Not after patrols. Not after arguments. Not even after funerals.
The silence that settled over Wayne Manor after Jason's death felt wrong. Heavy. Like the entire house had forgotten how to breathe.
You hated it. You hated the silence. You hated the pitying looks. You hated the flowers. Most of all, you hated that everyone kept saying the same thing: "We're sorry for your loss."
Each time you heard those words, your insides twisted. After a while, you stopped feeling anything. The words bounced off you, empty and meaningless, until you couldn't tell if you felt more angry or numb. It was as if each condolence pushed you further away from everyone else, building a wall you couldn't break through.
As if Jason had been a lost pet. As if your brother hadn't been ripped out of your life. As if a sentence could somehow make that acceptable.
The funeral had ended three days ago. Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. You knew because you couldn't stop counting. Every second felt like another betrayal. The world kept moving. The sun still rose. People still laughed. Cars still drove through Gotham's streets.
And Jason was still dead.
You sat curled up on the window seat in your bedroom, staring out at the rain. The city beyond the glass was grey and blurry. Gotham looked miserable. Good. It deserved to be.
A knock sounded at your door. You didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. Alfred stepped inside carrying a tray. Tea. Cookies. A small sandwich. You almost laughed. He was still trying to make sure you ate.
"Master Bruce is concerned."
You looked away. "Then he can come be concerned himself."
Alfred's expression softened. "Miss [Name]—"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, and you immediately felt guilty. Not because Alfred deserved it, but because he didn't. Alfred was the only person in this entire house who seemed to remember you existed.
The old butler placed the tray on a nearby table.
"You should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You said that yesterday."
"And?"
"And you were lying yesterday as well."
A tiny smile threatened to appear. Almost. But not quite. The smile died before it reached your lips, just like everything else lately.
Alfred sighed. "You know Master Jason would be quite insufferable about this."
That hurt. The mention of Jason always hurt. But this time it hurt differently, because you could practically hear him.
“Eat the damn cookie.”
You swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt smaller, and Alfred quietly left. You were grateful. The second the door clicked shut, your composure shattered. You buried your face in your hands, and the tears came anyway.
They always did.
The reporters started appearing the next morning. At first, there were only a few, but by lunchtime, there were dozens, and by evening, they were camping outside the gates. You watched them from the security monitors. Like vultures. Waiting and always waiting.
One station ran a segment discussing the "Tragic Loss of Gotham's Favourite Son." Another replayed footage of Jason at charity events. At galas. At public appearances. Smiling. Laughing. Alive.
You switched the television off. Immediately. The silence returned, and it wasn't any better.
The next day, you tried leaving the manor. That turned out to be a mistake. The second your car exited the gates, cameras appeared.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Questions followed—relentless, cruel, hungry.
"Miss Wayne!"
"How are you coping?"
"Do you have a statement?"
"Was Jason struggling before his death?"
"Is it true he was receiving counselling?"
The driver accelerated, and you stared straight ahead. Your hands trembled. The questions blurred together. You wanted to scream, but instead you remained silent.
Because Wayne's children didn't make scenes.
Wayne's children smiled.
Wayne's children endured.
Wayne's children suffered gracefully.
You hated being a Wayne.
The first training session happened that night. The cave felt colder than usual. Bruce stood in the centre of the training area, waiting. You hadn't trained in nearly two weeks, not since Jason died. Part of you hoped he'd forgotten. That hope lasted approximately three seconds.
"You're late."
You glanced at the clock. You weren't. The realisation made something bitter settle in your stomach. Bruce tossed you a practice staff, and you caught it automatically—years of muscle memory.
"Again."
No greeting. No "How are you?" No mention of Jason. Just training. Again. Always training.
The staff struck your arm, and pain exploded through your shoulder. You hissed, but Bruce didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Didn't apologise.
"Again."
The next hit caught your side. Then your leg. Then your wrist. Each strike was precise, controlled, and brutal. You knew what he was doing. He was scared. Jason died, and now Bruce was trying to make sure nobody else did. But knowing the reason didn't make it hurt less.
The session lasted three hours. Three exhausting hours. By the end, your arms shook from fatigue, sweat soaked your shirt, and your lungs burned. Bruce finally lowered his weapon.
"You're getting sloppy."
Something inside you snapped. Sloppy? You stared at him—really stared. At the dark circles under his eyes. At the exhaustion, he thought nobody noticed. At the grief he refused to acknowledge. At the man who had somehow become a stranger.
"My brother died."
The words echoed through the cave. Bruce froze.
"I know."
You laughed—a horrible, cold, sharp, humourless sound. "Do you?"
His jaw tightened. Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched until finally you turned away. You couldn't do this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
You called Dick three times that week. No answer. Five texts. Nothing. Two voicemails. Still nothing.
At first, you told yourself he was busy. Then you told yourself he was grieving. Then you ran out of excuses. The worst part wasn't the silence. It was the hope. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped. Every notification, every vibration, every sound made you think.
Maybe it's Dick.
It never was.
A few days later, Tim Drake arrived. You recognised him immediately. You'd seen him around before—a kid, smart, observant, and far too interested in Batman and Robin. You knew who he was before anyone explained. The red and green costumes sitting in the cave made that obvious.
Robin. A new Robin. Already.
You stared at the costume, then at Bruce, then at Dick. Nobody said anything. The rage hit so suddenly it left you dizzy. Not because you blamed Tim—you didn't. The kid looked terrified, lost, and completely overwhelmed—but seeing another Robin standing where Jason should have been felt like someone had ripped open a wound and poured salt and chilli inside.
It burned you both inside and out.
‘How could they?’ your mind went off on a tangent. Thinking more than what you could process, you were thinking.
The emotions hit you like a crowbar. Crushing and breaking every bit of rational thought you could have had.
You left before anyone could stop you. Nobody followed.
The call finally came four days later.
You answered before the first ring could even finish.
"Dick?"
For a second, there was only the hollow hum of long-distance static. Then, a quiet, heavy exhale.
"Hey."
Just one word, and you hated how the tight knot in your chest instantly loosened. You hated how relieved you felt.
"Where the hell have you been?"Another pause stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
"Dick, talk to me."
"I didn't know what to say to you," he whispered. His voice was completely stripped of his usual charm—flat, exhausted, and sounding entirely hollowed out.
"So you just didn't say anything?"
Anger surged through you, hot and sharp, burning away the relief. "I kept calling you. For weeks."
"I know."
"You didn't come to the funeral, Dick! You didn't answer my texts. I didn't know if you were on a mission, or if..." Your voice cracked, the raw truth slipping out before you could stop it. "I thought you were gone, too. I thought I lost both of you."
Dick inhaled sharply on the other end of the line. The silence that followed was deafening, and a sudden wave of regret hit you. You didn't regret it because it was a lie; you regretted it because it was the absolute truth, and it carried the weight of a physical blow.
When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't face you. I thought you'd look at me and..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
He thought you would blame him for not being there to save Jason. You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
The apology felt entirely meaningless—too late, too small, too fragile to fix the cracks in the house.
"I miss him," you confessed, the words breaking softly in the quiet room."I know," Dick murmured.
For the first time since the news broke, he didn't sound like Nightwing, or Gotham's golden child, or the distant hero on the monitor. He just sounded like your older brother. And somehow, that made the pain infinitely worse, because it reminded you exactly of the family you used to be before everything shattered.
The media became unbearable.
Every outing turned into an interrogation.
Every appearance became a spectacle.
One reporter actually asked whether Jason's death would affect Wayne Enterprises' stock prices.
You nearly punched that asshole in the face—years of etiquette lessons stopped you. Barely.
The asshole will never be able to eat the same way ever again with his broken jaw.
The next morning, your face appeared on three magazine covers.
One headline read:
WAYNE HEIRESS STRUGGLES AFTER TRAGEDY.
You threw the magazine across the room.
Another training session. Then another. Then another.
Bruce pushed harder every time. Longer hours, more drills, more combat, more expectations.
Less conversation, less warmth, less everything.
You realised something terrifying.
Training had become the only way Bruce knew how to express love, and right now, it was suffocating you.
Winter arrived, and the first snow fell over Gotham. Jason loved snow; you hated it now. Every memory felt like a knife—every joke, every smile, every stupid nickname. Everything reminded you of him.
To you—the grief never got smaller; you just got more tired.
The argument happened three days before Christmas. You barely remembered how it started—something about training, something about curfews, something about Bruce insisting you needed more protection.
"You can't keep doing this."
Bruce looked up. "Doing what?"
"This." You gestured wildly. "Treating me like I'm made of glass."
"I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I'm not Jason."
The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. Bruce flinched—actually flinched, as you'd struck him. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The cave suddenly felt impossibly large.
‘I'm sorry.’ The apology never came.
Bruce looked away. "You should get some rest."
That was it. Conversation over. Just like always. You walked away before he could see you crying.
Two days later, Alfred knocked on your bedroom door.
You expected tea, maybe cookies, the warm comfort he always extended—telling everything is alright, or possibly another gentle attempt at making sure you hadn't completely stopped functioning.
Instead, he carried an envelope.
You frowned. "What is it?"
Alfred stepped inside.
For a moment, he looked strangely nervous, which was unsettling because Alfred never looked nervous.
He handed you the envelope, and you opened it.
Inside was a plane ticket. You stared, then stared harder, then checked again.
Paris, France. A one-way ticket.
Your breath caught. "What?"
Alfred smiled softly. "An opportunity."
You looked up, confused. "What kind of opportunity?"
"The sort involving distance."
Your heart started pounding—slowly, carefully, like something waking up after a long sleep. "Alfred..."
"A public school in Paris has accepted your transfer."
You blinked once, twice, unable to process the words. "A transfer?"
"The arrangements have already been made."
Your hands trembled. Paris. Another country, another city. Away. Far away.
"So Bruce is just letting me leave?"
Alfred's smile turned sad. "It took some convincing."
That sounded more accurate. You looked back at the ticket.
Paris.
The word felt unreal, impossible, beautiful, and terrifying all at once.
"You want me gone?" The question slipped out quietly.
Alfred immediately crossed the room. "No." His answer came instantly, fiercely. "No, my dear."
Emotion clogged your throat. "You all seem happier without me lately."
Alfred's expression broke your heart because it looked so genuinely pained. "That isn't true."
"It feels true."
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Alfred gently rested a hand on your shoulder. "Master Bruce loves you."
You laughed weakly. "Could've fooled me."
"He is grieving."
"So am I."
"Yes." The simple acknowledgement nearly made you cry, because finally, someone said it. Not Bruce Wayne's daughter. Not a Wayne heiress. Not Gotham royalty. Just a girl grieving her brother.
Alfred squeezed your shoulder. "You deserve a chance to breathe."
The words shattered something inside you because Gotham hadn't let you breathe in months. The media, the expectations, the grief, the training, the loneliness—everything felt like it was crushing you. And suddenly, there was a door. An escape. A way out.
You looked down at the ticket. Paris. A new city, a new life, and a chance to become someone other than the girl everyone pitied.
The tears finally came, quietly and slowly. Alfred pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since Jason died, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe surviving wasn't impossible. Maybe healing existed. Maybe there was still something waiting for you beyond Gotham's endless shadows.
Outside, snow drifted across the manor grounds. Inside, a plane ticket rested in your trembling hands.
I tried tagging most of the people who liked my post about writing about the story. I couldn't tag a few. Please let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged.
lucy chen and tim bradford but in a "i have a girlfriend and a boyfriend and theyre also boyfriend-girlfriend" type of way. no one can argue w me its pride month 😁
I have another idea, but I haven't really thought it through yet lol. I'm winging it as I go.
Batfam x Batsis, specifically Bruce Wayne and Batsis. (out of character? maybe) Bad English probably
A couple of weeks ago (probably a month ago, but who keeps track of time? I certainly don't)I saw a quote that reminded me of Bruce Wayne—I don't know why (I do actually).
"God gives daughters to womanizers" It sounds more epic in Spanish (it doesn't).
Well, I was thinking about Bruce Wayne, who’s at the peak of his game when it comes to picking up women, etc. And then one day, you show up at his doorstep—a 5-year-old—with a paternity test that confirms he’s your biological father. No one ever found out who your mother is, but that doesn’t matter.
The thing is, Bruce is never neglectful toward you (or at least not on purpose) but it’s true that he acts more like an older brother than a father; I don’t know how to explain it. What I mean is, Bruce is young—let's say his only child so far has been Dick Grayson, which means you'd be the second kid he's had—and his only role model as a father is Alfred, because he didn't get to spend enough time with his own father.
So, from the outside, your relationship with your father is like that of an older brother and his little sister. But it doesn't matter; Alfred has experience... sort of.
As you grow up, the people around you realize that you’re maturing too quickly for your age, and out of concern and caution, Bruce decides you should have monthly sessions with a psychologist—but let’s be honest, it was your art teacher who suggested it.
This way, you can talk about your relationship with your family, how you cope with certain situations, work on your emotions and how to express them, self-esteem... there are actually a lot of things to work on as you go through adolescence.
But if there's one thing you really wouldn't change, it's your relationship with your father; even if he struggles to take on that role, you enjoy your dynamic with him.
Your dynamic is based mainly on sarcasm; you both enjoy teasing each other. He’s taught you to be a detective, and you’ve figured out the rest on your own. You always know when something’s wrong with him, and you always manage to get him to talk to you and let it all out.
Bruce is obviously quick to pick up on your moods and body language, and he always makes sure to set aside time for you. He’s learned how to bring up any difficult topics that need to be discussed—even if they might upset you—without upsetting you. And if he does end up upsetting you, he’s learned to apologize (it’s been hard for him, but he can’t stand it when his daughter and confidante stops talking to him).
If he spends too much time being Batman and hasn't seen you in weeks, he'll try to make up for it by buying you something, but in the end, you have to make him spend some quality time with you.
(Is this too much out of character? It’s been a while since I’ve read anything about Batman, and sometimes I mix up his personality with other characters. Sorry if that’s the case—that’s why I usually just drop the idea and walk away, lol.)
I imagine that when it comes to galas, parties, and any other events he has to attend as Brucie Wayne, he always chooses you to accompany him—unlike his other children, you're the only one who doesn't cause a scene.
But the real reason is that Alfred taught you everything about etiquette, posture, speech, and all that rich-people stuff, and you’re really good at hiding your disgust. So it’s easy to criticize other rich people with you around—and fun, too. You make such witty comments that sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re insulting or complimenting someone.
Whenever I think of a reader who isn't a vigilante, I picture her working as a private investigator. I don't know, I love detectives, and I think that role really suits you here. :P
So when one of your cases crosses paths with Batman—not Bruce, Batman—it’s funny, because you’re always teasing your dad, and he can’t come up with a witty comeback without jeopardizing his identity. Jason is the one who enjoys these moments the most.
But let's go back to the part where Brice Wayne was a womanizer, and you were still just a little girl.
Once at a gala, a beautiful but overly flashy and extravagant woman approached your father. Even though you were young, you could tell perfectly well that this woman wanted to take advantage of your father; she started flirting with him and practically threw herself at him. You spent the whole time watching her with a raised eyebrow and a look of disgust.
On the one hand, your father kept talking to her to save face; on the other hand, he couldn't help but notice that she was pretty. So you decided to step in in the best way possible.
"Dad, is this woman going to be my new mom, too? Does that mean I'll have four moms?"
Your father looked at you in disbelief, unable to utter a single word, while the woman apologized and left, horrified at the very idea of becoming a mother—and to make matters worse, his fourth girlfriend. Maybe she wanted to take advantage of you, Dad, but that woman has her dignity too... I guess.
The truth is, you were a real turn-off to most of the women who approached Bruce. Few were willing to put up with you out of true love for your father (or out of a genuine need for money).
God gives daughters to womanizers. Barbara and Stephanie aren't his daughters, nor does he consider them as such, but it's true that both girls have found a place in his heart, in his sons' hearts, and in his family. He doesn't consider them his daughters, but sometimes they act like they are, especially when they're with you. There's probably an article out there about Bruce Wayne and his three secret daughters or something like that.
And let's not even get started on Cassandra—he really does consider her a daughter. At first, it seemed like you and Cass weren't going to get along; you two had nothing in common. But to his surprise, you have a way with people, because you and Cass are definitely very close. You're the human, normal part of the family, and you have a lot to teach everyone. Cassandra learned a lot from you—even how to get into mischief.(?
You're the one who keeps everyone grounded, and while everyone thought Dick was the one they turned to when they needed to talk, you're undoubtedly the person even Dick himself chooses when he needs someone who understands him. Because somehow you always understand everyone, you always know what to say, and there's something about you that makes it easier for others to open up.
Even Damian, who has a hard time opening up to others. Even Duke, who is the newest addition to the family.
But don't worry, it's not a one-sided thing—you always know who to turn to when you need help, and depending on the problem, you go to different people. But in a way, your father is always the safest bet and the person you find it easiest to open up to.
Batfam x Female Reader (Platonic)||Fantasy Medieval AU ☝️
Disclaimer: I don't know much about the Middle Ages—it's been a long time since I've looked into that topic, and I'm not studying it anymore, lol—but this is fantasy, okay? Nothing is based on real events. Bad English probably.
Since Bruce Wayne became the King of Gotham Kingdom, a lot has changed—especially the laws. For example, wages have gone up, women can go to school and become knights, and the same-sex marriage law was even passed recently. But there is one thing that hasn't changed yet:
Magic is still forbidden. You’re no longer sentenced to death for being a magician or a sorcerer, but you are banished from the Kingdom. It's interesting: many other kingdoms have embraced magic and have made advances in medicine, technology, and other fields thanks to it, yet King Bruce is convinced he can make progress without magic. And he's succeeding.
Unfortunately, you're a user of magic—specifically, a witch. You found out when you were 11.
You and your mother had to move to the outskirts of the kingdom to hide your “gift,” as your mother likes to call it. It was a hasty but necessary decision; only God knows what might have happened if you’d been discovered—back then, magic was still punishable by death.
But you still remember the time you spent living in the village near the royal castle. Your mother was one of the many servants there, and you would sometimes go with her to work.
You remember seeing the king's children from a distance. You remember the three children, who look so much alike that no one would guess they're actually adopted.
Richard John Grayson/Wayne, a boy who lived in a traveling circus, was very young when his parents were killed in an accident during one of their performances. He was about 15 years old when you were still visiting the castle.
Jason Peter Todd/Wayne was an orphan who lived in a town known as Crime Alley; King Bruce adopted him after catching him stealing the wheels from his carriage. He was about 13 or 14 years old.
Timothy Jackson Drake/Wayne, the son of nobles, met King Bruce after insisting that he wanted to become a knight; his parents were murdered a few years after you moved away—You know, Bruce adopted him after that. He was 10 or 11 years old.
Then you heard rumors about Barbara, the daughter of the captain of the knights, who became captain of the female knights. You also heard about the daughter of a criminal who became a knight and arrested her own father(Steph), and about the daughter of murderers who was adopted by the king and placed under the guardianship of the knight Barbara(Cass).
Now that you're 17 and have better control over your magic, you allow yourself to get closer to the castle.
You take on various jobs. Sometimes you help the blacksmith, other times you go fishing, and most of the time you learn about alchemy and medicine with your mother’s help. Anything that earns you gold coins.
King Bruce is hosting a ball open to the entire kingdom to celebrate his biological son’s (and heir to the throne) 12th birthday. Do you think it’s a good idea for you to go? What will you do if someone tries to assassinate Prince Damian right in front of you?
