slightly when she notices Barbara.
“Ah—sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone with you.”
Mrs. Cole smiles easily. “It’s quite alright. Go ahead.”
Miss Jenkins nods, clearing her throat. “Ms. Wayne called earlier. She said she won’t be dropping by today.”
There’s a pause.
And Barbara can’t help the thought that slips in, sharp and unwelcome.
Of course.
The one time she shows up here—you don’t.
It almost feels deliberate. Like you’ve developed some… instinct for avoiding the people you don’t want to see. And Barbara hates, distantly, how easily she slots herself into that category.
“I see,” Mrs. Cole says, her smile never quite wavering. “That’s a shame.”
She turns back to Barbara then, as if the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all. “I suppose I should see you out, then.”
Barbara nods automatically, though something in her chest dips faintly at how quickly that changed.
Because for a moment there, it had felt like Mrs. Cole wanted her to stay. That is, until she was informed that you weren’t coming—
Barbara exhales quietly, brushing the thought aside before it can take root. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
“Thanks,” she says instead, already turning her chair, hands settling against the wheels as she starts wheeling toward the door.
Better to leave these thoughts here. Before it turns into something else entirely.
A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER
One moment, you were standing in an empty alleyway, trying to keep everything from spilling over. It felt like you said everything you needed to say, but at the same time, you didn’t say enough. And here you were left with the aftermath.
Trying not to cry. Not over what Jason said. Not over the way his words landed. Not over the way your knuckles still stung from the punch you’d thrown back at him—sharp, pulsing, familiar in the worst way and yet strangely distant at the same time. Like your mind remembered something your body hadn’t caught up to yet.
Next thing you know, you’re seated in a cracked vinyl booth at a mostly empty Bat Burger outlet. The fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, the smell of grease and salt settling into the air as you try to piece together what the hell just happened between then and now.
You don’t remember walking here. You don’t even remember agreeing to this.
Your thoughts are still stuck somewhere back there—in Jason’s warehouse, in that conversation—if you could actually call it that.
Calling it a conversation feels generous. It was more of a, “Jason throwing whatever bullshit narrative he’s come up with about you” straight at your face and you punching him to get his ass to shut the fuck up and listen to you.
Not everything had been resolved and frankly? It probably never would be. You should have made peace with that by now. But the tight, stubborn feeling in your chest refuses to let you.
Damnit. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe you were just like your father after all—
CLANG.
A tray slams down in front of you. Loud enough to snap you out of your thoughts.
You blink, your head jerking up slightly, only to find yourself staring straight into a pair of familiar brown eyes.
Helena Bertinelli. Aka Huntress.
Of course.
Just your luck.
Of course the alleyway you’d chosen to mope around was close to her apartment. Of course she had to see you—probably what she’d describe as barely holding it together in her eyes.
You hadn’t cried. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. That single stray tear doesn’t count. The sting in your eyes doesn’t count either.
But apparently, that was enough for her to decide that the appropriate response was to drag you to Bat Burger.
“Eat,” she says simply, nudging the tray an inch closer to you as she slides into the booth across from you like this was normal. You, sitting here with her—eating with her, was just another Tuesday. “Before it gets cold.”
You stare at her, then at the tray. And you immediately notice how there was one regular burger meal, and one Batmeal. And you watch as she picks up the burger—
“…please don’t tell me that Batmeal is supposed to be mine,” you deadpan, lifting your gaze back to her, somewhere between accusation and disbelief.
Helena doesn’t even look up at first, already halfway through unwrapping her burger. She takes a bite, chews, swallows, then finally glances at you with a shrug.
“What? You looked like you needed the toy.” She looked so completely unbothered by it, which undeniably pissed you off.
“…Do I look like I’m ten?”
“No,” she says, unbothered, leaning back slightly. “But you definitely act like you’d benefit from shitty Batman and Co. merchandise.”
Okay.
You just stare at her again in pure disbelief, because there is no way she just said that like it was a normal sentence. Like it wasn’t mildly insulting. Like it didn’t somehow make it worse that she was right there, completely unfazed.
“Hurry up before your fries get cold.”
You groan in exasperation, but eventually—begrudgingly—you pull the Batmeal closer to you.
The two of you eat in silence for a while.
It’s… weird.
Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar in a way you can’t immediately place. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you, doesn’t press, doesn’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.
But that’s also the problem.
Because she saw you.
In the alley. At probably one of your worse states.
And she hasn’t said anything about it since. You don’t like that she’s seen you like that. You like even less that she’s pretending it’s not a big deal.
“Don’t tell me you went out of your way to buy me a meal just to dip afterwards,” you finally say, breaking the silence first.
Helena is lazily eating fries now, glancing at you sideways like she’s been waiting for you to speak.
“Depends,” she says. “Are you gonna tell me why you were crying your ass off in the middle of nowhere?”
“Okay—I was not crying my ass off.”
“The evidence is all over your face, y’know.”
Your hand immediately goes up, wiping at your cheeks and under your eyes on instinct, like you can physically erase that accusation out of existence.
Helena watches you, a slow, knowing smirk tugs at her mouth.
Damn. Did she really say that just to mess with you?
“Fuck you…” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your food.
“Relax,” she cuts in, popping another fry into her mouth. “I only said that to see if you’d do that.”
You pause just slightly, then tilt your head without looking at her.
“And what’s your conclusion after all that?” you ask, already unwrapping the mini burger that came with the Batmeal like it’s suddenly become a very serious task.
Helena doesn’t answer immediately. But you can feel it. Her stare. Heavy, unbothered, annoyingly observant in a way that everyone seemed to be lately.
Then, like she’s deciding to pivot instead of press further, she leans back slightly.
”Y’know, word gets around quick. Very quick in Gotham, especially.”
You shoot her a look, wondering where the hell she’s going with this. “I’m not doing whatever this… therapy session is, Helena.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Right. Of course not.” A beat. “Don’t blame you. But you look like you need to let out some steam.”
“Already did.”
Helena’s gaze drops—almost absent-mindedly—toward your hands. Specifically your right hand.
The faint redness still lingering across your knuckles, fading but not gone. Proof that refuses to fully disappear no matter how much you try to ignore it right now.
“But doesn’t seem enough, does it?”
Ok, that ticked you off.
“Damnit, Helena,” you exhale, finally looking up at her properly, “I just had a back and forth with Jason. I am really not looking for another one right now, alright?”
Helena lets out a soft scoff. No bite. Just acknowledgement.
“Right,” she drawls out. “I forgot you bats like your conversations one-sided. You just prefer to be the one leading them.”
Ouch.
Well, as annoying as she was being, she’s not entirely wrong. But to lump you in with everyone else right now kind of sucked. Especially when you—
“Except you, of course,” she adds, like she didn’t just casually throw you under a general category. “Honestly, you were probably the most sane out of all of them.”
That makes you pause slightly.
“Were?” you repeat, deadpan slipping in before you can stop it.
“Like I said, word gets around here really quick.” She takes another bite. “Like how it’s been… a whole month since Batgirl made an appearance on the streets?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. Not enough to show. Not enough to give away anything real. Still—
“…And?”
Helena blinks at you, like she wasn’t expecting that tone. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Wow,” she says. “Who finally managed to get you to walk away? I’m almost impressed.”
That lands wrong.
You frown slightly. “No one made me do anything. I just decided to quit.” Your words come out clean. Controlled. Final. But it doesn’t stay that way in your head.
Because now, her words are looping. It was meant to be casual, half-joking, but it was still there—and you can’t quite shake the implication buried underneath them. Just how long had you been doing this for basically everyone you know to react like that? How long had you been… there, in a way that made your absence feel like some elaborate prank?
It starts to twist uncomfortably the longer you think about it. Like maybe you weren’t just persistent about being Batgirl before. Maybe you had been too much.
The thought turns sharper than you like. Unfair. Almost insulting. Like you’re being reduced into some version of yourself you don’t recognise—a stubborn kid who used to refuse letting go of something she should’ve stepped away from sooner.
You exhale under your breath, dragging a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose.
No. That’s not—
You were just… committed. Focused. You had your own reasons to pick up the mask. Just like everyone else did.
Still, it doesn’t quite stop the feeling from lingering a little too long in your chest.
“I still don’t see what you’re trying to do here,” you say, voice flattening slightly as you try to steer the conversation back into something solid.
Helena doesn’t immediately answer. Just takes another slow bite, like she’s weighing how much of this she actually wants to explain.