Maybe we'll find out the answer if I stick with this idea and write the fanfic, but I'm NOT making any promises.😛
summary: When a retired working dog named Roxy shows up on your porch one afternoon, you're not expecting to meet her too-handsome, very flustered owner. But Roxy has a plan—and she’s not taking no for an answer.
includes: no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, roxy is the ultimate matchmaker, soft/flirty banter, reader has so many plants, cozy porch vibes, basically just fluff
You first meet her on a Thursday afternoon–sleek, alert, and looking like she just leapt out of a working dog calendar.
She’s striking, with a coat like brushed smoke and amber eyes that seem to size you up in an instant. Her ears are perked, her posture proud, but there’s no tension in her stance. You’re in the middle of repotting a succulent on your porch when she just… walks up your steps like she lives here.
You take a cautious step forward, but her tail gives a friendly sweep across the wooden floorboards. Her tag reads:
Roxy.
And beneath it:
If lost, call LUKE.
You smile. “Hi, Roxy. You’re not lost, are you?”
She’s clearly well-trained, probably used to being in control of every situation. And yet here she is, letting you stroke behind her ears like you’ve known each other forever.
Roxy offers no comment. You grab a bowl, fill it with water from the sink, and set it down. She laps it up gratefully, tail swishing like you’ve passed some invisible vibe check.
That’s when you hear the footsteps–quick, heavy, and a little desperate.
“Roxy!” a man calls.
A moment later, he jogs into view. Tan skin, dark hair, a T-shirt that clings in all the right places, and a look of stunned relief when he sees the dog–and then you.
“Oh, thank you,” he says, resting his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “She got off leash at the end of our run and just booked it. I’ve been chasing her for three blocks.”
Roxy, smug little traitor, lays down at your feet like this has been her plan all along.
“Is she always this… independent?” you ask, amused. “She didn’t seem lost.”
“She never does,” he mutters. “She’s a retired working dog. Knows how to open doors, manipulate humans, play innocent...”
You glance down at her. “That tracks.”
He steps closer, scratching behind Roxy’s ears with one hand while still catching his breath.
“I'm Luke, by the way.”
You introduce yourself with a smile and reach out for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
Luke nods toward the empty water bowl. “Thanks for giving her something to drink. She acts like she’s dying if she’s not pampered every five minutes.”
“She earned it. She showed up like she pays rent around here.”
Luke chuckles, and it’s a low, soft sound that somehow makes Roxy wag her tail even harder. He watches you for a beat longer than necessary, then clears his throat.
“Well, we’ll get out of your hair. Sorry for the intrusion.”
“Not an intrusion,” you say. “She was great company. Smarter than most of my neighbors, honestly.”
Luke grins. “Yeah, she has that effect on people.”
You linger for a second, not quite ready for him to leave–but what are you supposed to say? Hey, want to come back tomorrow with your unnaturally perfect dog and distract me from my entire afternoon again?
Instead, you just nod. “Take care, Roxy. Try not to break any more speed records.”
Roxy huffs like she’s making no promises. Luke gives a half wave as they head off.
And that’s that.
Or so you think.
Roxy returns four days later.
Same time, same confident strut. You’re drinking an iced coffee and reading on your porch swing when you feel eyes on you. Look up. Boom. There she is–majestic, smug, and with a purposeful sway in her gait like she knows you’ve been thinking about her.
“Well, hello,” you say, setting your drink down.
She flops down at your feet like it’s a ritual. You scratch behind her ears again because, well, you’re weak and she knows it.
Luke shows up ten minutes later, walking at a much more casual pace this time.
“She made it all the way back again?” he asks, like it’s a shock.
You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t even hesitate. Came straight up the porch steps like she had GPS coordinates.”
Luke shrugs, trying to look innocent. “She’s got a good memory.”
“Uh-huh.”
Still, he stays longer this time–leaning against your porch railing, trading easy banter with you while Roxy naps at your feet like a satisfied cat. You learn he likes black coffee and jazz records and once taught Roxy how to open a fridge door on command (a decision he now regrets).
He learns you’re into old movies, bake when you’re anxious, and have a minor obsession with your houseplants.
“Oh, those?” you say, nodding toward the vibrant cluster of greenery on the porch. “Yeah, they all have names.”
Luke raises a brow, smiling. “They do?”
You point to a dramatic, purple-tinged succulent. “That’s Prince.”
He chuckles. “Of course it is.”
“The fern is Cyndi. As in Lauper. She droops when she doesn’t get enough sun, but she just wants to have fun.”
Luke snorts, and you grin wider, enjoying his reaction.
You move to a tall, finicky-looking fiddle-leaf fig. “That’s Bowie. He’s temperamental and needs constant attention, but he’s worth it.”
Luke shakes his head, clearly charmed. “This might be the most chaotic garden I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not chaotic,” you say. “It’s curated.”
Eventually, he glances at the setting sun and sighs. “Alright, we should go.”
You nod, already missing the warmth of the moment.
As he reaches the end of the path, you call after him. “Hey, Luke?”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“You sure you didn’t teach her to do this?”
He hesitates–just a beat–and then gives a laugh that’s almost a confession.
“No comment.”
Roxy comes back.
Not just once, but again. And again. And again.
Nearly every week now.
Sometimes in the mornings, when your porch still smells like fresh coffee and lemon dish soap. A few times, she shows up just after dark, scratching politely at your front door like some kind of four-legged door-to-door salesperson. Always calm, always certain, like she’s showing up for an appointment you never scheduled.
And every single time, Luke follows.
He never shows up right behind her–just enough of a delay to be believable. Sort of. But eventually, the pattern becomes too perfect to ignore.
The first time she appears in the rain, you open the door already smiling.
“Well, you’ve got commitment, I’ll give you that.”
She saunters in like she owns the place. You towel her off, she shakes dramatically in your kitchen, and then curls up like she’s done you a favor.
Luke arrives six minutes later, drenched, looking sheepish.
“She really likes you,” he says, water dripping from his hair, shirt plastered to his chest in a way that you definitely try not to stare at.
“Mmhmm,” you hum, handing him a towel. “Pretty sure she likes my couch.”
He grins. “Might be both.”
The next time, it’s a weekend. Early. You’re in pajamas and mismatched socks, nursing a mug of tea and a stubborn case of writer’s block, when a familiar shape appears at the glass door.
You raise your eyebrows. “You again?”
Roxy wags her tail and paws the door.
This time, you don’t wait. You just open it and let her in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Luke shows up twenty minutes later, holding a peace offering: a potted ivy.
“This is Tina,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You blink at the plant, then at him. “Tina.”
He shifts his weight a little, suddenly self-conscious. “Like… Tina Turner.”
You raise an eyebrow. “No, I got that. I’m just…” You trail off, studying him. “You remembered.”
Luke rubs the back of his neck, offering a lopsided smile. “Hard to forget Prince, Cyndi, and Bowie. Honestly, I’ve been wondering when Stevie or Madonna might make an appearance.”
You take the ivy from him, still a little stunned. “Well. Tina’s a solid addition.”
Roxy lets out a short, approving bark, like she agrees.
You glance down at her. “Did you help him pick it out?”
Luke looks at her too. “She was more interested in the automatic doors at the garden center, but I like to think she was emotionally supportive.”
You laugh, setting Tina on the edge of the porch with the others. She already looks at home.
You crouch to arrange Tina beside Cyndi, giving her leaves a gentle fluff like she’s auditioning for the role of “ivy most likely to survive your inconsistent watering schedule.” Luke watches, arms folded loosely across his chest, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“She’s already judging the others,” you say. “Total diva energy.”
“Well, she is named after Tina Turner. I expect nothing less.”
You stand and glance over your shoulder at him. “I’m guessing this means I passed Roxy’s evaluation? Couch privileges, plant humor, all that?”
Luke nods solemnly. “Oh yeah. She’s selective. You’re in rare company.”
Roxy rolls over onto her back like she couldn't care less.
You tilt your head, playful. “So, what’s your deal, then? Do you come with a name tag and a number in case you get lost?”
He laughs. “No, but clearly I need one. Might help speed things up.”
You step closer, close enough to see the way the light catches the faint gold flecks in his eyes.
“Speed what up?” you ask, feigning innocence.
His smile turns just a little crooked, just a little nervous. “Maybe... asking if you want to grab a drink sometime. Or dinner. With someone who is technically not the dog.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Technically?”
“I make no promises. Roxy’s a terrible chaperone.”
You glance down. Roxy’s watching the exchange with what could only be described as smug encouragement.
“I could be convinced,” you say, slow and teasing.
Luke brightens–relief, hope, the tiniest dash of oh-thank-god all dancing across his face.
He reaches into his back pocket. “Let me give you my number–”
But you hold up a hand, grinning. “Don’t worry about it. Already got it from your wingwoman.”
His brows draw together. “My–?”
You point to Roxy’s tag.
Luke looks down. Realizes. Laughs–big and unguarded this time. “Wow. I’ve been outmaneuvered by my own dog.”
“She’s good,” you say. “Strategic.”
“She’s ruthless,” he replies. “I never stood a chance.”
You nudge him gently as you step back toward the porch. “You’ll get the text.”
He lingers for a beat, eyes soft, then gestures toward Roxy. “Alright, c’mon, matchmaker. Let’s get home.”
Roxy gets up with a dramatic sigh like she’s been burdened with everyone's emotional labor.
As they turn to leave, Luke glances back over his shoulder. “Hey,” he calls. “If this works out…”
You lift your chin. “Yeah?”
He smiles. “We’re naming the next plant Cher.”
You laugh, the sound rising easily into the warm air. “Deal.”
And just like that, Roxy trots down the steps like a queen in retirement, Luke trailing behind with the swagger of someone who finally got the answer he was hoping for.
Summary - Dick and you have been dating for a couple months so he decides to start telling his family, with your permission, while you are off world. Only no one believes him. Thus begins a month of Dick trying and failing to convince a family of detectives that he has a girlfriend.
Event Masterlist
"Do you have to go?" Dick whines and flops back onto your bed dramatically next to you.
"Sadly I can't blow off an incoming space war for you." You laugh and push at his shoulder. "I will hopefully be back in about a month."
He sighs, letting his head lean back against the pillow so he can stare up at your ceiling, "I wish you didn't have to be so absent lately."
The humor on your face melts away into something softer as you fix some of his curls that have fallen into his face. He looks over at you with a longing that has sat in his chest for years.
"I asked for more time off so hopefully I will start working closer to home. After that I will be around more and I can finally meet your family properly."
The prospect of you being around more often makes him giddy but you meeting his family makes him a little nervous.
They are going to love you, he knows because Dick loves you. The problem was that he would most likely never have alone time with you ever again.
"I will let them know about us while you are gone so they can be eased into it." Dick decides aloud.
You give him a smile that makes him feel like he just won the lottery, "I am excited to meet them and the other Lanterns probably want to give you a shovel talk, especially Guy and Hal."
Dick can't help but roll his eyes at that, "They can't scare me, I'm not even scared of Batman."
"Maybe but they feel the need to so don't laugh at them too hard." You laugh and kiss his cheek.
Once you have left with the rest of the lanterns, and Hal and Guy have threatened him sufficiently, he decides to begin the process of telling his family.
Dick tells Bruce first, knowing his mentor would appreciate not being kept in the dark. He stays behind one night after patrol when everyone else is gone. Bruce calls him out on his constant fidgiting and Dick tells him the truth.
He gets a hum in response. Usually it would be a grunt of acknowledgement or something like that but instead he gets a hum that sounds extremely skeptical.
Dick narrows his eyes at him and doesn't call him out on it, just files it away for later.
One by one he pulls his family aside to tell them about you and each time he is either looked at with confusion or, in Jason's case, laughed at hysterically for ten minutes.
He doesn't know what is going on. Are they collectively pranking him? Have they all gone insane? Has he gone insane?
You are still off world so he feels particularly down as he stands on a rooftop over looking Gotham. He feels terribly like Bruce as he broods while the city moves below him.
"Nightwing." Bruce greets as he lands on the rooftop, followed by Jason and Damian.
Jason gives him a two fingered salute while Damian nods in his direction.
"Batman, Red Hood, Robin." Dick greets. "What do you need from me?"
"We need your help on a case-" Bruce starts and Dick immediately crosses over to their side of the roof, ready to help.
Bruce goes to continue talking but a bright streak of pink light illuminates the night sky.
Dick is almost knocked over by how fast you hug him, it knocks some of the air out of his lungs. As soon as he registers what is happening he hugs you back.
"Baby!" You float a little off the ground as you hold him. "I missed you so much!"
"I missed you to." Dick says with a soft smile.
You release him and he remembers that Bruce, Damian and Jason are still there.
Dick's smile turns to a self satisfied smirk.
"This is my partner." He looks smug as they all are in various states of shock.
"Hi!" You wave cheerfully at them, unaware of his uphill battle of getting his family to believe him.
"I thought you made it up Richard," Damian regains his ability to speak first. "She is very out of your league."
Dick groans in frustration while you hold back laughter.
He wishes he never told his family about you.
Blue’s notes - Star Sapphire reader how I love you 💕 also this idea is hilarious to me.
summary: emily became a professional in guessing your underwear. but one time she missed it.
content/tw: mentions of alcohol, emily guesses reader’s underwear, reader goes commando, flirting, (if i missed any please lmk! )
word count: 1.2k
a/n: I hate this fucking name (underwear) but I can’t think of anything else. There will be a part three (if you want me to tag you when it’s out, lmk!), fear not my horny emily admirers <3
tag: @snoopyaah
dividers: @uzmacchiato
part one here
main masterlist
“Rough night?” you ask Emily, watching her rest her head on her hands, pressing her temples like it would magically make her brain come back to normal.
“Very.” she muttered, raising her eyes from the position to stare at you.
As always, her staring made you uneasy.
For the majority of your life, you were sure who you were. Your likes, your dislikes. About food, weather, clothes and people. It wasn’t like you labeled yourself, you didn’t. But you never actually questioned yourself. Ever.
Yes, you found women attractive. Yes, you’ve kissed one or two during college years. For fun. For science. But it wasn’t something you consciously thought about. You didn’t have a moment when you realized you liked women.
You didn’t.
Right?
It wasn’t something you thought about. Like it was, somehow, out of your league. Something that your brain wasn’t capable of developing. You never thought ‘oh, I am straight’. You just also never thought you weren’t.
And that wasn’t a problem. It never stopped you from sleeping at night. It was never a topic on your therapy sessions. You managed to get where you were (all the way up to the FBI) without thinking about it.
Your sexuality simply wasn’t a question for you.
Until Emily happened.
All it took was one heavy flirting and all your convictions shattered. One night at a bar she mentioned your underwear, and you lost it.
And then, you started to notice things. It’s not like you never noticed them, it’s just… different. For example, how the scent of her shampoo (coconut, because why not?) filled the entire room when she undid her ponytail, usually after a long stretch. How she always leaned back and wiggled her eyebrows proudly when she told a joke (usually a terrible one). How she pronounced your name, dragging the last syllable when she asked you a favor, sharp and pointed when she was annoyed, singing-songing it when she had something funny to say.
Emily was all up on you, being in presence (you were table partners) and in thought (you couldn’t get her out of your head).
“You want a refill?” you asked, pointed to the half-empty mug in front of her, the coffee in it probably cold.
“If I taste this cheap ass disgusting coffee I will throw up” she groaned, dropping her head down again. You chuckled. At the sound of it, she snapped her head up, her eyes slightly widened like she had an idea “Let's make a bet!”
“Let’s not.”
“Yes, let’s do it!” she disagreed, pushing herself up and smiling greedily. You rolled your eyes, because of course she would have it her way (you always let her) “If I guess your underwear correctly, you’ll get me a coffee from the cafeteria downtown.”
“Absolutely not! I just got here.”
“I’ll do all your paperwork if I guess wrong.” you eyed her suspiciously.
“Why don’t you ask Reid?”
“Ew. I can’t picture Reid in underwear. He’s like a sibling.”
“And I’m not?”
“Nope.” she answered with a ‘pop’, her stare warming you up inside. “I’ll do your paperwork for a week.”
“Fine.” you agreed, more to change the subject of her not seeing you as a sibling than the prize suggested.
She clapped her hands in delight, leaning back on her chair and watching you up and down.
“You’ll have to turn around.”
“Absolutely fucking not. That was not on the deal.” you pointed at her. She laughed, shrugging.
“Worth a try. Fine.” then resumed the staring. Just when you were close to calling the whole thing off (all the staring was actually doing a number on you), she started to speak “You blow dried your hair, and you’re wearing lip gloss. Which means you’re in a good mood.”
“Feeling pretty puts me in a good mood, oh you’re so good.” you snarked, sarcastically. She didn’t flinch, continuing her analysis.
“No, you woke up in a good mood. That’s why you’re all doll up. And you never wake up in a good mood, unless you’ve got eight hours of sleep.” she calculates a little more “You never manage to sleep eight hours when you’re in your period, so I can discard those comfy granny panties you own.” you roll your eyes.
“Was that really necessary?”
“Very.” she states, seriously “Alright, we’re almost there. You got here in time, so you had time to get yourself ready. You’re wearing a cotton candy colored bra, I can see the lace peeking out of your shirt.” you glance down horrified and close another button of your shirt, to which she just grins “You’re feeling yourself too much to not be using a matching set. So maybe a tong, cotton candy-colored and lace. Little pink bow on each side. Garcia gave it to you on your birthday. This earned me a cinnamon roll.” she pointed, giving you a cheeky grin.
“The fuck?” you whispered to yourself, getting your car keys and stomping outside. You sighed loudly as you heard Emily’s laughter in the background.
This started a tradition of some sorts. Everytime she wanted something (which usually included food, overpriced coffees and/or reports) from you, she made a bed. Somehow, she always got it right. And it never fails to make you blush furiously.
Which led you to another Saturday night, on your ‘monthly single-only exclusively night out’ (Garcia named it).
You, Emily, Garcia, Morgan and a not-very-excited-but-just-now-after-four-monthly-meetings-is-starting-to-get-used-to-it Spencer. The only singles in the team.
For some reason you and Emily got picked out to get the third round of drinks for the group, so now you were standing side by side on the balcony watching the bartender prepare five margaritas (to which Morgan was surprisingly excited for).
“If I guess your underwear right now, you owe me a shot.” she tried, already smirking.
You snorted, mimicking her smile before complying “Go on.” because there was no point in trying to stop it. You had just as much fun as she did, and right now the loud music and the previous two drinks did their job in keeping your worries far from your mind. So any thoughts of how you shouldn’t be feeling like that about your coworker just vanished, leaving you with nothing but her lingering eyes and how kissable her lips looked under that light.
“There’s no way you’re wearing lace under that dress.” she pointed out, making you laugh in agreement. That night you decided to go a little out of your way, choosing a backless skin-tight dark brown dress, its length stopping on your mid-tights. You felt good in it, and the ogling you kept getting from Emily did a poor job in humbling you.
“What else?” you encouraged her.
“You’re a freak for matching colors, so I’d say you’re wearing one of those invisible thongs. Probably the same color of your dress or something red-ish.” she decided, raising her eyebrows in expectation.
Your lips curled into a smug smirk, and Emily interpreted in a bad sign. “Oh oh.” she murmured.
Encouraged by nothing more than the alcohol-boldness and the desire stirring on the pit of your stomach from weeks of teasing, you leaned closer to her, speaking in a mix of teasing and amusement tone, your lips ghosting the shell of her ear.
Hey Hey! Heard you were wanting some tropes or ideas for fics? If your requests are still open?
Perchance, you'd like to write like a long-distance surprise relationship between the reader and Spencer reid?
Like how JJ and Will were long distance?? Except the team doesn't know about the reader? And she surprises them on a case and she flirts with Spencer so the team is trying to grt them together, but surprise! They already are? If that makes sense?
Hopefully!! Thanks if advance, if you do like the idea x
I Wish You Would | spencer reid
summary: 1,1k. when your department is unexpectedly assigned to a BAU case, you decide to surprise him, walking straight into a room full of profilers who have absolutely no idea you two are already together.
cw: secret relationship, long-distance relationship, idiots in love, english is not my first language xx.
currently playing: i wish you would
You never meant for it to be a secret. With Spencer, things grow quietly. Phone calls that start as quick check-ins stretch into hours. Goodnights turn into long conversations about books and statistics and the shape of the moon outside each of your windows. Before you know it, every week is arranged around the next time you’ll be in the same state. But you live three states away, he works for the BAU, and what began as “let’s not tell them right away” somehow became seven months of a functioning long-distance relationship that not a single one of his teammates knows about.
Spencer insists it’s not lying.
You insist it is, but you also think it’s adorable watching him sweat every time Morgan jokes that he “couldn’t pull someone if he had a net.”
The only real problem is that you miss him—horribly, painfully, consistently.
So when your department gets looped into a joint investigation with the BAU, you don’t tell Spencer you’re coming. You want to surprise him. You want to see his face shift from confusion to hope to disbelief in real time. And, if you’re honest, you want to test a room full of profilers and see who figures it out first.
Spoiler: it’s not Spencer.
When you step into the conference room at Quantico, Garcia’s voice is chirping from the speakerphone as Hotch looks up. “Agent,” he says with a short nod. “Good timing.”
You greet him politely, but your attention is already sliding sideways. You don’t even make it halfway across the room before you feel Spencer’s gaze land on you like a physical touch. His eyes widen for a flicker—pure shock—before he forces his face back into a painfully neutral expression. Only you see the way his knuckles tighten on the file in his hands.
Hotch gestures for you to sit. The only open chair is next to Spencer. Of course it is.
You sit down without looking directly at him. He sits very, very upright, like he’s holding his breath. Emily throws him a curious look. Morgan raises an eyebrow at you, smirking like he’s already decided he likes you. JJ glances between you and Spencer and smiles, soft and knowing. If anyone is going to figure it out first, it’ll be her.
The briefing goes smoothly, and as soon as it ends, Morgan is on you like a heat-seeking missile.
“So,” he says, leaning casually against the table, “how long you in town, gorgeous?”
Spencer makes a barely contained choking noise behind you.
You smile politely. “As long as the case needs me.”
Emily hums. “She even speaks Hotch. We should keep her.”
JJ nudges Spencer. “Why don’t you show her around Quantico? She probably needs a guide.”
You tilt your head. “Oh, I know my way around pretty well.”
Spencer sits bolt upright. “Because she’s… um… very efficient at memorizing layouts. And, uh… spatial mapping. Geographically.”
Morgan grins. “Kid, what are you even saying?”
Spencer is sweating. You’re trying not to laugh.
On the way out to the SUVs, the team drifts a little ahead. You fall into step beside Spencer, close enough that your sleeve brushes his. He mutters without looking at you, “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was on the plane!”
“So was I. You could’ve tried.”
He shifts, eyes still forward. “You’re cruel.”
“You love it.”
He does.
At the first crime scene, you and Spencer naturally gravitate toward each other. You crouch beside him, both reading off the same file at the same angle, your shoulders brushing. He’s trying very hard to stay professional. You’re trying very hard to make that impossible.
Across the room, Emily is whispering loudly to Morgan, “They have chemistry. That’s chemistry.”
Morgan eyes Spencer. “No way it’s mutual. Boy would have a meltdown.”
“Then let’s help him,” Emily murmurs.
JJ strolls over and joins the whispering. “They’d be perfect together.”
Meanwhile, Spencer nearly drops his pen every time your hand gets close to his.
“They’re trying to set you up with me,” you whisper.
His face burns. “I noticed.”
“Maybe you should flirt with me.”
He stares at you like you’ve asked him to disarm a bomb. “Your… observational skills are very… statistically impressive.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Bold move, doctor.”
“You told me to flirt!”
“That was flirting?”
“I’m under extreme pressure!”
Hours later, when the team regroups at the precinct, you and Spencer end up alone in the hallway for once—no teammates, no curious eyes, no profiling stares.
He exhales like he’s just run a marathon. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You soften, stepping closer. “I missed you.”
His expression melts instantly. “I missed you too.”
Your fingers brush. Then he lets his hand slide fully into yours, warm and familiar and desperate in a way he rarely shows.
Your foreheads touch.
And then someone gasps loudly behind you.
Emily’s voice explodes through the hallway. “NO. FREAKING. WAY.”
You and Spencer jump apart like teenagers caught making out behind the bleachers.
JJ covers her mouth. “You two… are you…?”
Morgan’s jaw drops as the realization hits. “Hold on—hold on—y’all been together this whole time?”
A/N - Why is titling fics so hard? I used a Hunger Games quote because it fit so well so lmk if you can pick it out. Nearly 5K words, not proofread.
Summary - After the end of a bloody case, Emily tasks a begrudging Spencer with checking in on the newbie.
Warnings - Spencer x fem!reader, typical BAU-level violence, murder, kn!ves, season 12/13 spoilers, extensive handwashing (?), a bitter post-prison reid with a grumpy x sunshine plot
My hands are stained red.
That was your first coherent thought as you stared in the bathroom mirror. The fluorescent lighting cast a pale glow over your face, making you look more ghostly than you already did. Your once blue shirt was covered in splotches. Your hands, dangling over the sink, were the color of burnt rust.
As you turned on the faucet and applied soap to your hands, your brain replayed the events that brought you here.
This was only your second case with the team. Hell, it was only your fourth case with the bureau. All you wanted to do was fit in. You’d heard great things about the BAU: the highly decorated Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, the face of the FBI - Jennifer Jareau, and the sought-after genius of Dr. Spencer Reid.
The first case with the BAU had gone well. You’d done a lot of the grunt work, putting in an intense number of hours in a dingy police precinct pouring over paperwork with Dr. Reid, who kept telling you to call him Spencer. Despite this faux friendliness, you couldn’t help but get the feeling he was tired of working with you.
Not that you could blame him. You were, by all definitions, a newbie. He had over a decade of experience and a serious reputation. A genius to boot, his sighs and looks often made you feel like you were in his way more than you were actually helping. Hence why, when Emily had asked for two volunteers to tail a suspect for the day, you’d quickly volunteered to go with the charming Luke Alvez.
Six hours later, Luke, along with yourself, had tracked an unsub while he was taking his latest victim back to his home in a rural area. Back-up, which was supposed to be on the way, wouldn’t be there for at least twenty minutes. When the first blood-curdling scream rang out from the house, the two of you knew you had no choice but to act alone.
Luke went in through the front door, making his presence known as you tiptoed around the side of the house to enter undetected. When you found a cracked window, you were able to slip inside without much issue.
In that moment, you remembered hearing Luke attempting to talk down the unsub. You approached their voices, careful not to let anyone know you were inside.
“How do you think this is going to end?” Luke asked the unsub, his voice firm.
The unsub had laughed and the muffled cries of his victim could be heard from your spot. You tucked yourself quietly behind a hallway entrance into the room Luke was in. You peeked around the corner to let him know you were there. His only acknowledgment of you was a brief glance, but that was all you needed to know that he wanted you to stay in place.
“I think,” the unsub started, with more cries coming from his captive, “that she’ll probably die before this is all over.”
You tried to recall the profile. Emily’s voice replayed in your mind.
“He kills with a knife and dumps the body in a secondary location, meaning he gets the women alone and gets close to them before he kills them. Based on the demographics of this region, he’s probably a white man. Likely in his 30s. Attractive but single, most definitely living alone. That’s his selling point. That’s how he’s managed to lure all these women into his vehicle.”
Nothing stuck out to you about him. There was nothing you could think to do to help in this situation besides hide behind the wall. You were waiting for a signal from Luke or the sound of backup approaching.
Luke cleared his throat and you could picture him shaking his head. “It doesn’t have to be like this, man. Let her go and I can help you.”
The unsub laughed again and you cringed. There was something so unsettling about his voice and his laughter.
The unsub started to speak, but his voice was cut off by the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. This was your moment.
You whirled around the corner, gun drawn. “FBI, don’t move,” you warned. The unsub turned to look at you. His cold blue eyes bore a hole in your head. A shiver ran through your spine. “Drop the knife.”
He appeared irritated, rolling his neck as if trying to work out a kink. He glanced down at his victim. Her eyes were wide and frantic, tears streaming down her face. She was bound and a piece of cloth was tied around her face as a makeshift gag. He pulled her up to his height by her hair, eliciting more cries.
“Well sweetheart, this isn’t how I pictured this ending for us. I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said as he raised the knife to her throat.
“Wait!” Luke shouted.
It was too late. What followed next was nothing short of chaos.
Luke let off two shots, both of which connected with the unsub. His body cascaded to the floor. You lunged forward at the poor victim. Her throat, now cut, was bleeding at an alarming rate. However, her eyes remained open and the gasps coming from her mouth told you she was still breathing.
You threw yourself on the floor next to her, removing the gag from her mouth and placing it over her neck as a makeshift tourniquet.
“Do you hear that?” you asked, the sirens were right outside the house. “Help is almost here, okay? You have to keep your eyes on me.” Her glassy eyes were locked on yours, but the panic was fading from them with the little life she had left. The cloth in your hands was soaked with blood and your hands were turning a deep shade of crimson.
You shook your head. “No, no. Come on. Look at me,” you tried to encourage her to hold on just for another moment.
In the midst of your mumbling, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You whirled around to see Luke crouched behind you.
“She’s gone, Y/N,” he said gently. His eyes were locked on her lifeless body. You furrowed your brow, denial coursing through your veins.
Just as you were about to protest, the EMTs burst through the door with Emily and Dr. Reid in tow. Luke pulled you out of the way as they tended to both the victim and the unsub.
The four of you watched helplessly from the corner of the room. You felt your body shake gently, adrenaline getting the best of you. You could feel Reid’s eyes on you. His judgement making you more anxious.
You watched as one of the EMTs working on the victim turned to look at you. He shook his head gently, a sign that she really was gone.
You'd never forget her face.
A sigh of defeat left your lips and tears welled up in your eyes. In a moment driven by pure emotion, you shot out of the house and back towards the SUV.
Luke sprinted out the front door after you. “Where are you going?” he shouted, clearly confused by your sudden burst of determination.
“Back to the hotel,” you said matter-of-factly, sliding into the driver’s seat of the car. He rushed over to the driver’s door, holding it open so you couldn’t slam it shut.
He looked incredulous. “And who am I supposed to ride with?”
You rolled your eyes. “Luke, two people just died and you’re worried about who your chauffeur is going to be.”
Luke seemed to get the message he pulled back from the door, allowing you to shut it. You started the SUV, cracking the window just enough to shout, “Catch a ride with Reid and Emily.”
You pulled out onto the highway, foot heavy on the pedal as adrenaline still run through you.
Nearly half an hour later and still covered in blood, you stumbled into the hotel lobby. The desk lady, panicked, quickly rushed in front of you. The lady, presumably Linda based on her nametag, asked you if she needed to call the police. You’d shown her your badge with a bitter laugh, explaining that you were the police. The smell of her floral perfume was making your head spin more than it already was. Thankfully, with a sympathetic smile, she’d moved out of your way and allowed you to proceed to your room.
Which was how you ended up here, trying to scrub blood off of your still-shaky hands. You weren’t sure how long you’d been at this, but you couldn’t quit now. The dark evidence was still embedded deep beneath your fingernails.
-SPENCER’S POV-
Walking into the house behind Emily, I could already see the mess that had unraveled. There was blood on the wall, where the unsub lay propped up but clearly dead as if he’d landed sitting up. There was blood on the floor, covering the lifeless body of the last victim.
And there was blood all over her, the new girl, who was standing in the corner. Her eyes stared off into the distance, and she looked like she could faint at any moment.
She was nice. Too innocent for the job, clearly. If I hadn’t been sure about that from the other case we worked together, it was evident now.
Emily and I walked over to the corner, standing beside Y/N and Luke as the EMTs worked on both the unsub and the victim on the other side of the room. Despite the gory scene before us, I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off Y/N yet. Thoughts laced with sympathy crept into my mind and I resisted the urge to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder.
Just as I was about to do just that, the closest EMT turned to her and shook his head. The victim, as the unsub, was dead. She let out a sound that I could only describe as a shudder before she raced out the front door.
“What the hell?” Luke asked, following her out.
Emily sighed, staring at the two bodies before us as the EMTs packed up their things. “Kind of a harsh second case for the kid, huh?” she asked.
I thought for a moment and shrugged, pushing sympathy away. “It’s not like it gets any easier from here on out, she might as well get used to it now.”
I turned and started to walk out of the house, just in time to watch the new girl whip the SUV out of the driveway and hightail it back towards town. Though I wasn’t looking at her, I felt Emily shoot me a look.
“You’d have never said a thing like that before you went away, Spencer,” she scolded.
I took a deep breath. She was probably right. “No, I wouldn’t have, but things are different now,” I said plainly.
I walked down the front porch steps and out on to the lawn where Luke was waiting for us, impatiently resting a hand on the handle of the SUV’s door.
“Where’s your ride?” I quipped sarcastically.
He shook his head. “Don’t start. It’s been a long day for all of us.”
Emily caught up to me, pulling the SUV keys out of her pocket and unlocking the door so Luke could climb inside. As he did, she turned to me.
“When we get back to the hotel, I want you to go check on Y/N.”
I felt my face contort in a scoff. “Why would I be the one to do that?”
“Because,” Emily said, staring at the SUV before us, “someone needs to.”
“So why don’t you?” I challenged, growing more exasperated by the second.
Emily snapped her head to the side, her eyes shooting daggers at me. “Spencer,” she said sharply. I looked at her, trying to read her microexpressions. “I worry about you. Do you get that?”
That wasn’t the reply I was expecting.
I averted my eyes to the ground, somewhat ashamed of my previous attitude. “Yeah, I know.”
“I want you to check on her because she needs someone who has seen bad things to explain to her that those bad things are survivable,” she started, eyes still locked on my face. I glanced up at her as she continued.
“And, I want you to check on her because I think it would be good for you,” she finished.
“Good for me?” I asked, with less attitude and more curiosity this time.
Emily sensed the shift in my demeanor and I could see her shoulders relax. “Yes, good for you. Ever since you came back, you never stay out after cases anymore. Remember how we all used to go out together? Have a couple drinks? Relax?”
I nodded because I did remember. Those were some of the best memories of my life.
“All you do anymore is go home or back to the hotels and hide in your room until the next morning, reading Vigotsky or Tarkovsky or whatever you do.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was reading the works of Dostoyevsky, so I let her continue uninterrupted.
“It’s time for you to do some socializing. I think talking about yourself might do you some good for once. Besides, Y/N really is a ray of sunshine once you get to know her. I think her company will be good for you.”
I thought about what she said for a moment. She wasn’t entirely wrong. “Alright,” I said, “I’ll stop by her room before I go to bed for the night.”
Satisfied with my answer, Emily proceeded to the SUV.
Soon enough, we were back at the hotel. I thought about how to proceed. Should I go to her room immediately? Should I wait and change out of my work clothes first?
Absolutely not. Talking is one thing. Wearing my pajamas in front of her? That’s too personal.
I decided to head straight to her room. Ripping the bandaid off seemed like the best option.
I strolled down the hall and stopped in front of her door. I placed three quick knocks on the door and waited. And waited. I knocked again. Nothing.
Maybe she’d gone out for the evening, I reasoned. Or, maybe she was asleep. Regardless, I was ready to turn and go back to my room when I heard the faintest sound of running water coming from inside.
My mind raced. She was surely just in the shower, right? Or maybe running a bath? The FBI agent in me freaked out. What if she’d went off the deep end and was trying to drown herself? Or what if-
I tried to run through my options, the first obvious one being to try the door handle, which was miraculously unlocked. Who the hell leaves their door unlocked in a cheap hotel like this?
“Y/N?” I called out as I stepped into the room. The bathroom door was wide open to the left of the main door I just entered, and I peered around the corner.
She stood before the sink, eyes locked on her hands which appeared to be scrubbed nearly raw. I walked inside, concern building by the moment. “What are you doing?” I asked.
She didn’t hear me - or she ignored me if she did. She continued scrubbing her hands diligently. I leaned forward to get a better look. A few red streaks ran off her hand and down the sink, but I wasn’t so sure what she was washing off was the victim’s blood anymore.
“Y/N, stop. You’re hurting yourself,” I scolded. Her motions continued. She seemed dazed and unaware of my presence. She was surely in some kind of shock.
As I stood behind her, I felt as though the scrubbing intensified. I made a snap decision. Stepping forward, I placed my arms on either side of her body, caging her in around the sink as I firmly grabbed her forearms and separated her hands.
She jumped violently, enough for me to release her arms from my grip and back away quickly.
“My god, Dr. Reid. How long have you been here?” she asked as her voice shook. She looked exhausted and her hands were bright red. Red lines where she’d repeatedly used her nails to scrape at the skin caught my eye.
I pulled my gaze away from her hands, making eye contact with her for the first time. “I came to check on you, after everything. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
She looked down at her hands, the realization of what she had done became apparent as she flexed her fingers and winced.
“Looks like I came at the right time,” I said quietly, more to myself than to her.
She shook her head incredulously before she began apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Reid. I have no idea why I was doing that. You shouldn’t have had to-”
I shrugged. “It happens.”
Silence filled the room as I noticed she was still in her blood-soaked clothes. Thoughts whirled through my mind, but I couldn’t form a coherent thought. Words were pouring out of my mouth without my approval.
“Here’s what I purpose,” I said before I could stop myself. “Take a shower, get changed, and meet me in my room for a few minutes. I just want to talk to you about a some things.”
She stared at the floor. I almost thought she was going to say no.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I nodded, heading for the bathroom door. “Room 91A. And please, call me Spencer,” I stated. Not waiting for her response, I shut the bathroom door behind me and locked her hotel door on my way out.
-READER POV-
You felt like you were in trouble.
You know when you’re merely a child and you get in trouble in the middle of class? You know the feeling of your stomach sinking as you walk to the principal’s office?
That was the only way you could describe walking to Dr. Reid’s - Spencer’s - room.
After a shower that stung your hands and brought tears to your eyes, you slipped into some comfy clothes and wrapped gauze around the rawest parts of your palms, before heading to his room.
Room 91A. You tapped your knuckles on the door twice. You heard shuffling from inside the room. Spencer stood before you, also showered, also in his pajamas.
This caught you by surprise. He could tell by the way your eyebrows shot up at his appearance. “I figured we might as well be comfortable with one another,” he said before stepping out of the way. “Come in.”
You brushed past him as you walked inside. Though it was just a hotel room, something about the stack of books on the side table and paperwork scattered on the desk brought a small smile to your face.
One book in particular laid face up on the edge of the bed. “Dostoyevsky?” you asked.
Spencer raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your question. “Yes. Have you read his work?”
You nodded, glancing up at him as you ran your hand over the cover of the book, tracing the engraving on the cover of the antique copy. “Everybody knows Crime and Punishment, but I prefer White Nights.”
You’d caught him off guard. “I didn’t know you were interested in Russian literature,” he said, walking to the other side of the room and taking a seat in one of the two armchairs positioned in the corner, “or any literature, for that matter.”
You shrugged. “We’ve only known each other for two weeks. I’m not sure why you’d have any idea.”
His stare faltered, and you caught him averting his eyes to the floor as he leaned back in the chair. “I should have asked. I haven’t been very kind to you. I haven’t done a very good job of making you feel welcome here,” he started cautiously.
That caught your attention. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, but your first response was to reassure him. “It’s no problem, Spencer. It’s been so busy that I haven’t had time to get to know anyone very well.” You perched yourself on the edge of the bed, watching him carefully.