“People are starting to notice Batgirl’s been off the grid,” she says. “And in Gotham, that kind of silence doesn’t stay quiet for long. People are going to start digging for answers.” She picks up another fry and point it towards you.
“For where you went.”
You let out a soft scoff at that, almost reflexive. The idea feels… almost absurd. She’s talking as if you—Batgirl, actually mattered in the way people like Batman or Robin or even Nightwing did in Gotham.
“That only applies to people that actually matter,” you say, lightly, dismissively.
“And you’re saying you’re not one of them?” Helena asks immediately, tone edged with pure disbelief.
That makes you frown slightly.
“You’re saying I am?” you counter, sharper than intended.
Because, of course you aren’t. When have you ever been that?
Helena’s expression shifts at that—not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just a quiet, almost incredulous pause, like she’s trying to figure out just how exactly you arrived at something so fundamentally wrong.
And it unsettles you more than you expect.
Because it isn’t mockery. It’s confusion. Genuine, unfiltered confusion, like she’s looking at you and seeing something you know you definitely aren’t.
You don’t know what exactly she’s seeing.
Because for years, you tried to be what you were supposed to be. Tried to meet expectations that kept moving, shifting, tightening no matter how much you adjusted to them. And no matter what you did—no matter how hard you pushed, how cleanly you followed the lines—it was never quite enough.
Not for your father or anyone else for the matter.
So hearing Helena look at you like this—like there’s something there worth noticing at all? It feels almost like she’s talking about someone else entirely.
“Are you seriously that oblivious, or is your self-esteem just completely nonexistent??”
What the??
You open your mouth to snap back, something defensive already forming on your tongue—but Helena doesn’t give you the chance. She cuts in, like she can’t quite believe she has to spell this out.
“Don’t you realise how you’re practically worshipped by the people in the East End? Downtown?”
Huh?
It feels like you’ve heard these words before.
Right, didn’t Caitlyn say something about East End as well? But was it really true? Worship is a strong word. It felt like a stretch. Too much.
As if on cue, Helena exhales lightly.
“Okay, maybe not worshipped,” she amends, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Whatever’s the less extreme version of that then.”
You stare at Helena like she’d just spoken in an alien language. Because she had to be exaggerating. Or joking. Or—
Helena drags a hand down her face in clear exasperation because you can spiral any further.
“Hello? Two years ago?” she says, leaning forward now, eyes narrowing slightly. “When Batman practically went AWOL for months when Gotham went to shit after it got sealed off and turned into a damned no man’s land? Do you not remember who people were looking to back then? Who was still out there, keeping the idea of the Bat alive when everything else fell apart?”
The words hit harder than they should.
Even though technically, it’s been six years for you—16 year old you seemed to know—seemed to remember exactly what Helena was talking about.
Back then, when everything first started to fall apart—when your father failed to convince the government to reverse their decision to abandon Gotham after that major earthquake hit—he’d told you to leave.
Not just you. Tim, Dick, anyone he thought he could still push out before things got worse. Not wanting them to be against the law, he’d said.
You hadn’t listened. You stayed. Stubbornly. Irrationally.
Because the idea of your father trying to hold Gotham together alone—of Batman standing against all of that without anyone there—had felt worse than whatever consequences came with disobeying him.
At least, that’s what 14 year old you had believed.
Before you knew it, three months had passed. Three months of silence. Three months of Gotham unraveling at the seams, criminals flooding the streets because apparently, Jeremiah Arkham thought it was a good idea to let all the criminals in his asylum back onto the streets before leaving Gotham to rot.
Gotham splitting into sectors controlled by gangs, graffiti lining on walls to tag which areas belonged to whom. You kept moving through it, telling yourself you were just holding the line—helped those who couldn’t help themselves—until he came back.
Three months passed before your father—before Batman, finally showed up in Gotham again like a saving grace. Like Gotham could finally breathe again because he showed up.
You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you try to brush the memories off. “You’re talking like you weren’t out there too,” you say. “Didn’t you literally go around dressed as Batman himself and take down half the gangs yourself?”
“That’s not the point. Yeah, I was out there. In the shadows. Doing what was needed to be done.”
Helena leans forward slightly, her gaze locking onto yours. “But before he came back, you were the one there. Giving those who were forced to stay in Gotham due to whatever circumstances they had then hope. You really think people are just going to forget that?”