“That isn’t true,” he said matter of factly.
“Excuse me?” you asked, genuinely confused as to if you heard him right.
Spencer cleared his throat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the tops of his thighs. His hands folded and he used them as a rest for his chin. You could see the gears turning in his head.
“I said that it isn’t true. You have gotten to know everyone quite well, from what I gather,” Spencer said.
Before you could respond, he started in again. “I’ve seen pictures of you with Luke and Penelope at the club after the last case. I know you went to lunch with Will and JJ. She says you’re fantastic with Henry and Michael. Tara told me you helped Rossi finish the thousand piece puzzle he’s had splayed out on his office table for two months. All this while Emily claims you’re a ray of sunshine.”
Your mouth had fallen open a bit in the midst of his confession. You tried to think of an appropriate response. “Well, yes. That’s all true. But I don’t expect you to go out of your way to get to know me. I’m a people person.” You pointed to the books on his side table. “You, on the other hand, seem to prefer quiet time alone. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
The room was silent for a moment. The sound of Spencer’s foot tapping quietly against the floor kept the time. One, two, three…
“I didn’t used to be this way,” he said frankly.
You glanced at him, trying to read his expression. His face was stoic. He didn’t look particularly upset, though he surely wasn’t happy either. He ran a lone hand through his hair and brushed a few solitary curls from his eyes.
“I know,” you responded.
He furrowed his brow at you, confusion written all over his face. You rose from the bed and approached him before plopping down in the armchair next to his.
“You know how, for us normal people, we spend a few years in training before we actually get a real assignment?” you asked.
He nodded.
“I’ve been with the Bureau in that capacity going on four years,” you started, eyes locked on the wall across from you. “My third year, there were rumors about an FBI agent spending time in prison for some high-level crime. People theorized it was connected to drug running, treason, even murder.”
Spencer cringed.
“For the longest time, I thought it was a rumor. I forgot about it and I got an internship in Internal Affairs,” you continued. “One day, my boss handed me this huge file, full of reports going back over a decade.”
He was curious now, staring at you intensely as you did your best not to melt under his gaze.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, that was your file. One section was full of every report you’d ever written. The other section was what the Department of Justice had collected in an attempt to convict you in the fall.”
This was new information to Spencer, who felt himself let out a bitter laugh. You paused to look at him.
“I’m not sure why I’m surprised by that,” he said sourly. “I knew then they would want to be as far away from the case as possible. No wonder it was easier for them to try to keep me in there.”
You shrugged, continuing. “I guess Emily had called in a favor with Internal Affairs. I was tasked with finding proof of innocence.”
“And?” Spencer asked.
“I couldn’t find any,” you stated simply. He nodded. “But I never forgot the file, especially the pictures inside. I never forget a face. Reading through your life with the Bureau, seeing the sequence of ID images each year as you got older, maybe even colder. That stuck with me for some reason.”
He appeared intrigued and was clearly doing his best not to interrupt.
“When I woke up one morning and saw this huge CBS headline about the DOJ dropping the charges against a wrongly accused agent, I felt a strange kind of vindication,” you admitted. “Nine months later I got a call from Emily, asking me to come in for an interview. Two months later, now we’re here.”
“Now we’re here,” he repeated.
You cleared your throat. “What I didn’t bank on when I joined the BAU, was the same face from that file would be across from me at the table every day.”
You turned to him to find he was already looking at you, and you offered him a small smile. “All this to say,” you whispered, “I think you have every reason not to be friendly with the new hire.”
The room was silent once more, the two of you sneaking glances at each other. Spencer was the first to break the silence.
“Emily sent me to check on you because she thought it would be good for both of us,” he confessed. “She said you should see me as an example that people can get through bad things, and that I needed to get out of my head and into the real world.”
You were quiet for a moment before shifting in the chair. You thought of everything you’d seen over the last twelve hours.
“I never forget a face,” you whispered again, thinking back to the victim on the floor. Her glassy eyes staring up at your own.
Spencer nodded. “Me either.”
“So how do you do it?” you asked him.
He turned to you. You swore you could see tears forming in his eyes.
“I find that there's always that little moment right when you wake up in the morning, when everything's good, because your mind has temporarily forgotten the bad stuff.”
You smiled as he continued. “At night, when I can’t sleep, I make a list in my head of all the good things I've seen someone do. Every little thing I can remember. It's like a game.”
You tried to think about every good thing you’d ever seen someone do and tears welled in your eyes. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” you said.
“It works sometimes,” Spencer smiled. He moved forward, placing a hand on your knee. You looked up at him. The two of you stared at each other.
“You have to know that you’ll never fully forget these things, but we get through it as a team,” he finished.
The tears welled up in your eyes spilled over, and you noticed that a few of his own had to. The hand on your knee moved up, wiping the fallen tears from your cheeks.
After a moment of letting the tears dry, you rose from the chair. “I really appreciate this, Spencer. I’m sorry that you had to go out of your way to help me, but I am very grateful.”
He stood, towering over you. “It’s not a problem. I enjoyed talking to you.”
“I enjoyed talking to you too,” you said with a smile. You stood next to him for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his close proximity before you snapped out of it. “Well, I should probably go back to my room and let you get back to your work.”
You turned from him and walked towards the door, pausing only when you heard his voice call after you.
“Y/N,” he said, taking a few steps in your direction to where you’d crossed the room.
“Yeah, Spencer?” you said, turning to face him.
He faltered, his eyes finding the floor again. “I just,” Spencer stuttered for a moment, trying to regain his cool. “I was wondering if you wanted to stay. Stay and talk, of course. I-” he paused a moment more. Spencer took a deep breath. “I think Emily was right. I do enjoy your company and I’d like you to stay for a while,” he said firmly.
You couldn’t hide the surprise on your face. Spencer saw it, too, quickly rushing to give you an out.
“You don’t have to, of course,” he rushed. His cheeks burned red.
“No, I don’t have to,” you said. “But I’d like to.”
You saw his shoulders relax as the tension left his body.
“Great,” Spencer nodded. He sounded relieved.
You walked over to the armchair, plopping back down next to him. “Right, so,” you started, “What’s your topic of choice, Spence?”
The use of his nickname brought the blush back to his cheeks as he scurried back into the chair next to you.
He glanced at the books on the side table, the topic of conversation coming to him quickly. “Tell me,” Spencer started, “What resonates with you about the White Lady?”
You smiled before diving into a summary that not only analyzed the text but connected it to your own life. You thought your heart skipped a beat when you caught a glimpse of Spencer smiling warmly at you as you rambled.
It was a long, interesting, conversation-filled night.
OK, hear me out: Batfam x Batsis Miraculous Holder.
Reader heads to Paris after Jason's death because she needs space to come to terms with her loss, and she needs to get away from her family since they do nothing but argue with her. In reality, it's also because Gotham is suffocating her—the press is always hounding her, she's constantly forced to make public appearances to keep up appearances, and she's tired of rich people.
So she went to Paris to attend a public high school. She had only been in France for a few weeks when, on her first day of school, she helped a random guy get up off the ground, and that afternoon she found a box with a ring inside in her room.
Exactly, Reader is the holder of the Cat's Miraculous!
This would basically be an alternate universe for *Miraculous: Ladybug* lol. I'm not sure if I should use the characters as they are or change some things about them.
I was thinking about an alternate version of Adrien as the holder of the Ladybug Miraculous. An alternate version of Marinette as the holder of the Mouse Miraculous.
Polyamory between Marinette, Adrien, and Reader? 🙏
Reader has a complicated relationship with Bruce. After Jason's death, Bruce became more overprotective of her; her self-defense classes got tougher, and their time together was reduced to just seeing each other for training.
Reader never became a vigilante because Bruce never gave her permission. Reader is his only biological daughter; even though she was unwanted, Bruce still loves her and is willing to protect her at any cost. Reader never insisted on becoming a vigilante in exchange for self-defense lessons.
It's harder for me to describe Reader's relationship with Dick because I haven't read his comics yet to get more context on why he became Nightwing and his relationship with Bruce, Jason, and Alfred 😭, so I'll focus on how it changed after Jason's death:
Reader, she couldn't even bring herself to dwell on the fact that Dick wasn't at the funeral. But she will always remember how Dick never returned her calls or messages, not even when he came back from that mission. And when he returned to the mansion with Tim Drake, he never bothered to explain to her what was going on and why Tim was now Robin. (Actually, Dick didn't feel up to facing you; he wasn't ready to talk to you. He thought you were going to blame him for not being there when it happened. ) Even so, he was and always will be your older brother.
Jason and Reader were undoubtedly the closest, but it wasn't always that way. At first, there was a childish rivalry stemming from their own insecurities. But they were able to resolve their conflicts and become each other's favorite sibling. Jason's death left a void in your heart that no one will ever be able to fill.
Reader and Tim’s relationship never had a chance to develop, since Reader left for France shortly after the boy arrived at the mansion. Reader never blamed him for anything, nor did she see him as a replacement, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to someone who, in some twisted way, reminded her so much of her brother.
Reader and Alfred were close; Alfred was always there for her, especially at galas and parties where Reader was. Alfred always knew how to get her out of those events without drawing attention, and he always made sure there were cookies or some other snack waiting for her in the kitchen.
It was Alfred who convinced Bruce to let Reader move to France.
In France, Reader made friends, became a heroine, and even fell in love (maybe)
(Let's say I'm rewriting the story of Miraculous; some things stay the same, but others change.)
By this I mean, for example, that Reader is the one who defeats Hawkmoth/Monarch—in other words, Monarch *does* take Adrien and Kagami to London, and Reader is the one who has to fight with him using the Ladybug and Cat Miraculous.
Since I’m giving Adrien the role of strategist that Ladybug originally had, along with that professionalism as a hero, I’m changing what happens after the final battle.
Reader tells Adrien that Monarch was his father. The reason is simple: she lived for years without knowing that Bruce was Batman; the news came as a shock, and she felt betrayed upon discovering that Alfred, Dick, and Jason knew that secret—even people outside the family. They kept such an important secret from her and made her feel unloved by her family, if it weren’t for the fact that Jason was a big mouth.
So Reader decides to ignore Gabriel’s request and tell Adrien the truth.
Obviously, the news devastates Adrien. Reader can’t stay to comfort him because of identity issues, but she does let Kagami do so.
Later, she has a conversation with Mister Bug, asking him if she did the right thing by telling Adrien the truth and explaining what happened. Mister Bug assures her that it was the best choice.
Maybe Marinette is still the guardian of the Miraculous, but she gets to keep the mouse Miraculous, because I like giving her an important role since I love her so much 😭 but I also want to lighten her load because I want her to be happy lol.
She knows who the bearers of all the Miraculous are, except for the ladybug and the cat. She is the one who approves the distribution of all the Miraculous.
Well, all of this happened over a period of 3 or 4 years. Which means you were between 14 and 17.
You graduated (no family members attended) and enrolled in a university in Paris with some of your friends (Marinette, Adrien, Alya, Nino, maybe Luka and Zoe)
You only visited Gotham during Christmas break (if you could), and since there was no villain because the new bearer of the Butterfly Miraculous wasn’t active, you spent your free time training the other heroes with Mister Bug and Multimouse.
So now you're 18, and the new villain has started making their move. Mister Bug and you have talked about revealing your identities to each other, but Multimouse doesn't agree.
The people who know your identity are: Luka, Kagami, and Natalie
The people who know Adrien’s identity are: Luka, Felix, Kagami, and Nino
The people who know Multimouse’s identity are: Alya, Kagami, and Felix
You don't know about Jason's resurrection, but you know Cassandra and Stephanie.
Alfred is asking you to come to Gotham this Christmas because you need to meet your biological brother. He hasn't stopped pestering you about this guy Damian; he says you could help him adjust to his new life or something like that.
So, after letting Mister Bug know that you'll be out of town and that he should call you if he needs anything, you're heading to Gotham... but you're not going alone.
Alya decided it would be a good idea to take a group trip, so after making sure everything would be fine in Paris while her main protectors are away, Alya, Nino, Marinette, Adrien, and you are heading to Gotham.
But it turns out that the new holder of the Butterfly Miraculous decided to go to Gotham too 💔💔
So now you have to juggle your friends, your family, and your hero duties.
Idk, someone should write this fanfic—you guys know I'll never finish it, lol 😞☝️
Read chapter one here first. Warnings: Yandere Themes, Batfamily x reader, Superfamily x reader, Death, Dark fic → read at your own discretion. Chapter Two.
The hallway felt wrong.
Too bright. Too loud. Every sound bounced around your skull like a ricochet. Lockers slamming, distant chatter, shoes squeaking against polished tiles. Your pulse drowned most of it out anyway, roaring violently in your ears as you stumbled after Mr Cameron into the corridor.
The classroom door shut behind you with a soft click. A mercy.
“Easy,” the teacher said carefully, voice lower now, gentler than before. “Just breathe for a second, alright?”
Breathe.
Right.
Your lungs seized painfully as if they had forgotten how. You made it three more shaky steps before your knees finally gave out beside the bag racks lining the wall. The impact jarred through your body, but you barely felt it. Your hands clutched at your chest instead, fingers digging into fabric as if you could physically hold your heart together.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. You stared at the floor, breaths coming sharp and uneven.
Six years. Six whole fucking years.
You had died. You remembered it.
You remembered the loud bang. The bullets impact. The impossible pain splitting through your heart. The suffocating weight in your chest as everything faded into darkness.
You remembered dying.
So why were you here? Why did your body feel eighteen again? Why did your hands look smaller? Why did the air smell like cheap school disinfectant instead of rain and blood?
A trembling sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
Mr Cameron crouched down a few feet away, keeping enough distance not to crowd you. You noticed that immediately. Instinctively. Like he was trying not to scare you.
“We don’t have to go back inside yet,” he said quietly. You looked up too fast and regretted it instantly. Because he looked young. Not young compared to how you remembered him, but young compared to reality.
Mr Cameron had been nearing retirement when you last- No.
Your stomach twisted violently.
He should’ve had grey hair. Wrinkles. That tired expression he always wore after years of grading papers.
Instead, he looked barely forty. Clean-cut. Sharp-eyed. Concern written plainly across his face as he watched you try not to fall apart on the hallway floor.
“You’re really him,” you whispered hoarsely.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re actually him,” you repeated, more to yourself than him. “Holy shit…” Your vision blurred.
“Okay,” he said slowly, carefully, like every word needed to be handled with caution. “I’m gonna take you down to the nurse, alright? You look like you’re about two seconds from passing out.” The concern in his voice almost made your chest hurt worse.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. At the lines that weren’t on his face. At the dark hair with only a little sprout of grey starting behind his ear. At the fact his wedding ring was missing because he hadn’t even met his wife yet.
Your stomach churned violently.
“Hey.” His tone softened further when you didn’t answer. “Can you stand?”
You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into the present. “…Yeah,” you managed weakly. You couldn’t tell if it was true. Still, you let him help you up.
His hand hovered near your arm rather than grabbing it outright, like he was afraid sudden contact would spook you. The tiny consideration dug under your ribs unexpectedly deep.
You followed beside him in a haze.
Students moved around you in blurs of uniforms and backpacks, conversations echoing down the corridor in warped fragments. Every now and then someone glanced your way before quickly looking elsewhere. You wondered vaguely what you looked like right now.
Probably insane.
Your legs carried you on autopilot while your mind spiralled somewhere far away, trapped between memories of dying and the impossible reality of polished school floors beneath your worn down shoes.
Mr Cameron said something to you halfway there.
You nodded without processing the words.
The nurse’s office door opened with a soft creak. Warm lighting spilled across the room, gentler than the harsh fluorescents outside. A small fan hummed quietly from the corner beside neatly stacked folders and medical supplies.
“You can sit there for me, sweetheart,” the nurse said immediately, concern flashing across her face the second she saw you.
You obeyed automatically.
Mr Cameron lingered near the doorway.
“They nearly collapsed outside class,” he explained quietly. “Caused quite a ruckus, had to leave the TA in charge.”
The nurse nodded once, already moving around the office gathering things. “Probably a panic attack,” she murmured. “I’ll handle it from here.”
Panic attack.
If only it were that simple. Your eyes drifted absently around the room while they spoke.
Posters about exam stress, a faded CPR chart, a school banner pinned crookedly near the filing cabinet, a half-heartedly made anti-bullying poster.
You wondered if this was hell.
Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not demons with pitchforks and eternal screaming. Something worse. Something tailored specifically for you.
A punishment built out of teenage angst and overdue assignments. Out of uncomfortable plastic chairs and group projects with people who never did their share of the work. A cruel, cosmic joke where some higher being looked at your deepest fears and decided high school deserved a second round.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe dying hadn’t been enough. Maybe this was some sick afterlife where you were forced to relive adolescence forever. Endless exams you hadn’t studied for, teachers disappointed in you, the suffocating pressure of trying to figure out a future you already knew would never happen.
Or maybe this was your brain breaking apart in its final moments.
That felt possible too.
Maybe your body was still lying somewhere cold and ruined while your mind desperately stitched together familiar places to soften the terror of dying. One last comforting hallucination before everything finally shut off for good.
Except there was nothing comforting about this.
Your chest still hurt. Your memories still felt sharp enough to cut through you. You remembered blood. You remembered fear.
You remembered your grandma.
The thought slammed into you so suddenly your stomach twisted.
No.
No, you didnt want to think about her. Not yet.
You couldn’t imagine her all alone in that house. Couldn’t imagine the police knocking on her door, interrupting her while she was singing along to some old country song while she cleaned or making burnt sugar cookies for the end of the week when you were supposed to come over.
Your fingers curled tightly against your knees instead. Willing the thoughts of her all by herself out of your head.
Maybe you were in a coma.
Maybe six years hadn’t passed at all, maybe your brain had invented them entirely. Maybe none of it happened.
Maybe you’d never grown older. Never watched everything spiral so violently out of control.
Maybe your mind had simply created an entire lifetime out of a few dying seconds.
The idea should’ve comforted you. Instead, it made you feel sick. Because it had felt real. Too real.
You remembered the weight of hands grabbing your wrists. The sound of voices desperately calling out your name like something precious. The look in the vigilantes eyes right before-
Your breath caught violently. Stop!
You squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to hurt. The room hummed softly around you. The fan. Papers shuffling. Distant footsteps beyond the office walls.
Real.
It all felt horribly, unbearably real.
Your gaze drifted again, unfocused, until it snagged on the navy-and-gold banner pinned near the filing cabinet.
METROPOLIS HIGH.
Your brows furrowed immediately.
Metropolis? Not Gotham.
A sharp pulse throbbed behind your eyes. “… Wait,” you muttered faintly.
The nurse glanced over while scribbling something onto a clipboard. “Hm?”
You stared at the sign. “Why does it say Metropolis High?”
She blinked once like the question made no sense at all. “…Because that’s the school you attend, honey.”
“No, I-”
Your words caught against each other. Because that wasn’t right. Was it?
You stared harder at the banner like the letters would rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
The nurse gave you a sympathetic look instead, already moving toward a cabinet near the back wall.
“You’re overwhelmed right now,” she said gently. “Just sit tight for me, alright? I need to grab some paperwork.”
Paperwork. Of course, even hell had paperwork.
The office door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the softly humming room.
Silence rushed in immediately. Your breathing sounded too loud.
Slowly, uncertainly, you lifted one trembling hand in front of your face. You squeezed your fingers together. The sensation grounded and terrifying all at once.
Warm skin, pressure, movement. Real.
Your pulse jumped harder.
You pressed your thumb harshly into the web of skin between your thumb and pointer until pain bloomed under the skin.
Still real. Still here.
A shaky breath left you. “What the fuck…”
Time lost meaning somewhere around the fifty-minute mark.
The nurse came and went in intervals, checking your pulse, making you drink water, asking questions you barely processed long enough to answer. You nodded when expected to nod. Spoke when silence stretched too long. The rest of the time you sat there staring at the crooked Metropolis High banner pinned beside the filing cabinet like the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
They never did.
The clock above the door ticked forward relentlessly.
Eventually, the nurse stepped back into the office with a gentler expression than before.
“Well,” she said, setting her clipboard down, “your friend’s here to pick you up.”
Your brows furrowed immediately. “My… what?”
Before she could answer, the office door opened. And your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Tim Drake stepped inside.
You knew that face.
Everyone knew that face.
One of Bruce Wayne’s sons. You’d seen him on magazine covers before, standing beside billion-dollar donations and carefully rehearsed interviews. Always neat in that rich-kid way.
Except this version of him looked younger. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire expression shifted. Relief.
Sharp, immediate, real.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d been genuinely worried.
Your pulse spiked violently.
Tim crossed the room without hesitation, stopping beside your chair. Expensive cologne lingered faintly beneath the smell of antiseptic and printer paper. His tie hung loose around his collar like he’d rushed over here faster than he should’ve.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly. Not formal. Not distant.
Familiar.
His hand lifted instinctively toward your face before stopping halfway. You noticed the hesitation immediately. The restraint. Like he wanted to touch you and was actively stopping himself from doing it in front of the nurse.
“You almost collapsed?” His eyes searched your face rapidly. “What happened?”
You stared at him blankly.
Because Tim Drake was not your friend.
A Wayne should not have been standing in your school nurse’s office looking at you like this.
The nurse gave a sympathetic hum from behind her desk. “I think they just overwhelmed themselves. Panic attack, most likely.”
Tim’s expression tightened instantly. His attention snapped back to you so fast it almost felt physical. “You’re still not sleeping properly, are you?” he said softly.
The question landed with terrifying familiarity. Not the kind people asked out of politeness. The kind asked by someone who already knew the answer.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Something about that seemed to concern him even more.
Your skin prickled. Everything about this felt wrong.
Not because he was acting friendly. Because he was acting close. Years-of-history close.
The kind of closeness built from late-night phone calls and inside jokes and habitual concern. Like this wasn’t unusual for him. Like worrying about you had become second nature a long time ago.
And somehow the worst part was that nobody else seemed to find it strange.
Tim studied you for another second before exhaling quietly through his nose. A flicker of something you couldn’t place crossed his face then. Easy amusement slipping through the concern. It transformed him strangely. Made him look less like a carefully polished Wayne and more like an actual teenager.
Then his eyes landed back on you. The amusement softened immediately.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get out of here.”
Let’s.
Not I’ll take you home.
Not your ride is here.
Let’s.
Like wherever you went next was automatic. Shared.
The nurse handed over a folded slip of paper. “A slip to leave early. Try to get some rest, we don’t want this happening again.”
Tim accepted it for you with a quick nod.
Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he reached down and grabbed your bag from beside the chair. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You stared at him again. He noticed.
“Don’t start,” he said immediately, already heading for the door. “Last time you carried this thing I had to sit through you whining about sore shoulders. I don’t have all night.”
Last time.
You followed him out hesitantly.
The hallway outside had mostly emptied by now. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows lining the corridor, painting long golden streaks across polished floors.
Students still lingering around glanced over as you passed. Not at you. At Tim.
Whispers started almost instantly.
Of course they did. He was.. well, him.
You caught fragments as you walked.
“..is that Tim Drake?” “Thought he graduated…”
Tim either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He walked beside you with easy confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder while occasionally glancing your way like he was checking you were still there.
It should’ve felt comforting. Instead it made your skin feel too tight.
Outside, the warm Metropolis air hit your face immediately. The parking lot shimmered faintly beneath the afternoon sun, rows of expensive cars scattered between students gathering near the gates.
Tim headed toward a sleek black car parked near the curb. Of course he drove something expensive.
He clicked the unlock button casually before opening the passenger door for you without a second thought.
The motion was so smooth. So instinctive. Like habit.
You stopped beside the car instead of getting in.
Tim looked at you over the roof, brows lifting slightly. “…You good?”
You stared at him carefully. At the loosened tie. At the concern still lingering behind his eyes. At the way he stood close enough to block half the parking lot from view without seeming to realise he was doing it.
Then quietly, cautiously, you asked: “Why are you acting like we know each other?”
…
For a second, Tim just stared at you.
Still.
The sounds of the parking lot seemed to dull around you. Distant conversations, car doors slamming, someone laughing near the front gates. All of it faded beneath the sudden tightness pulling across his expression.
“…What?” he said finally.
Your pulse hammered harder. “You keep talking to me like we’re friends,” you said carefully, watching him closely. “Like we’ve known each other forever.”
The words felt surreal coming out of your mouth. Because this was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Someone you’d only ever seen through screens and newspaper headlines.
Tim blinked once.
Then twice.
And something about his face changed. Just enough for unease to settle deep.
The concern softened into something sharper. More focused. Like his brain had immediately locked onto a problem and started dissecting it from every angle.
“You hit your head?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened slightly. Not angry, thinking.
You suddenly got the horrible impression that Tim Drake thought very fast.
His eyes searched your face with frightening intensity, tracking every tiny reaction you made like he was trying to solve you.
Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a short breath through his nose.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… not funny.”
You frowned immediately. “I’m not joking.”
“I know your sense of humour is terrible, but fake-amnesia terrible feels excessive even for you.” The ease of the response sent ice down your spine.
He sounded so certain.
Certain enough that he wasn’t even considering another explanation.
You stared at him. Tim stared back.
Then the amusement faded from his face completely.
“…Wait,” he said. For the first time since he’d arrived, genuine uncertainty slipped through his expression.
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.
Your silence answered for you.
Something tense settled into the space between you. Tim looked at you for another long second before glancing away sharply, gaze flicking toward the school entrance like he was reorganising his thoughts in real time.
When he looked back, his expression had smoothed out again. Controlled too quickly.
“You know who I am though,” he said carefully.
“…Tim Drake.”
“And?”
You swallowed. “One of Bruce Wayne’s sons.”
A strange look crossed his face. Not surprise. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Like hearing you describe him that way physically bothered him.
“And that’s it?” he asked.
You nodded slowly. The parking lot suddenly felt very warm.
Tim went silent. Completely silent. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of your school bag.
Then he smiled. Small, Careful. Wrong.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s mildly concerning.”
The understatement hit so strangely you almost laughed.
Instead you watched him step closer. Not enough to alarm anyone watching. But enough to make your heartbeat spike anyway.
“Okay,” Tim said calmly, like he was talking someone down from a ledge. “We’re gonna try this again.”
His eyes locked onto yours. “We’ve been best friends since fifth grade,” he said. “You practically lived at my place last year because your apartment had mold issues. You hate mushrooms, Kon’s music, and that one physics teacher with the cheese breath.”
Your stomach twisted violently. Because none of that sounded familiar.
But he said it with the effortless confidence of someone reciting facts. Not lies.
“You throw your textbooks at me when I talk too loud when you’re trying to study,” he continued. “You cried for hours when your grandma’s dog died. You steal fries off my plate every time we go out to eat anywhere.”
Each sentence landed heavier than the last. History. Details. Memories you didn’t have.
Tim watched your face carefully the entire time.
And when nothing clicked, when recognition never came, something unreadable darkened behind his eyes for just a fraction of a second. Gone so fast you almost imagined it.
Then he smiled again. Gentle. Controlled.
“Still nothing?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard. “…No.” The word came out quieter than you intended.
Tim’s smile didn’t fall. But something about it changed, subtly. Like he was forcing it to stay there.
For a few long seconds neither of you spoke. Wind stirred through the parking lot, warm against your skin, carrying distant traffic and scattered conversation from students near the gates.
Tim looked at you like he was trying to fit puzzle pieces together in real time.
Then he sighed softly through his nose and opened the passenger door wider.
“Okay,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “You’re either having a psychotic break or you finally snapped after calc homework.”
You blinked at him.
He tilted his head slightly. “Personally, I’m blaming calculus. It’s evil.” The joke landed strangely after everything else. Like he was trying very hard to keep things normal.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly at the effort.
Tim gave the car door a small tap with his knuckles. “Get in before someone from school takes a picture of us standing out here.”
Your feet didn’t move.
Tim seemed to notice your hesitation easing by half an inch because he stepped back from the door immediately, giving you more space. Another tiny act of restraint.
“You can sit there and stare at me suspiciously the whole drive if it helps,” he offered dryly. “You already do that normally anyway.”
That word again.
Like there was an entire relationship happening around you that only he could remember.
Slowly, you got into the car. The interior smelled faintly like coffee and expensive leather. Clean, organised, lived-in in a way that somehow made this feel worse instead of better.
Tim shut the door gently behind you before circling around to the driver’s side.
The second he got in, his attention flicked toward you automatically. Checking. Assessing.
His fingers tightened briefly against the steering wheel. Then relaxed.
“You hungry?” he asked casually as he started the car. The normalcy of the question almost made your head hurt.
“What?”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He pulled out of the parking spot smoothly. “Probably contributing to the almost-passing-out thing.”
You stared at him. “How do you know when I ate?”
Tim glanced at you briefly. Then, somehow, he looked confused by the question.
“Because I was there.” The response came instantly, like it was obvious.
Your pulse stumbled.
“I dropped you off this morning,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “You complained about being tired and stole half my coffee.”
Silence filled the car. Tim tapped his thumb once against the steering wheel before speaking again, quieter this time.
“..You really don’t remember me?” There was something careful hidden underneath the question.
You looked out the window instead of answering.
Metropolis blurred past outside the glass in streaks of sunlight and towering buildings. Everything looked too clean compared to Gotham. Too bright. Too alive.
Wrong. Everything felt so wrong.
The buildings outside stretched high into the sky in gleaming sheets of glass and steel, sunlight reflecting off them hard enough to hurt your eyes. People crowded sidewalks carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, laughing too loudly, moving too casually.
No one looked afraid. No one looked over their shoulder. There were no flickering police lights reflecting off wet pavement. No grime clinging to alleyways. No looming sense that something terrible was waiting around the next corner.
Metropolis felt clean in the same way hospitals felt clean. Artificial.
“…I lived in Gotham,” you said suddenly.
Tim’s hands stilled for half a second against the wheel. Small. Almost invisible.
“You do live in Gotham,” he corrected lightly. “Technically.”
You turned toward him sharply. “What does that mean?”
“It means your apartment’s in Gotham.” His tone stayed easy, conversational. “You go to school in Metropolis because your grandma transferred here after she moved.”
Your stomach dropped. “Grammy moved?”
“About two years ago.”
Two years. The number hit like whiplash. Because that meant this version of your life had an entire history you knew nothing about.
Tim glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road.
“You begged her not to,” he added. “Said Gotham had better takeout.”
You stared at him. The casual certainty in his voice made it hard to breathe sometimes. Like these memories genuinely belonged to him.
Your fingers curled tighter in your lap. “My grandma…” Your throat tightened around the words. “She’s alive?” The question came out smaller than intended.
Tim’s expression changed instantly. Concern threading beneath the surface again.
“Yeah,” he said carefully. “Of course she is.”
Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.
You turned away immediately, pressing your fist lightly against your mouth as your eyes burned unexpectedly.
She was alive.
You didn’t realise how hard you were breathing until Tim quietly reached over and lowered the music volume that you hadn’t even noticed was playing.
Giving you silence instead.
That silence stretched on for a good twenty minutes.
Tim drove one-handed now, the other resting loosely near the gearshift, fingers tapping occasionally against the console like his brain was running faster than the rest of him.
Every now and then you caught him glancing over. Like he still hadn’t decided how seriously to take this.
“…So,” he said eventually, voice deliberately lighter, “if you’re committing to the amnesia bit, can you at least forget the pic of me on your phone?”
You blinked at him, brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”
“The one you threaten to show Damian every time I annoy you.”
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. Careful amusement. Testing.
Watching to see if anything landed. When you just stared at him blankly again, the corner of his mouth twitched downward.
“…Right,” he murmured.
For the first time since this started, Tim looked unsettled too. Not outwardly. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you were starting to.
The slight pauses before he spoke now. The way his fingers kept tightening briefly against the steering wheel.
The way his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds like he was making sure you were still there. Like he was afraid to look away too long.
You swallowed hard. “Why are you being so calm?” you asked quietly.
Tim glanced over at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting like this is normal.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” Your voice came out tighter than intended. “I just told you I don’t remember you and you’re making jokes.”
Silence settled briefly between you.
Tim looked back at the road.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “If I start freaking out too, you’ll freak out harder.” The honesty of the answer caught you off guard.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “And honestly?” A faint humourless smile crossed his face.
“You’re already kind of terrifying me right now.”
The further you got from Metropolis, the stranger the world outside became.
You weren’t used to this much open space.
In Gotham, everything felt crowded together. Buildings stacked over buildings. Alleys cutting through cramped streets. Siren's bleeding into traffic noise at all hours of the night.
Out here, the silence felt almost unnerving.
Fields stretched endlessly beyond fences and telephone poles. Farmhouses sat scattered in the distance with wide porches and rusted mailboxes. The sky itself looked bigger somehow. Too open, and far roo bright.
Tim slowed the car as the road narrowed further, tires crunching softly over loose gravel.
Your eyes drifted toward the passing scenery automatically. Cornfields, trees, a weathered wooden fence leaning slightly sideways.
Then finally a small country house came into view. It wasn’t large, just cozy.
White paint slightly faded with age, warm porch lights glowing softly against the coming dusk. Flowerpots crowded the front steps in messy little clusters, and wind chimes stirred gently near the porch roof.
The sight of it hit something deep in your chest unexpectedly hard.
Tim pulled into the gravel driveway slowly before putting the car in park.
For a moment neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
You stared at the house. Something about it felt familiar in the same way that dreams felt like déjà vu.
Your eyes caught on to small details.
A knitted blanket hanging over the porch swing, crooked little garden beds overflowing with herbs, and a faded ceramic bird sitting near the front steps with one chipped wing.
It was homey.
Tim watched you quietly from the driver’s seat. He tired not to push. Just observing carefully again.
Then, after a second, he glanced toward the neighbouring property.
You followed the movement instinctively.
Another farmhouse stood not too far away across the fields. Larger than your grandma’s place, surrounded by fences and acres of farmland stretching toward the horizon. A red barn sat farther back near a windmill turning lazily in the evening breeze.
The Kent farm.
Something strange twisted low in your stomach. Recognition, almost. Like seeing a place from a dream you couldn’t fully remember.
Tim noticed you staring. “The neighbours are probably all home by now,” he said casually. “So if Jon suddenly appears out of nowhere, don’t be alarmed.”
Your brows furrowed slightly at the name. Was that the one he mentioned earlier?
Tim unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click before looking back at you.
“You ready?” he asked gently.
The question felt heavier than it should’ve. Because somehow, stepping out of the car felt bigger than just getting out of a vehicle. Like crossing some invisible line you couldn’t uncross afterward.
Still, after a long pause, you nodded.
Tim’s expression softened with relief, stepping out first.
Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he rounded the front of the car, evening sunlight catching briefly against the lenses of his glasses. The country air felt cooler once you opened the door, carrying the scent of cut grass, soil, and something faintly sweet drifting from the garden beds near the porch.
You stood slowly.
Wind stirred softly through the fields surrounding the property, rustling the cornstalks in long waves. Somewhere farther off, you could hear crickets starting up in the grass.
Tim grabbed your bag from the backseat before shutting the door behind you.
Your eyes drifted back toward the house.
Warm light glowed through the kitchen windows now. You could just barely make out movement inside.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Tim adjusted the strap of your bag over his shoulder before starting toward the porch, slowing after a couple steps when he realised you weren’t beside him yet.
He waited. Not calling for you. Not rushing you. Just waiting quietly at the edge of the driveway.
The restraint felt strangely deliberate now that you were noticing it.
Like he wanted to reach for your hand. Like he wanted to guide you inside himself, but he wasn’t.
Because he knew it would scare you.
Slowly, you followed him.
The wooden porch creaked softly beneath your shoes as you stepped up beside him. Up close, the house looked even more lived-in. Gardening gloves abandoned near the steps. A half-watered tray of plants sitting near the railing. Tiny scratches near the doorframe like a large dog used to jump there repeatedly.
Tim reached for the door, then hesitated. His hand stilled briefly against the handle before he glanced sideways at you. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he looked uncertain.
Not about you forgetting him, not about what was happening, about this.
About whatever waited on the other side of the door.
“She doesn’t know about what happened at school yet,” he said quietly.
Your brows pulled together faintly.
“I didn’t wanna freak her out over the phone.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the front door opened. Knob slipping from Tim’s palm.
Your grandmother stood there with a cigarette between two fingers and an expression already bordering on irritation.
“Well?” she said. “You two gonna stand around starin’ at my porch all night or what?” The roughness of her voice hit painfully in your chest.
Tim snorted softly beside you. “Nice to see you too.”
“Don’t get smart with me, city boy.” She pointed the cigarette vaguely toward him before looking at you properly. Her eyes narrowed slightly behind slipping reading glasses. Concern colouring her features. “You look pale.”
“Long day,” Tim answered smoothly before you could.
“Hm.” She sounded more annoyed on your behalf than anything else. “School’s a scam. Get inside.”
She turned and shuffled back into the house without waiting to see if you followed.
Tim opened the screen door for you. Again. Like habit.
You stepped inside slowly.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately. The house smelled like coffee, cigarette smoke, old paperbacks, and something cooking in the kitchen. A small television muttered quietly somewhere deeper inside the house while an ancient ceiling fan clicked overhead in lazy rotations.
The floor creaked beneath your shoes.
Your grandmother disappeared into the kitchen muttering something chiding under her breath.
Tim smiled faintly like he’d heard that speech before.
Of course he had.
He slipped your bag off his shoulder and set it beside the staircase without asking where it belonged.
Another practiced movement. Another stupid thing that he did too naturally.
You noticed his eyes flick briefly across the room afterward.
Checking windows.
Doors.
Exits.
The movement was subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t think twice about it.
You did.
Then a loud knock rattled suddenly against the front screen door.
Your grandmother yelled from the kitchen instantly.
“If that’s one of the Kent boys, tell ‘em I still want my casserole dish back!”
Tim sighed.
And for the first time since meeting him today, genuine exasperation crossed his face.
“…Too late,” he muttered.
Before you could process that response, the screen door swung open.
A dark-haired boy stepped inside with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.
He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, he lit up. Relief crashed across his face so openly it startled you.
“There you are!” he said immediately.
Then, without hesitation, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.
The contact hit too suddenly for your brain to catch up. He was warm. Solid.
Clingy in the way only kids and younger teenagers could get away with.
Your entire body locked up instantly. The boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“You disappeared before lunch,” he complained into your shoulder like this was a completely normal thing to do. “I texted you like eight times.”
Your pulse stumbled violently.
Because this, whatever this is, was worse somehow.
Tim had been careful. Restrained.
This boy wasn’t restrained at all.
He held onto you with easy familiarity, like touching you came naturally to him. Like he’d done it hundreds of times before and never once considered you might not want him to.
Your gaze darted towards Tim in question.
He was watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.
Not surprised. Something tighter, like he was barely tolerating this.
The boy finally pulled back enough to look at your face properly.
And immediately frowned.
“…Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
You stared at him blankly.
Up close, he looked even younger. Bright blue eyes. Dark hair falling messily across his forehead. Farmboy built despite the baby face he hadn’t fully grown out of yet.