Her words hit hard. Not because they meant something to you—but because of what they meant about everything you had believed.
“Are you just trying to stir up bullshit, Helena—” you start, sharper than intended, because no, there’s no way she’s serious. No way people actually looked up to you like that. No way you mattered in the way she’s implying.
Helena just stares at you for a second, unbothered, like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely confused or just refusing to hear it. Then she scoffs.
“Are you really that determined to believe you haven’t made an impact on people?” she asks, voice flat, almost incredulous. “Whether you meant to or not, you definitely did.”
You sigh, a little exasperated now, the edge creeping back in. “I’m just saying—I think I would know damn well if I did make an impact—”
“Clearly not, if you’re acting like I’m spouting bullshit.”
That shuts you up.
Not because she’s wrong or right. But because of how effortlessly she says it, like it’s obvious to everyone but you.
The air shifts after that—noticeably tighter. What had been a strange kind of ease between you a few minutes ago now feels… disrupted. Like something’s been pulled loose and neither of you is pretending it isn’t there anymore.
Helena exhales, like she’s decided she’s done pushing that particular thread for now. She nudges the small toy figurine blindbox on the table with two fingers, the one that came with the Batmeal, making it slide slightly toward you.
“Go on. Let’s see what you got.”
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes slightly.
Is she seriously trying to pivot like this? Just like that? Or was that the point? To make you less tense—as if she hadn’t meant to make you feel this way right now?
Either way, you let out a quiet breath and open the box. And for a second—you just stare.
Because of course.
Of course the Bat-figurine you got was that.
A small figurine, neatly packaged in plastic, styled in the unmistakable silhouette of Batgirl.
You. Your Batgirl.
It’s almost absurd. Almost funny. The kind of irony that feels too on-the-nose to be accidental.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, holding it up slightly like it might suddenly make more sense if you look at it from another angle.
Helena lets out a low hum, leaning back in her seat. Whether it’s amusement or something else, you can’t quite tell.
“Well,” she says lightly, “would you look at that? Maybe the world’s trying to tell you something you’re very committed to not hearing.” Never mind. It’s definitely amusement.
You shoot her a glare at that, but there isn’t any real fury behind it. Not enough bite to make it convincing, anyway.
You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair before leaning back slightly. “Okay, let’s say what you’re saying is true,” you start, tired edge creeping in. “What’s your point now? I’m not Batgirl anymore.”
“Exactly.” She jabs a fry in your direction. “You’re not Batgirl anymore. But people don’t just… forget about what you did when you were.”
You frown slightly at that.
“They’re going to remember. The people you helped. As well as the ones you got in the way of back then.”
Ah. So that’s what this was all about?
Your jaw tightens a little. “So what, you’re saying that those gangs from back then are going to hold a grudge for that long? Just because I stopped their stupid operations?” You almost expect her to laugh it off. But she doesn’t.
“Yeah. I’d know that very well.”
That makes something in your expression stall. Maybe that wasn’t the right choice of words from you…
Considering her whole backstory, holding a grudge for that long, wanting to exact revenge was practically her whole brand before, wasn’t it? To make the person—who massacred her family and keeping her and only her alive—pay for what he did was what she had lived for.
And here you were.
Talking about grudges like they were distant, exaggerated things people would eventually grow out of. Hell, even you should know better, that it wouldn’t always be that way.
Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again. You exhale through your nose, quieter this time, the weight of your own words settling in a little differently now.
“…Right, my bad.” you mutter finally, less certain than before.
Helena lets out a sigh, like she’s deciding to abandon whatever subtlety she was attempting before. She leans back slightly, then shrugs.
“Okay,” she says, blunt now, “I’m not exactly great at this kind of stuff, but what I’m trying to say is—yeah. Even I have a conscious, alright?”
You give her a questioning look at that, but she doesn’t stop.
“Do you remember,” she continues, tone shifting into something more grounded, more serious, “the time when I was framed for murders I didn’t commit? The night Batman and Nightwing cornered me on the rooftops near my apartment?”
That pulls something into focus.
Of course you remember. You were there as well when your father and Dick went to confront her.