There was something overwhelmingly earnest about him.
Dangerously easy to trust.
“I think they had some kind of panic attack at school,” Tim said before you could answer.
The boy’s entire expression changed instantly.
Concern flooded in so fast it nearly bowled over everything else.
“What?” His attention snapped back to you immediately. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The possessiveness in the question caught you off guard. Like he genuinely believed he should’ve been informed immediately.
Tim leaned back lightly against the wall near the staircase, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
“You were in class,” he said flatly.
“I still could’ve left.”
Tim stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowed.
The boy ignored him completely.
His focus stayed entirely on you now, concern written openly across his face in a way Tim never allowed himself.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
The question should’ve felt simple.
He sounded sincere. Not polite or performative. Like he cared too much. You’ve never had anyone fret over you like this.
Before you could answer, your grandmother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Jonathan Kent, if you came over here empty-handed again, I’m tellin’ your mother.”
The boy, Jonathan apparently, groaned immediately.
“I brought the dish back last week!”
“You brought back the wrong lid!”
“That sounds fake!”
“It ain’t!”
For some reason, the argument continuing in the background made this all feel even more surreal.
Like you’d stepped into somebody else’s life halfway through. And everybody else already knew the script except you.
It’s only after a long moment of calm that Jon finally looked back at you.
“…You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.
You opened your mouth automatically. “I’m fin-”
“Bullshit,” Tim said flatly from across the room.
You blinked at him.
Jonathan nodded immediately like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, you look awful.”
“Thanks,” you muttered reflexively.
“..There it is.” Tim pointed at you lazily. “That’s the first normal thing you’ve said all day.”
The familiarity of the teasing landed strangely in your chest again. You felt.. Comfortable.
Like this was a rhythm you slipped into often.
Jonathan moved closer before you fully noticed, hovering just inside your space with restless concern written all over him.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he said. “I thought maybe you were mad at me again.”
Again.
Tim let out an irritated sigh. “You whine about that every time they don’t answer for twenty minutes.”
“Because last time they ignored me for like six hours!”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
The response came so dramatically sincere that your grandmother snorted from the kitchen, you could just hear it over the music you were sure she’d been singing to before you arrived.
Then Tim’s eyes landed back on you.
And just like that, the softness disappeared into something quieter. Focused.
You were starting to realise Tim watched people constantly. Especially you. Like every blink and twitch meant something.
“You should come over later,” Jon said suddenly. “Mom made pie.”
Your grandmother yelled again from the kitchen. “Don’t you bribe my grandkid with baked goods!”
“You can’t stop me!”
“You’re lucky I like your mama!”
Jon grinned toward the kitchen before looking back at you again, expression brightening hopefully.
“You’ll come, right?”
Both boys went still waiting for your answer. Each for different reasons.
After everything that had happened today, the warmth of the house and the easy arguing and the smell of food drifting from the kitchen made exhaustion settle heavily into your bones.
You’d already died once. What was the harm in trying to enjoy yourself now?
Slowly, you nodded. “…Sure,”
Jon lit up instantly, delighted. “Oh, thank god,” he blurted. “I thought you were gonna say no.”
You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised all three of you.
Jon’s expression somehow brightened even more.
And Tim went very still.
There was a slight pause in his breathing. His attention snapping fully onto you the second the laugh left your mouth.
Relief flickered across his face so quickly it barely existed.
“C’mon,” Jon said, already moving toward the door again. “Mom’ll be offended if the pie gets cold.”
“Pie doesn’t get cold,” Tim muttered.
“Yes it does.”
“No, it becomes breakfast.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You eat cold pizza for breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
You watched them bicker as they moved toward the porch. And for one dangerously fragile second, It almost felt normal.
The walk toward the Kent house was quiet.
Not silent. Jonathan still talked, because apparently he never stopped talking, but the energy from earlier had dulled slightly beneath the weight settling in your chest.
“…and then Damian said the cow wasn’t technically missing because he knew where it was,” Jonathan was saying beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Which apparently meant it didn’t count.”
You blinked slowly. “He stole a cow?”
“He was making a point.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“I know.”
Tim walked a few steps behind the two of you. Not far enough to seem strange, still close enough to hear everything.
The gravel path crunched softly beneath your shoes as the farmhouse grew larger ahead, warm yellow light spilling from the windows across the darkening fields.
Jonathan kept glancing toward you while he spoke. Checking your reactions. Like he was trying to pull you back into something.
“…Damian hates everybody,” he continued. “But he only threatens people with gardening tools if he likes them.”
You frowned faintly. “That feels concerning.”
“It is concerning.”
“You let him around livestock?”
“He’s banned from the hen house now.”
The Kent farm stretched larger the closer you got. The smell of earth and cut hay lingered faintly in the air while warm light spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead.
Everything out here felt too peaceful.
Your brain still kept waiting for the catch.
Tim was already looking at you when you turned to him.
Something unreadable sat behind his expression for half a second too long before his phone buzzed sharply through the quiet.
His gaze moved towards it immediately.
You saw the exact moment irritation cut across his face. Cold. Instant.
Jonathan noticed too. His own expression tightened almost automatically.
Tim answered without stopping walking. “What?” No greeting.
Silence stretched.
His jaw flexed once. “I told Alfred I’d be busy.” Another pause. Then his eyes lifted toward you again.
There was something deeply unsettling about the way his attention kept returning to you no matter what else was happening. Like every conversation existed around you instead of separate from you.
Jon slowed slightly beside you.
Tim’s voice flattened further. “No. I’m with them now.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
A long silence followed. “…Fine.” The word sounded bitten off.
Something unreadable darkened behind his expression. “I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
Jon frowned immediately. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to go back to Gotham.”
“You just got here.”
Tim ignored that entirely. His attention settled on you instead with unnerving intensity.
“I won’t be long,” he said carefully.
You nodded slowly.
Tim hesitated. Like leaving you here physically bothered him.
Nobody spoke for a second. Wind moved softly through the fields around you.
Jon finally broke the silence first. “Bruce?”
Tim looked at him. Just looked. It wasn’t openly hostile, “does it matter?”
Jon held his stare for a second before looking away first with visible annoyance.
Tim slid his phone back into his pocket with controlled precision before looking at you.
Your brows pulled together faintly. “You really have to go now?”
“Yes.” The answer came too fast. Like the decision had already been made the second the phone rang.
Jon shifted beside you immediately. “They can stay with us until-”
“I know.”
Flat.
Jon’s mouth shut.
Something tense settled in the space between them.
You suddenly had the awful feeling this argument had happened before. Repeatedly.
Tim stepped closer then, invading your space.
“You’ll text me when you get home,” it wasn’t phrased like a question.
You blinked once. “…Okay.”
His eyes stayed on your face another second too long. Searching. Like he was trying to decide something.
Then Jon reached over absentmindedly and hooked his fingers loosely around your wrist to tug you forward again, and the shift in Tim was immediate. Tiny, but immediate.
His gaze flicked downward, going very still.
The evening air suddenly felt colder.
Jon noticed. His fingers tightened slightly before letting go entirely.
A warning shot.
Your stomach twisted.
What the hell was wrong with these people?
Tim’s attention returned to you instantly afterward, expression smoothing back into something normal enough to pass.
“If anything feels off,” he said quietly, “call me.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle.
Jon scoffed softly beside you. “You say that like we’re gonna poison them.”
Tim looked at him. A long pause followed.
“..I didn’t say that.” The response was strangely heavy.
Jonathan’s expression darkened immediately. Not playful annoyance anymore. Real irritation.
For one brief second, you caught something ugly underneath his usual warmth. Sharp and adolescent and possessive in a way that reminded you of a dog baring its teeth before you could fully process it.
Then it vanished.
Tim exhaled quietly through his nose before looking back at you again.
And there it was. That restraint.
Like he wanted to say more. Wanted to do more. But was actively stopping himself.
“Get back to the apartment safe. I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said finally. He wasn’t asking. He was deciding for you.
Then, after the smallest hesitation, “…Don’t stay up too late.” The softness of it felt weird. It sounded genuine.
Tim held your gaze one second longer, his hands lifting as if to wrap around you, only to fall short. Just giving your shoulders a squeeze. Then he stepped back toward the driveway.
Jon immediately moved closer the second space opened beside you.
You let him drag you along, not noticing how Tim stopped halfway back toward the car and looked directly at Jon. No expression at all.
Jon stared back.
And then he left.
You’d made it all the way to the entrance of the house. The headlights disappeared slowly down the gravel road beyond the fields.
Jon waited until the car was fully gone before speaking.
“…They hate leaving you here.” The words slipped out under his breath. Not meant for you.
Your brows furrowed immediately. “What?”
Jon blinked like he hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud.
Then he smiled too quickly. “Nothing.”
But his eyes drifted toward the road Tim had vanished down.
The screen door creaked loudly as the younger boy pulled it open. Warmth spilled over you immediately. Not just heat, life.
The house smelled like garlic, black pepper, fresh bread, and something sweet baking somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Pots clinked softly against the stovetop while an old radio hummed low enough to blend into the background.
For one disorienting second, the normalcy of it all made you still, letting out a deep breath.
Jon kicked his shoes off carelessly by the door. “Ma?” He called, already reaching back for you without looking. His fingers closed loosely around your wrist, guiding you over the doorway before letting go again like it was unconscious. “We’re back.”
“Wash your hands before you touch anything,” a voice called immediately from the kitchen.
Lois stood near the stove with one sleeve rolled to her elbow, wooden spoon in hand while something simmered steadily in a large pot. Reading glasses sat low on her nose as she glanced between the stove and a tablet propped beside the counter.
She glanced up briefly at the sound of your footsteps. Then froze. Though it only lasted a fraction of a second.
The spoon in her hand stilled. Her eyes flicked rapidly over your face, shoulders, posture. Assessing.
Relief followed so quickly afterward it almost looked painful.
“There you are,” The words left her mouth before she seemed to think about them.
Lois crossed the room without hesitation and pulled you into a hug before you could properly react. Warm arms. Firm enough that it startled you.
You froze.
Lois seemed to realise it a second later and loosened immediately. “Sorry,” she said softly, though she still kept one hand against your arm when she pulled back. “Long day?”
You stared at her for half a second too long before answering. “…Something like that.” Who the hell was this woman?
Jon disappeared toward the sink without another word, leaving you standing awkwardly near the doorway while Lois watched you with an intensity disguised as casual concern.
“You look exhausted,” she said. The words were gentle. Her eyes weren’t.
You suddenly understood where Jonathan got it from.
Clark leaned against the kitchen table nearby, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he read through a stack of papers spread beneath one large hand.
Something unreadable crossed his face before his expression softened almost instantly into something warmer. Safer.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
You knew who he was immediately. Everybody knew Clark Kent’s face. Pulitzer-winning journalist. Metropolis golden boy. Too kind-looking to be real.
Except this version of him didn’t look like the carefully edited photographs from newspapers.
He looked bigger somehow. Not taller. Just… solid.
Grounded in a way that made the kitchen itself feel built around him.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire attention sharpened completely. That horrible, focused attentiveness you were beginning to recognise in people around you.
Jon was back at your side by then, nudging his elbow against yours.
When Lois noticed him she pointed toward the table. “Sit.”
Something about her tone made all three of you obey automatically.
Jon dropped into the chair beside yours while you sat more cautiously across from Clark.
The second you did, his attention flicked briefly toward the way your fingers hovered unconsciously near your chest before returning to your face.
Lois returned to the stove, though her attention kept drifting back toward you every few seconds.
“Well,” she said brightly, “good news is I made enough food to feed an army because apparently living with boys means groceries evaporate overnight.”
Jon snorted beside you. “That’s because Kon eats like he’s preparing for winter.”
A second later the said boy appeared in the kitchen holding a bag of chips under one arm.
Conner leaned against the doorway easily. “You guys took forever.”
Jon pointed immediately. “See? He’s already eating.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re twenty.”
“And thriving.”
Lois sighed like this was a conversation she’d heard a hundred times before. “Hands. Sink. Now.”
Conner grinned lazily before finally pushing off the doorway.
As he passed behind your chair, his fingers dragged briefly across the top of your shoulder in an absentminded greeting. Casual.
“You’re wiped,” he said as he moved toward the sink. “What happened to you?”
“..Long day,” you answered finally.
“Hm.” Conner washed his hands quickly. “You look awful,” he said bluntly.
Jon made a noise of protest. “Kon.”
“What? They do.” Conner reached down without hesitation and squeezed the back of your neck once, casual and familiar. “You sleep at all?”
The touch settled something restless in your chest before you could question why.
You exhaled quietly, not sure how to respond. “Not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
He moved around the table and dropped into the chair beside you heavily enough to rattle it. Close enough that your elbows brushed immediately.
Nobody in the room seemed to think anything of it.
Clark folded the papers in front of him neatly before setting them aside. “Rough day at school?”
The question sounded normal. Everything here sounded normal.
You nodded anyway. “Something like that.”
Clark nodded once like that explained more than you intended it to.
Lois finally slid a mug in front of you, steam curling softly into the kitchen light. “Tea,” she said. “You look like you need it.”
“Ma thinks tea fixes everything,” Jon muttered.
“It does,” Lois replied immediately.
Conner reached over without asking and stole a piece of cut meat from the chopping board beside the stove.
Lois smacked the back of his hand with the towel.
“Ow.”
“You have your own plate.”
“I like yours better.”
The conversation moved around you easily after that. Natural. Loud in the quiet way families were loud.
At least.. the way that the ones you’ve seen on TV were.
Jon kept leaning against your shoulder whenever he talked. Conner sprawled sideways in his chair close enough that his knee bumped yours every few minutes beneath the table. Lois drifted constantly around the kitchen while Clark stayed seated across from you, listening more than speaking.
And through all of it, you kept catching them looking at you. Not staring. Just… checking. Like they were making sure you were still there.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
Clark noticed immediately. “You alright?” he asked gently.
Four heads turned toward you at once.
The attention hit like pressure. “Yeah,” you answered too quickly.
Nobody called you out on it.
Jon’s arm slid across the back of your chair as he leaned closer. “You’re doing that weird thing again.”
You looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your face does this thing.” He gestured vaguely toward you with his free hand.
“My face does not do a thing.”
“It does.”
Conner nodded seriously beside you. “Yeah, you get this little line right here.” He reached over like he intended to touch between your brows.
You jerked back automatically before he could. The movement froze the table for half a second.
Conner stopped immediately.
“Sorry,” he said, and for the first time since walking in, his voice lost some of its easy warmth. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The apology came too fast. Too careful.
Like your reaction mattered far more than it should have.
Jon’s posture shifted beside you almost instantly. Subtle tension settling into his shoulders.
Clark was watching you closely now too.
They were watching you the way someone watches a door they’re waiting to lock.
The silence stretched after your reaction to Conner reaching toward you.
Too long.
Jon leaned closer beside you, arm hooked loosely over the back of your chair again. “You’ve been weird all day..”
“I haven’t.” The defense came too quickly, even though some part of you knew he was right. Whoever you’d been to them before today wouldn’t have sat this stiffly at the table. Wouldn’t have flinched away from casual touches like they were something dangerous.
“You have,” Conner said easily from beside you. “You’re quieter.”
“You guys are just intense.” The second the words left your mouth, the room went still.
Not everything. The radio still hummed softly behind Lois. Something simmered steadily on the stove. A fork clinked lightly against ceramic.
But them. They froze. Like you’d said something hurtful without intending to.
Clark’s expression softened almost immediately afterward, though something unreadable lingered underneath it now. “Intense?”
You gave a small shrug, trying to laugh it off. “I don’t know. You all keep staring at me.”
“We’re listening to you,” Lois corrected gently.
“No,” you said slowly. “It’s more like…” You hesitated. “Checking.”
Nobody answered.
Jon’s fingers tapped once against your shoulder absentmindedly. “You notice everything.”
The comment should’ve sounded teasing. Instead it sounded observational.
Conner leaned sideways in his chair, openly studying you now. “You didn’t used to.”
Your head turned toward him immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another pause. Tiny. Wrong.
Then Lois spoke smoothly over it. “It means you’ve seemed stressed lately.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly.
Clark folded his hands together on the table. Calm. Steady. “School been difficult?”
“Not really.”
Again, silence.
Like they were all choosing their words carefully around you.
Conner looked almost irritated suddenly. Not at you. At the conversation itself.
Clark glanced briefly toward him before looking back at you. “…We’re worried.”
You blinked in surprise. “About what?”
Nobody answered fast enough.
Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you shifted backward slightly. “You’re overreacting.”
“No,” Lois said gently.
The word settled heavily into the room.
Clark reached across the table then, large hand closing carefully around yours before you could think to pull away. Warm. Steady. Terrifyingly comforting.
“You matter to this family,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped at the wording.
Wrong. So fucking wrong. This entire thing felt wrong. You didn’t belong here. Not really.
These people were warm in a way that hurt to look at too long. Easy with each other. Familiar. Loving. The kind of family people envied quietly from a distance.
And you-
You were just someone they’d decided to pull into it.
The worst part was the awful little ache in your chest that wanted to let them.
You let out a slow breath and carefully slipped your hand from Clark’s grasp before pushing your chair back farther. “I think I should go home.”
“No.” The response came instantly.
All four of them at once.
The force of it made your pulse jump.
Lois removed her reading glasses slowly, violet eyes settling fully onto you now. “It’s late,” she said softly. “Far too late for me to let you drive all the way back to that little apartment alone.”
“It’s barely evening.” But the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.
Because part of you truthfully didn’t want to leave.
This house felt warm in a way that every place you’ve ever lived never had. Loud and alive and full in a way that made something lonely in your chest ache every time Jon laughed or Lois nudged Clark with her elbow or Conner leaned against you like being close was the most natural thing in the world.
You wanted it.
You just didn’t understand why they wanted you.
“You can stay here,” Conner said casually, though his attention sharpened immediately when you stood fully. “You stay over all the time anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to tonight.” Another weak lie.
Jon stood too. Immediate. Close enough that your pulse jumped again. “You’re upset.” His face fell almost instantly, expression softening with something dangerously genuine.
“Hey.”
God. Why did he have to look at you like that?
Like your discomfort physically hurt him.
Clark stepped closer more slowly, grounding the room around him without even trying. “Nobody’s trying to scare you.”
“…Then why does this feel so weird?”
Silence.
Jon looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. Because unlike the others, he looked tired of pretending.
“You wanna know the truth?” he asked quietly.
Something in your chest tightened. Nobody stopped him.
Lois watched carefully from the counter.
Conner leaned back against the table beside you, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Clark stayed still. Waiting.
Jon stepped closer. “You pull away,” he said softly. “Every time people get too attached to you, you try to run away.”
Your throat tightened.
“And we know we’re a lot,” Lois admitted gently behind him.
“We tried giving you space,” Conner added. “Didn’t really work out for us.”
The honesty behind his words felt miserable.
Jon’s gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, toward the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
Then back to your face. “You make this place feel…” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly before trying again. “Right.”
The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerously warm.
Clark’s voice came quieter than before. “And when you leave, everybody notices.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody acted embarrassed.
Conner looked completely serious. Lois too. Jon looked at you like this was the simplest truth in the world.
You were sure that if you looked at them for a moment longer your eyes would well with tears.
Because somewhere beneath the unease and the wrongness and the intensity of all of this, you understood exactly what they meant.
And it scared you.
Conner reached for your hand carefully this time. Slow enough for you to pull away.
You didn’t.
Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost looked painful.
His fingers tightened around yours. Certain.
“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he murmured again.
The house had gone quiet around you again. Waiting.
Like they already knew your answer.
And.. maybe you weren’t sure if they were wrong.
We’re all collectively going to pretend that Jon was never aged up. (For the plot)
Reblogs help more people find the story, comments help me survive writing it. → They’re the only way for me to know whether to continue writing this series or not.
Read the synopsis here first. Warnings: Yandere Themes, Batfamily x reader, Superfamily x reader, Death, Dark fic → read at your own discretion. Chapter One. Chapter two.
Before the incident, you were no one special.
Not in the tragic way people liked to romanticise afterwards, either.
You weren’t secretly important. There was no hidden inheritance waiting for you, no extraordinary talent buried beneath years of hardship, no destiny quietly lingering around the corner.
You were just another person trying to survive Gotham.
One of millions.
Your family sat somewhere awkwardly in the middle class for most of your childhood. Not poor enough for sympathy, but never comfortable enough to stop worrying about money either.
Your mother worked double shifts as a waitress downtown, feet swollen and patience thin by the time she came home each night. Your father worked construction when jobs were available, though half the time he seemed more interested in spending his paychecks into alcohol, cigarettes, and nights out with friends before they ever made it home.
They’d had you young. Too young.
At least, that was the excuse everyone always used.
Your grandmother used to defend them constantly when you were little.
“They’re trying,” she’d sigh whenever your mother forgot to pick you up from school again. “They’re still figuring things out.”
You believed her back then.
Children usually did.
By the time you turned ten, though, you’d started noticing things.
Noticing that your parents always somehow had money for cigarettes, drinks, nights out with friends. But argued whenever school supplies needed replacing. Noticing how your grandmother quietly covered expenses without complaint whenever they “fell short” again.
You noticed how often your father looked annoyed when you interrupted him. How your mother’s smiles became strained whenever conversations lasted too long.
Eventually, you stopped interrupting altogether. It was easier that way.
Your grandmother practically raised you herself after that.
She was the one who picked you up from school. The one who remembered birthdays. The one who stayed awake during fevers while your parents argued somewhere down the hall about money neither of them had.
You learned early on not to ask for much.
Gotham had a way of wearing people down until survival became the only thing they had energy left for.
Your grandmother’s apartment sat above an old laundromat in Crime Alley, though nobody really called it that anymore unless they were tourists, cops, or trying to sound dramatic on the news. To the people actually living there, it was just another neighbourhood trying not to collapse in on itself.
The building always smelled faintly like mildew and detergent. Old wallpaper peeling near the ceiling. Weak heating during winter. Pipes that rattled loudly enough to wake you at night whenever someone used the shower.
Half the lights in the hallway never worked properly. The elevator broke down at least twice a month. Sometimes gunshots echoed somewhere nearby late enough at night that your grandmother would quietly close the curtains without pausing the conversation.
Like it was normal.
Because it was.
Still, it felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.
She liked listening to the city.
You never understood why.
Gotham was loud in all the worst ways.
Sirens screaming through the streets at three in the morning. Arguments through paper-thin apartment walls. Televisions blasting news reports about murders, robberies, masked vigilantes tearing through the city again.
Growing up in Gotham meant learning very quickly which sounds were dangerous and which weren’t. Car backfires. Arguments. Sirens. Police helicopters. Screaming.
Eventually it all blended together into background noise.
As a child, you used to sit cross-legged on the living room floor watching those very news reports while your grandmother muttered complaints from the kitchen.
Batman, Superman, Robin, The Justice League, Arkham breakouts, bank robberies, another chemical attack downtown, another body found in the Narrows.
The city lived in this constant state of barely controlled chaos where people still somehow expected you to show up to work the next morning afterwards. And everyone did. Because what else were they supposed to do?
“Rich people playing dress-up,” she’d scoff. “Always punching symptoms instead of fixing the disease,” she’d mutter while folding laundry.
You remembered laughing at that once.
At the time, you hadn’t understood what she meant. Then getting older and realising she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The heroes never came to your neighbourhood unless something exploded.
By the time you graduated high school, Gotham already felt exhausted into your bones.
You weren’t stupid. Your grades had been decent enough, but decent didn’t really mean much when every college application came attached to tuition you could never afford.
You got rejected from two schools outright.
The third accepted you with costs that may as well have been impossible.
So you did what most people did. You worked.
Then one acceptance attached to tuition costs so absurd you actually laughed reading it.
So that was the end of that.
You got a job two weeks later. Then another after the first store shut down following a robbery that left the owner dead behind the register. Then another after new management fired half the staff to cut costs. Then another after the building literally caught fire during some fight between Batman and Killer Croc three blocks away.
That was Gotham.
Jobs disappeared overnight. Buildings vanished. People vanished. Nobody acted surprised anymore.
By twenty four, your resume looked less like career experience and more like a trail of failed businesses and bad luck.
Convenience stores, warehouses, gas stations, stock work, night shifts, delivery driving, Cash handling, whatever paid enough.
You worked constantly, not because you were ambitious, but because stopping even briefly felt dangerous. Like if you stood still too long, the city would swallow you whole.
Most of your paychecks disappeared into rent, groceries, utilities, and helping your grandmother whenever her medication costs got bad again.
Still, after years of unstable jobs and cramped living conditions, you’d eventually managed to scrape together enough money for your own apartment.
“Apartment” was generous, honestly.
The place sat on the outskirts of Gotham in a building old enough that the pipes screamed whenever someone showered. Water stains spread across the ceiling above your bed in branching patterns, and the radiator worked only when it felt particularly motivated.
The radiator barely worked during winter. The upstairs neighbour screamed at video games until two in the morning almost every night. Water stains spread slowly across the ceiling above your bed no matter how many maintenance requests you filed.
Sometimes the alley outside smelled so bad during summer you had to keep the windows shut entirely.
It was terrible. The apartment was awful.
And you loved it anyway. Because it was yours.
For the first time in your life, you had a space that belonged entirely to you.
That mattered more than you cared to admit.
You still remember standing alone in the empty apartment the first night after moving in, staring at the stained carpet and flickering kitchen light while holding a box of instant noodles under one arm.
You’d actually smiled.
Not because you were happy, exactly. Just… Proud.
Even if it was small. Even if nobody else would’ve cared.
It was the first thing in your life that had belonged entirely to you.
Your life had settled into an endless cycle of exhaustion. The kind that sat permanently behind your eyes no matter how much sleep you got. The kind that made your body feel heavy the second your alarm went off each morning. Or afternoon. Or evening. Your schedule changed too often to keep track anymore.
Between two jobs, days stopped feeling separate from one another entirely.
The warehouse job started early.
Most mornings, when you actually slept at night, began before sunrise. Stumbling half-awake through Gotham’s freezing streets with cheap coffee burning your tongue and yesterday’s exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to your bones.
The warehouse itself sat tucked near the industrial district downtown, surrounded by chain-link fencing and graffiti-covered loading docks. The work was mindless.
Your manager barely remembered employees’ names despite half the staff working there for years.
Nobody really spoke much during shifts either. Everyone just kept their heads down beneath the constant drone of machinery and fluorescent lights overhead. People came and went constantly.
One guy got fired for showing up high. Another stopped appearing altogether after getting mugged outside the bus station. A woman you’d worked beside for almost six months vanished after her apartment building got condemned unexpectedly.
You knew not to get attached to people.
Your second job was worse.
The convenience store sat near one of Gotham’s busiest intersections, right between a liquor store with bars over the windows and a laundromat that always smelled vaguely like bleach and cigarettes.
The place stayed open twenty four hours a day because people apparently never slept.
Not safely, anyway.
You mostly worked evening and overnight shifts there, which meant dealing with every kind of customer imaginable.
Drunk college students stumbling in after midnight. Half-conscious office workers buying energy drinks at two in the morning. People clearly high on something wandering aimlessly through the aisles for hours. Sometimes shoplifters.
Sometimes worse.
People lingering too long near entrances. Bulges beneath jackets that you had to learn the hard way didn’t just mean guns. The twitchy, restless movements of someone looking for an easy target.
Mostly, though, the job was just boring. Painfully boring.
The fluorescent lights buzzed constantly overhead. The slurpee machine broke at least twice a week. One of the refrigerators made an awful rattling noise management refused to fix.
You spent most shifts restocking shelves, cleaning spills, rotating expired food, and pretending not to notice suspicious customers stuffing things into their pockets.
The pay wasn’t enough for the hours. Neither job’s pay was. Still, together they kept your bills barely manageable.
Barely.
That night had started like every other shift.
Your feet already hurt by hour three. By hour six, the ache in your lower back had settled into something dull and constant while the cheap energy drink beside the register slowly went warm. Outside, rain hammered violently against the store windows hard enough to blur the neon signs across the street.
Gotham looked different in heavy rain.
Meaner, somehow.
The streets became slick mirrors of distorted lights and moving shadows while pedestrians hurried past with their heads down like the city itself might reach out and grab them if they slowed too long.
The clock above the cigarette display read 11:52 PM.
Eight more minutes.
Then you could go home, shower, maybe sleep four hours if you were lucky, and drag yourself back to the warehouse by morning.
You were reorganizing one of the drink coolers when the cashier called your name from the front counter.
“Can you grab more cigarettes from the back?”
You shut the refrigerator door with a sigh. “Yeah.”
The storage room behind the counter was cramped and dimly lit, stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes of inventory management never organized properly. Dust coated nearly every surface despite repeated cleaning attempts, and one of the ceiling lights flickered badly enough that half the room remained trapped in shadow.
You crouched beside one of the shelves, digging through cardboard boxes for cigarette cartons while absently trying to remember whether you’d paid your electricity bill already. Probably.
Hopefully.
Your phone buzzed faintly in your pocket. A reminder alarm. You ignored it.
The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the front of the store. A customer arguing over lottery tickets. The steady hum of refrigerators. Rain slamming against the windows outside.
Normal.
Everything felt painfully normal.
Then the front windows exploded inward.
The crash was deafening.
Glass shattered across the floor in a violent spray as screaming erupted instantly from the front registers.
Your entire body locked up.
For one stunned second, you genuinely thought a car had crashed into the building.
Then the gunshots started.
The sound cracked through the store so violently your ears rang immediately afterward.
Someone screamed. Terrified.
You froze beside the shelves as heavy footsteps stormed through the store outside.
“EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING GROUND!” Another gunshot. Closer this time.
Your pulse slammed violently against your ribs. Instinct finally kicked in.
You stumbled upright too quickly, nearly knocking over a stack of boxes before rushing toward the storage room doorway. The second you looked out into the store, your stomach dropped.
Six women. Masked. Armed.
One stood near the destroyed front entrance holding an assault rifle while shattered glass glittered across the floor around her boots. Another had vaulted over the counter already, shoving the cashier roughly toward the ground while emptying registers into a duffel bag.
Customers were screaming. Crying. Trying not to move.
One of the women fired another shot directly into the ceiling.
Dust and debris rained downward instantly. “GET DOWN!”
Your knees hit the floor before you consciously decided to move.
Cold tiles dug painfully into your skin through your uniform pants as your hands instinctively lifted slightly away from your body where they could be seen.
Your heart was beating so hard it physically hurt.
Around you, the store dissolved into chaos.
One customer sobbed openly near the candy aisle. Someone else whispered prayers beneath their breath. A display rack had been knocked sideways during the panic, chips and drinks scattered everywhere across the floor.
The women moved through the store quickly. Efficiently. Like they’d done this before. “Phones in the bags.”
“Wallets too.” Another reminded.
“Don’t fucking look at us.”
One customer tried arguing. You didn’t even see which woman hit him. Just the crack of a gunstock against bone and the sudden silence afterward.
Nobody spoke again.
Nobody was stupid enough to play hero.
You kept your eyes lowered toward the floor, breathing shallowly through the overwhelming smell of rainwater, gunpowder, and adrenaline thickening the air around you.
Heavy boots stopped directly in front of you.
Your stomach twisted violently.
“Get up.” A hand grabbed the back of your jacket roughly before you could react.
You stumbled upright immediately, pulse roaring loudly in your ears as cold metal jammed hard against your ribs.
Gun.
The woman shoved you forward toward the counter. “Open the registers.”
Your hands shook immediately.
The other customers and employees remained huddled on the floor behind you while the women barked orders over each other, duffel bags steadily filling with cash, cigarettes, medication, and whatever expensive items they could grab quickly enough.
One woman stood guard near the shattered entrance with her rifle raised casually toward the hostages.
Another paced between aisles like she was waiting for someone to try something stupid.
Rainwater and broken glass covered most of the floor now, crunching loudly beneath boots as the women moved throughout the store.
You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to cooperate as you reached for the register keys.
The gun dug harder into your side. “Hurry the fuck up.”
“I’m trying,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
The woman immediately grabbed the back of your neck hard enough to make you stumble.
“Don’t get smart.”
Your pulse pounded violently in your throat. “Sorry.”
The register popped open with a sharp ding.
The woman beside you immediately started shoving handfuls of cash into a duffel bag while another forced the cashier toward the second register nearby.
“Him too.”
A different gun pressed against the cashier’s head this time. The poor guy looked barely conscious with fear.
You looked away.
One of them vaulted over the counter while another shouted from somewhere near the aisles. “Safe’s in the back.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course they knew about the safe. Someone had probably tipped them off beforehand.
The woman beside you shoved the barrel against your spine this time. “Move.”
You stumbled forward immediately.
The cashier was dragged alongside you toward the storage room, nearly tripping over shattered glass in the process. Behind you, customers whimpered quietly while another warning shot suddenly echoed through the store ceiling.
Dust rained downward.
Nobody screamed this time.
The fear had settled too deeply for that now.
The storage room suddenly felt even smaller than before.
Claustrophobic.
The flickering overhead light buzzed faintly while the women crowded around the safe bolted into the concrete wall behind stacked inventory boxes.
“Open it.”
Your throat felt dry. “I-I don’t have the code.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Only managers technically had access, but employees were taught the emergency code in case of late-night robberies. Which now felt horribly ironic.
The woman tilted her head slightly. Then cocked the gun.
Your stomach twisted violently.
“Open it.”
Beside you, the cashier looked moments away from passing out entirely.
Your hands fumbled badly against the keypad.
Wrong number.
The woman behind you grabbed your shoulder painfully hard. “Hurry up!”
Your vision blurred slightly. You couldn’t think properly with the gun pressed against your back.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Your fingers shook harder as you entered the code again.
This time the safe clicked open.
The women immediately surged forward.
“Holy shit—”
Stacks of cash disappeared into bags almost instantly while one of the robbers laughed sharply beneath her mask.
Your knees felt weak with adrenaline.
This was bad. This was really bad.
Nobody robbed stores this close to the central city unless they were desperate or stupid.
And desperate people were dangerous.
One of the women suddenly grabbed your arm. Hard. “You’re coming with me.”
Your heart nearly stopped. “What?”
The gun pressed against your temple before you could react. Cold metal against skin. Every muscle in your body locked instantly.
“You heard me.”
The cashier beside you made a weak noise like he wanted to object before another robber snapped toward him immediately. “Eyes down.” He obeyed instantly. So did you.
The woman dragged you back toward the front of the store with the weapon still pressed tightly against your head, using you like a shield while the others continued emptying the safe behind you.
Your breathing had turned shallow. Too fast.
The entire store looked wrecked now. Glass covered the floor. Shelves had been knocked sideways. Products littered nearly every aisle. Somewhere near the entrance, one of the customers was crying quietly into their hands.
The rain outside had worsened, thunder rumbling faintly overhead while police sirens echoed somewhere far enough away to still be useless.
The woman holding you cursed under her breath suddenly.
A pair of headlights swept briefly across the shattered storefront outside. The lights flickered.
One of the robbers near the entrance straightened immediately.
“Did you hear-” The front doors burst inward.
Everything happened at once.
A dark blur slammed violently into the woman near the entrance hard enough to send her crashing into a shelf. Another figure dropped from somewhere above while a third came crashing through the side fire exit almost simultaneously.
Shouting erupted instantly.
The woman holding you jerked the gun harder against your temple. “Fuck! Move.”
You barely managed half a step before the front lights blew out entirely.
The store plunged into darkness.
Somebody screamed.
One of the robbers hit the floor hard enough to crack against the tiles. Another shape moved through the darkness near the entrance, striking fast enough that you only caught flashes of black and blue between the confusion.
The women started shouting. Gunshots erupted instantly. The sound was deafening in the enclosed store.
Your captor spun sharply, dragging you backward against her chest as chaos tore through the aisles around you. Shelves crashed violently somewhere nearby while customers scrambled further beneath counters and displays.
You couldn’t see properly. Only movement. The loud noise. Shouting.
Then the emergency lights kicked in. Dim red lighting flooded the store. And suddenly you could see them.
Nightwing moved first. Fast enough that it barely looked human.
One of the robbers swung toward him with her weapon raised only for him to twist sideways, baton slamming against her wrist before she could fire. The gun skidded across the floor as she crumpled hard against a shelf.
Near the registers, Red Hood ripped another woman’s weapon clean out of her hands before shoving her violently into the counter.
Red Robin was already restraining someone else near the entrance.
Robin was heading directly toward you.
The woman behind you panicked. You felt it immediately in the way her grip tightened painfully against your shoulder. “Don’t fucking move!” The gun pressed harder against your head.
Robin didn’t stop. For one brief second, everything slowed.
You saw the sharp movement of his arm. The glint of metal. The woman beginning to pull the trigger-
Then the blunt edge of Robin’s katana slammed violently against the side of the weapon.
The gunshot rang out anyway.
The sound echoed through the store loud enough to make your ears ring instantly.
The weapon flew from the woman’s hand as Nightwing tackled her to the floor almost immediately afterward.
You stared blankly ahead.
Confused.
Something felt strange.
Warm.
Your knees suddenly gave out beneath you. The floor rushed upward too quickly.
You hit the ground hard, the impact rattling painfully through your body while the world around you blurred strangely out of focus.
Why- Why was it hard to breathe?
Noise swelled around you in distorted waves.
Someone shouting. Boots hitting the floor. A voice yelling your name- or maybe not your name. Maybe you imagined that.
Your chest burned.
Slowly, your trembling hand moved downward.
Warm. Wet.
When you pulled your hand back, your fingers were covered in blood.
For a second, you just stared at it.
Dark red beneath the emergency lights. Too much blood.
Oh.
The realization settled quietly into your mind.
You’d been shot.
You weren’t even sure when it happened.
Pain exploded through your chest a second later.
A broken sound tore from your throat as your body curled instinctively against the floor. Your lungs seized painfully, every breath wet and wrong and burning all the way down.
Fuck.
Your vision blurred instantly.
Movement dropped around you almost immediately.
Four figures.
Nightwing caught your shoulders carefully before your head could hit the tiles again. Red Robin was already pressing gloved hands against your chest wound hard enough to make another scream rip from your throat.
“Easy- easy-”
“There’s too much blood.”
“Call an ambulance now.”
Robin had gone frighteningly still beside you.
Red Hood looked ready to kill someone. Actually kill someone.
You didn’t understand why they looked so panicked. People died in Gotham all the time. They’d all seen worse than this before.
The thought felt distant somehow as warmth spread rapidly beneath your body, soaking through your uniform and pooling across the dirty floor tiles.
Your breathing hitched painfully. Everything sounded underwater now.
Nightwing kept talking to you, voice strained and rough beneath the ringing in your ears, but you couldn’t focus enough to understand the words.
Your eyes drifted sluggishly across the four vigilantes surrounding you.
They looked horrified. Not shocked. Not professionally concerned.
Horrified.
Like this wasn’t supposed to happen. Like you weren’t supposed to happen.
Oh.. You were dying.
The realization should have scared you more. Instead, all you could think was how absurd it felt.
Twenty four years old. Shot in the chest during a robbery at a shitty convenience store five hours before your next shift was supposed to start.