“You were there,” Helena adds, eyes flicking to you. “You saw it. The way Batman was ready to take me in. To shut me down before I even had the chance to prove anything. Like I didn’t get a say in whether I was guilty or not.”
Her jaw tightens slightly as she’s recalling the memories
“And if it had come down to a straight fight?” she says. “I wasn’t winning that. Not against him. Not against Nightwing either.”
A beat.
“So when I accidentally shot Batman with the crossbow, while trying to get away?” she continues, a faint exhale leaving her like she still can’t quite believe how that sounds out loud, “I thought I was done for. But you stopped Nightwing from fully coming at me—just for long enough—and that actually gave me an opening to escape. To actually leave Gotham and try to clear my name instead of getting buried there.”
And you remember that part too clearly.
Not her escape, but what came after. The way stepping out of line, disobeying orders, even for a second, had been treated like a mistake that needed correcting. The way intent never really mattered, only outcome. But there’s no point in dragging semantics into this now, is there?
“So yeah,” Helena says, like she’s deciding to stop circling it, “I owe you for that night. Because as similar as you are with your family, it’s also clear how different you are compared to them.”
She pauses, then leans back slightly and takes a sip of her drink, giving you a moment to sit with it whether you want to or not.
“I’m used to people thinking I just go out on the streets and pay creeps back for what they do to innocent people,” she continues, tone flattening a little. “Like I’m just trying to undo what my father did. Like I’m trying to make up for his sins or balance some kind of scale.”
Right, her father had been one of Gotham’s mafia lords long before you were born, hadn’t he?
She exhales, gaze drifting for a second before settling back on you.
“I picked up the mask because it hides more than just my face—more than my identity,” she says. “It hides the fear. Everything weak I don’t want anyone to see.”
A small pause. Not dramatic—just enough to let it land.
“So watching you choose to take it off?” she continues, quieter now. “That doesn’t make you lesser. If anything, it makes you better than me. Better than most of us.”
Her eyes flick to you, steady, unflinching.
“So don’t sit there acting like you did everyone a favour by quitting,” she adds. “You didn’t. And you’re not suddenly… less because of it.”
Another beat.
“You matter just as much as they do.”
No.
No Helena.
Quitting didn’t suddenly just make you better than everyone else.
You feel it before you say it. The push of something heavy and familiar pressing up against your ribs, like it’s been waiting for an opening.
You could ignore it. You’ve gotten good at that. But not now. Not with her looking at you like that.
You exhale, slow, like you’re trying to push something down—but it doesn’t stay there.
“No,” you say, quieter now, but it comes out steadier than you expect. “You’re… you’re far better than me in that aspect, Helena.”
She shifts slightly at that, like she’s about to interrupt, but you keep going before she can.
“At least your reason for putting on the mask meant something,” you add, gaze dropping to the table, drifting over to the wonky figurine of Batgirl. “You had a reason that made sense. You wanted justice—revenge for what was done to your family. For something they didn’t deserve. There was a line, and it was crossed, and you… you just responded to that.”
There’s structure to it. A cause and an effect. One of your father’s most repeated principles when it came to how he operated. It was something that can be followed, understood, even if people don’t agree with it.
A short, hollow breath leaves you.
“Me?” you let out a quiet breath that doesn’t quite pass for a laugh. “I didn’t have anything like that.”
Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table, like you need something to hold onto.
“I was just… scared.”
The word feels heavier once it leaves your mouth. It always does. Like giving it sound makes it more real than it ever was when it stayed contained in your head—smaller, easier to dismiss, easier to pretend it wasn’t shaping more than it should.
“Scared of being left behind. Scared of being alone. Of being… too much, or not enough, or whatever it is that makes people decide they don’t want to stay.”
Your jaw tightens slightly, and you look away for a second, like that might make it easier to say the rest. Because that part never really goes away, does it?
It just changes shape. Gets quieter. Less obvious. Easier to ignore when you’re busy, when you’re needed (or not), when there’s something else to focus on. It settles somewhere deeper, where it doesn’t get in the way as much—until it does.
Until it slips back in at the worst possible moments, sharp and insistent, like it never left at all.
“And I thought—” you pause, the words catching before you force them through anyway, “—I thought putting on the mask would fix that. Like if I became someone useful enough, good enough, then whoever was looking at me wouldn’t regret it.”
Wouldn’t regret you. Wouldn’t decide one day, that keeping you around wasn’t worth it after all.
“Like if I was… worth something, then they’d stay.”
Even now, you can hear how it sounds. How thin that logic is when it’s pulled out into the open.
It sounds small. Sounds stupid. And maybe it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was real. That it still is, in ways you don’t like to acknowledge. When it isn’t buried under action, under effort, under everything you did to make it feel justified.
You let out another quiet breath, shaking your head faintly.
“…It’s pathetic,” you add under your breath, not quite looking at her. “But I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
The silence that follows settles heavier than it should, stretching just a little too long. You become acutely aware of it—of Helena, of yourself. Of the way your fingers tighten around the edge of the table like you need something to anchor you before your thoughts spiral too far.
Great.
You actually said it. Laid it out there, unfiltered, without dressing it up into something more palatable. And now she sees it. All of it.
The bravado, the front you used to carry so easily, the way you made it look like everything you did had purpose, weight—like it meant something beyond yourself.
And this? This is what it comes down to?
Something small. Selfish. Driven by something as stupid and fragile as the fear of being left behind—
“So what if it’s pathetic?”
Your head snaps up before you can stop it.
Helena’s already looking at you, expression steady, almost expectant—like she’d been waiting for you to look at her again.
“Whoever made you think that that feeling isn’t normal,” She doesn’t waver, her voice firm, “is out of their goddamn mind.”
You blink, thrown off more by the certainty in her tone than the words themselves. She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table now, closing whatever distance had been sitting between you.
“Because trust me,” she adds, quieter but no less certain, “wanting the approval of the people you care about? That’s normal. Very normal. It’s human.”
Human.
“And there’s nothing wrong with feeling that way.”
The words hang there.
People you care about.
A part of you almost scoffs at that, the reaction automatic—like it doesn’t quite sit right in your chest anymore.
“And what if the people I care about are shitty at showing it back?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You don’t even know why you’re asking her, like she’s got some kind of answer waiting—but it’s out there now. Too late to take it back.
Helena snorts.
“Then congratulations,” she says dryly, “you’ve got excellent taste in emotionally constipated people.”
You just stare at her. Deadpan.
She huffs out a quiet laugh at your expression, leaning back in her seat like she’s satisfied with herself.
“Y’know,” she adds after a beat, tone shifting just slightly, “there was a point in time when even I wanted his approval.”
You don’t need to ask who she means. You know.
“Hell,” she continues, glancing off to the side for a second, “maybe I still do. Crazy, right? I needed his permission just to creep around rooftops at night. Had a full-on father fixation for a guy who dresses like a bat.”
You blink at her, caught off guard by those words.
Helena? Of all people?
It sounds almost unreal coming from her. But she laid this out so plainly, no edge to soften it, no deflection. Just said it like it was a normal thing.
And yet, it explains more than you’d like to admit. Some of the things she did. The way she moved around him. The way she reacted. Some of which you had done as well.
It clicks into place a little too easily. A small, unexpected laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You didn’t even realise you needed that.
Helena’s smile shifts—subtle, but you catch it. Less sharp now. Less guarded, now that you’re not sitting there looking like you’re about to bolt or snap back again.
“I guess we’re both people who never really grew out of needing that, huh?” you say, quieter this time, the edge from earlier gone.
“Yeah,” she replies, a faint shrug following. “Guess so.”
Before you can react, she reaches over and ruffles your hair—casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The moment feels… strangely light.
Out of place, even.
Here, of all places—some rundown Bat Burger booth, surrounded by greasy fries and half-finished drinks. And yet, for the first time in a while, your chest doesn’t feel as tight.
“Stop that,” you mutter, swatting her hand away, though there’s no real bite to it. “You’re gonna get grease in my hair.”
Helena blinks at you, genuinely thrown for a second, before raising her hands in mock surrender.
“Hah—my bad, princess. Didn’t think that’s where your priorities were.”
lowk might have butchered babs and helena a little but whatever we move on! 🤕🤣 not as angsty but the plot gotta plot ig 🤷♀️😅 bruh istg if there’s mistakes i might kms. will probably change the name of the orphanage when i come up with a better one ngl… also mrs cole isn’t a dc character, she’s an oc ‼️ (you have no idea how many asks i got asking about this)