A weak laugh almost escaped before it turned into a wet cough instead. Blood spilled down the corner of your mouth immediately afterward.
Red Robin swore under his breath.
“Stay awake.” Nightwing’s hands tightened slightly where they steadied you. “You’re okay,” he said quickly.
You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or himself.
Your hand twitched weakly toward the wound in your chest. Pain tore through you instantly.
A scream ripped from your throat before your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to hurt.
Shit.
Your chest hurt.
Everything hurt.
And through it all, you couldn’t stop staring at how devastated they looked.
You weren’t special. Just another civilian. No friends. No family nearby. A shitty apartment. An even shittier job. Nothing worth mourning this badly.
The last thing you felt was someone grabbing your hand tightly.
Then everything went black.
Or.. at least it should have.
Gasping violently for air, you lurched upright with a broken choke of sound clawing its way out of your throat.
The chair beneath you screeched loudly against the floor as your entire body jerked forward in panic.
Pain.
You braced for pain.
For the burning agony still carved into your memory so vividly you could practically feel it splitting through your chest all over again. You could still remember the warmth of blood pouring between your fingers. The wet, suffocating feeling in your lungs every time you tried to breathe.
You remembered dying.
Your hands flew frantically to your chest.
Fingers clawed desperately at the fabric covering your skin, shaking so violently you could barely feel what you were touching. You pressed hard against your sternum, searching blindly for the wound.
The bullet hole. The blood. Something. Anything.
But there was nothing.
No shredded convenience store uniform soaked crimson beneath your hands. No sticky warmth coating your skin. No hole torn through your chest.
Nothing.
Your breathing turned sharp and uneven.
“No-” The word escaped instinctively beneath another panicked inhale as your hands pressed harder against yourself like force alone would somehow uncover the injury that had been there.
It had been there.
You remembered it. You remembered collapsing. Remembered Gotham’s vigilantes surrounding you. Remembered choking on blood while your vision darkened at the edges.
You remembered dying.
A shaky breath caught painfully in your throat.
Your pulse hammered so hard it made your head spin. Then slowly-
Slowly,
You realized the floor beneath you wasn’t tile.
There was no smell of smoke. No shattered glass crunching underfoot. No distant police sirens screaming outside.
Instead, fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The air smelled faintly like old textbooks and dry erase markers.
Silence pressed heavily around you.
Wrong. Everything felt wrong.
Your hands finally stilled against your chest as you looked up. Rows of desks. Teenagers. A classroom.
Several students were staring directly at you now, expressions twisted somewhere between concern and confusion. One girl near the windows looked outright alarmed. Somebody else had half-risen from their seat like they didn’t know whether to help or stay back.
Your breathing picked up again immediately.
No.
No, no, no-
This wasn’t possible.
Sunlight streamed warmly through large classroom windows, illuminating dust drifting lazily through the air. Outside, distant voices echoed faintly through hallways. School.
You knew this room.
The realisation crashed into you hard enough to make your stomach twist violently.
Your gaze darted wildly around the classroom.
The faded poetry posters peeling slightly near the ceiling. The cracked corner of the whiteboard. The clock above the doorway that always ran three minutes behind.
Recognition flooded through you so suddenly it almost hurt.
You knew this classroom. You had sat in this room before. Years ago.
Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the desk beneath you as panic crawled violently up your spine. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
Because you were twenty four. Because six years ago you’d graduated.
Because minutes ago you’d been bleeding out on the floor of a convenience store in Gotham while four vigilantes desperately tried to stop you from dying.
A cold wave of nausea rolled through your stomach.
Slowly, almost fearfully, your eyes lifted toward the front of the classroom.
And locked directly with the stunned stare of your twelfth grade literature teacher.
Hey Yael. I’m back for the kids.
Read chapter two HERE
Comments and Reblogs will be deciding this fic’s fate. Whether it’s continued or scrapped is up to the readers.
So either comment or reblog if you’d like this to continue.
Summary: you accidently called Nightwing a "good boy". In your defense, you're used to working with dogs..not people!
“C’mon,” you sigh, crouched halfway under the Batmobile while Dick attempts to hand you a wrench that is very obviously the wrong size. “Not that one. The— yeah, there you go. Good boy.”
Silence.
You slide out from beneath the car slowly, confused as to why Dick stopped talking.
Nightwing is frozen.
One knee bent where he’d been crouching, blue eyes blown wide behind the domino mask, wrench still dangling from his fingers like his brain has temporarily disconnected from his motor functions.
Bruce asks, “What exploded?” knowing that the only time his kids were quiet was if someone fucked up.
Dick clears his throat.
Then immediately chokes on absolutely nothing.
“You okay there?” you ask carefully.
“Fantastic,” he says instantly, voice cracking straight through the middle of the word.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Jason, seated nearby cleaning one of his guns, looks up with the slow delight of a man witnessing the beginning of a natural disaster.
“…Did she just call you a good boy?”
Dick points at him violently. “Don’t.”
“OH my God,” Jason breathes, eyes shining. “OH, this is bad.”
“It was a joke,” you say quickly.
Dick nods too fast. “Totally. Obviously. Completely normal joke. Happens all the time.”
“Right,” you agree.
“Totally unaffected.”
“Clearly.”
Dick stands up so abruptly he slams his head directly into the underside of the Batmobile. CLANG.
There’s a beat.
“…Fantastic recovery,” Jason starts.
Dick, still folded in half from the impact, gives a weak thumbs up.
The problem should’ve ended there, and it would've given any normal circumstance. But you work with vigilantes, so your normal is pretty different from most people's.
Nightwing proceeds to lose every remaining shred of composure over the next three weeks.
Not in obvious ways, but Dick Grayson’s problem is that he’s trying very hard to act normal. Which makes him one thousand times worse.
Because suddenly he’s everywhere.
You mention being hungry once? Dick appears holding your favorite takeout sheepishly. You casually say your phone’s about to die? Charger lands in your lap before you finish the sentence. You offhandedly mention liking a sweater in a store window? Three days later it mysteriously appears folded on your bed in Titans Tower with no note except a sticky tab reading:
'saw this :) '
Which would already be suspicious enough. Except every single act of service is followed by this unbearable look on his face. It's that wide-eyed look of hope.
Like he’s waiting for something.
You don’t understand it until the fourth week.
It’s movie night at the Tower. Everyone’s there.
Garfield is upside down on the couch, and Kory is attempting to explain why alien horror films are scientifically inaccurate and this is not how her people act. Tim is asleep sitting upright somehow. Jason’s eating cereal directly from the box with a serving spoon.
Dick walks in carrying snacks for everyone.
“You remembered the chocolate-covered pretzels?” you ask.
Dick brightens instantly. “Yeah.”
You grin. “Aw. Good boy.”
Dick stops moving entirely.
The bowl of popcorn slips from his hands.
Jason drops dead onto the floor laughing before the popcorn even hits the ground.
“Oh my GOD,” he wheezes. “HE LIKES IT.”
“I do not—”
“You practically wagged your tail!”
“I DID NOT WAG ANYTHING.”
Kory tilts her head thoughtfully. “Actually, your posture did become notably more eager.”
Dick looks like he wants the earth to open beneath him.
Garfield is crying laughing into a throw pillow.
Tim wakes up just long enough to mumble, “Knew it,” before immediately falling back asleep.
And you stare at Dick, who is now aggressively avoiding eye contact while turning the color of a fire hydrant. He is suddenly very interested in cleaning up popcorn one kernel at a time, as he mutters, “It’s not my fault,” under his breath like a man on trial.
Oh.
Oh, this is hilarious.
“You know,” you say slowly, “this explains a lot.”
Dick points a popcorn kernel at you accusingly. “You explain a lot.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It made sense in my head.”
Jason is still dying on the carpet. “He’s so pathetic. This is the best day of my life.”
“Jason,” Dick snaps.
“No, no, keep going,” Jason says delightedly. “Maybe he’ll do a trick. Wanna fetch, good boy?”
Dick throws popcorn at his head.
Jason throws it back.
Garfield joins in.
Within thirty seconds, a full-scale food fight erupts across Titans Tower.
Kory starts launching popcorn, and Tim wakes up again solely to throw an M&M directly at Jason’s forehead before passing out for a second time. Someone knocks over an entire soda.
In the middle of the chaos, Dick grabs your wrist and pulls you backward out of the war zone.
“Come on,” he says, laughing despite himself.
You stumble after him into the hallway, both of you breathless.
The noise from the living room muffles behind the closing door, and suddenly it’s quieter.
Dick’s still holding your wrist ridiculously tight.
You look up at him, amused. “You know they’re never letting you live this down.”
“I know,” he groans.
“You’re kind of making it worse.”
“I know.”
“You literally dropped the popcorn.”
“In my defense,” he says solemnly, “you treated me like a dog!”
You laugh. Dick looks at you for a second too long. Then a fond expression sneaks onto his face before he can stop it. And there it is again, that look of hope.
Like he’s waiting.
You raise an eyebrow.
Dick immediately looks away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
You absolutely do.
Which is why you grin and lean slightly closer.
“Good boy.”
Dick Grayson actually, physically malfunctions.
His head drops against the wall with a quiet thud.
“Oh, you are NEVER surviving this,” you inform him cheerfully.
From the other room, Jason’s voice echoes
“DID HE SHORT-CIRCUIT AGAIN? CYBORG! ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE THE HUMANOID?”
Hi! Love your the secrets out fic! Thanks so much for writing it! Are we plowed to asked for more scenarios regarding isekei reader and the bat fam?
Scenarios(you pick, or none).
1. The boys find out reader actually has a few of the dc comics under her bed that somehow managed to cross over to Gotham with her after her shopping trip to the craft store and the comic book store to get the new releases of absolute Batman comics. Chaos ensues as the boys want to read them and finds out about baby suit joker(Jason has nightmares for a week). (Maybe Bruce finds the “Batman who laughs” comic at the bottom of the bag and reads it and is now horrified.)
2. Damian finds out he is readers most favorite Robin despite the other boys protests on why they should be her favorite Robin,(she even makes the “if Damian dies I’m killing everyone in this room and then myself” joke), (Reason? He’s the only Robin that carries a sword and that’s cool in her book.) also Jason finds out the reason he got killed by the joker was because 5k kids in the 80s called a phone number poll that dc comics set up to vote weather Robin should die or live in the next release and that him dying won out by 72 votes.
3. Tim finds out that there was a 3 season animated series about the original teen titans in readers universe and Tim is devastated that he won’t ever get to watch that show. (Dick finds out that reader thought he was the “least cool” member of the teen titans when the showed aired.)
4. Bruce finds out from a slip of the tongue by reader that Damian mighttttt, actually have an older sibling somewhere after Talia told Bruce that the baby was miscarried and instead she put the baby up for adoption. (But reader insists that the child probably doesn’t exist cause the story was retconned after Damian was created.)
5. Reader accidentally solved a mystery Tim and Bruce were puzzled over for a month after she just takes one look at it and mentions “oh no, that guy didn’t kill them, it was actually the other guy. You’re being led astray. Wait, was it? No I think- no, no, it was! …..or maybe not.” And Tim restrains himself from wanting to strangle reader on weather the “guy” they been tracking down for 2 weeks is the true murderer or not.
6. Reader actually gets kidnapped by the joker and held hostage, reader stumps joker when she says his government name and refuses to elaborate why or how she knows so much about him. Joker is understandably, pretty creeped out by reader and doesn’t find the whole hostage thing funny anymore and just lets reader go, and reader just walks out the building the bat fam was about to storm in to rescue her.
ok so I changed it up a bit to the point where they don't know yet so it can be more funny
Controlled Chaos
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
It has been a while since you had taken this knew identity. Living a life you have read about in the past, being a part of it. The file you had made for yourself seemed airtight, posing as a genius and pretending to be one, when in reality you just had too much prior knowledge of everything. The hardest part was to be calm and not give away too much information, no matter how much you wanted to help them, and when you did they were losing their minds. Just like this case that has been bugging them for sometime now.
"It was definitely Marchetti," Tim said, staring at the evidence board with the intensity of someone who'd been awake for thirty-six hours straight. Which he had been. "The timeline matches, the motive is there—"
"Except Marchetti was in Coast City when the murder happened," you said from where you were perched on the edge of the Batcave's main console, flipping through the case file. "His alibi is airtight."
"Alibis can be faked—"
"Not this one. He was on live television. I checked." You looked up. "Oh, and that guy you've been tracking for two weeks? Not the murderer."
The entire Cave went silent.
"What," Bruce said slowly, "did you just say?"
"The guy you're tracking isn't the killer. It was actually the other guy—Salvatore's brother. The one you ruled out because he was supposedly in prison? Yeah, he got released six months ago on a technicality but it wasn't widely reported. He killed Marchetti's accountant as revenge for testifying against him, made it look like a mob hit to throw you off." You paused. "Wait, was it Salvatore's brother? No, I think—no, no, it was! ...Or maybe not."
Tim made a strangled sound. "We've been working this case for TWO WEEKS—"
"Yeah, I know. I've been watching." You turned a page. "You were on the right track initially, but then you got distracted by the Marchetti connection and missed the prison release records. Easy mistake."
"Easy mistake," Tim repeated faintly.
"How do you know about the prison release?" Bruce asked, his Batman voice in full effect.
"I checked? It's public record. Well, technically it's sealed record, but public enough if you know where to look." You tilted your head. "You guys were so focused on the complicated conspiracy angle that you missed the simple revenge plot. Classic misdirection."
Dick was staring at you like you'd grown a second head. "You solved in five minutes what we've been working on for two weeks?"
"Well, I've been thinking about it for like three days. I just looked at the file today to confirm." You frowned down at the papers. "Although now I'm second-guessing myself. Was it the brother or the cousin? They both had motive..."
"I'm going to have an aneurysm," Tim said.
Jason, who'd been watching from the corner with poorly concealed amusement, started laughing. "Oh man, Timmy got out-detected by the newbie."
"She's not a detective, she's a—" Tim stopped. "What are you, exactly?"
You shrugged. "Bored, mostly. And observant. You guys talk about your cases a lot, and I pay attention."
"You solved a two-week investigation by passively listening to us talk?" Bruce's eye was twitching slightly.
"Is that... bad?"
"No, it's—" Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need to have a conversation about information security."
"But first," Dick said, grinning now, "we need to confirm if it was the brother or the cousin."
"Brother," you decided. "Definitely the brother. The cousin was in Europe. I think. Actually, now I'm not sure again..."
"ORACLE," Tim barked into his comm. "I need you to check prison release records for anyone connected to the Salvatore family in the last year—"
"Already on it," Barbara's voice came back, amused. "And she's right. Salvatore's brother, Marco, was released six months ago. Charges dropped on a technicality. He matches the physical description of the suspect in the Marchetti accountant murder."
The silence in the Batcave was deafening.
"Huh," you said. "So it was the brother. Cool."
Tim slowly turned to look at you. "You just... you casually solved a murder investigation that three of the world's greatest detectives have been working on for two weeks."
"When you put it that way, it sounds impressive. But really, you guys did all the hard work. I just noticed the thing you missed because you were too close to it." You hopped off the console. "Anyway, I'm gonna go make a sandwich. Anyone want one?"
"I want answers," Tim said. "How did you—what's your process—do you have some kind of meta ability we don't know about—"
"I just looked at what you were looking at and thought about it differently?" You were already heading toward the stairs. "You were looking for complicated. I looked for simple. Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one."
After you left, the four of them just stood there.
"So," Jason said finally, "we keeping her or what?"
"She's not a stray cat, Jason," Bruce said.
"Could've fooled me. She showed up, made herself at home, and is now better at our job than we are."
"She's not better—" Tim stopped. "Okay, in this specific instance, she was better. But that doesn't mean—"
"She solved in three days what you couldn't solve in two weeks."
"It was a lucky guess!"
"Was it though?" Dick was grinning. "Because I'm starting to think we might have accidentally acquired a genius."
"She's not a genius, she's just—" Bruce paused. "Actually, Barbara, pull up her file."
"Already did," Barbara said. "You're gonna love this. Genius-level IQ, photographic memory, pattern recognition off the charts. She was flagged by three separate universities for early admission before she was even sixteen."
"Then why is she here instead of at university?" Bruce asked.
"Because she turned them all down. Said higher education was 'boring' and she'd 'rather learn by doing.'" Barbara paused. "She's been auditing your case files for entertainment, apparently."
"Our case files are classified—"
"Yeah, she hacked those about two weeks after moving in. I've been monitoring. She doesn't distribute or misuse the information, just reads them like novels."
"And you didn't think to MENTION THIS?" Tim's voice had gone up an octave.
"I figured you'd notice eventually," Barbara said, completely unrepentant. "Besides, it's been hilarious watching her casually drop information that you all missed."
Jason was still laughing. "Oh man, this is the best thing that's happened all month."
"This is a security nightmare," Bruce said.
"This is an opportunity," Dick corrected. "She's brilliant, she's already here, and she clearly has good instincts. We should train her properly."
"Absolutely not—"
"Bruce, she just solved a case that stumped Tim, you, and Oracle. In three days. While barely trying." Dick crossed his arms. "That's not luck. That's talent."
"That's dangerous," Bruce countered. "She's seventeen—"
"I was younger than that when you took me in," Jason pointed out.
"So was I," Dick added.
"And I," Damian said, appearing from wherever he'd been lurking. "Though I maintain I needed no training, as I was already perfect."
"Not helping, Demon Spawn," Tim muttered.
Bruce looked at all of them, then up at the Cave ceiling like he was asking for divine intervention. "One. One calm child. That's all I asked for."
"Sorry, B," Dick said, not sounding sorry at all. "You keep adopting chaos gremlins. This one just happens to be a chaos gremlin with detective skills."
"I'm not adopting—she's just staying here temporarily—"
"Sure," Jason said. "Temporarily. Like all of us."
The Joker situation happened three weeks later.
You were on your way back from the library—because despite having access to the Batcave's extensive files, you still liked physical books—when a van pulled up.
"Oh, come on," you said as three goons jumped out. "Really? The grab-and-go in broad daylight? That's so derivative."
"Shut up and get in the van," one of them growled.
"No thanks. I'm good."
They grabbed you anyway, which was rude, and threw you in the van. You considered fighting back, but honestly, you were kind of curious where this was going.
The warehouse they took you to was exactly as cliché as you'd expected. Lots of shadows, dramatic lighting, and there—sitting in a chair like he was holding court—was the Joker.
"Well, well, well," he said, grinning that horrible grin. "The Wayne brat. Not the one I usually play with, but you'll do."
"I'm not actually a Wayne," you said. "Common mistake."
"You live in Wayne Manor. Close enough." He leaned forward. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"
"Monologue, probably. Maybe some light torture. Eventually use me as bait to draw out Batman." You looked around the warehouse. "This is the old Amusement Mile location, right? Hasn't this been condemned?"
Joker's smile faltered slightly. "You're not scared."
"I'm a little scared. Mostly annoyed." You studied him. "You know, you're shorter than I expected. The news makes you seem taller."
"I—what—"
"Also, your henchmen are terrible at kidnapping. One of them left a fingerprint on the van door. Very sloppy."
Joker stood up, and okay, maybe you should have been more scared because he pulled out a knife and that was definitely concerning.
"Let's try this again," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he was known for. "I'm going to hurt you. And you're going to scream. And Batman is going to come running. And then we'll have some real fun."
"Okay, but before you do that, can I ask you something?"
"...What?"
"Is your real name Jack Napier or is that just what the media says? Because I've seen conflicting reports."
Joker stared at you. "How do you know that name?"
"Public records. Well, semi-public. You were arrested in 1987 under that name, before the whole acid bath situation. It's all in the Gotham PD archives if you know where to look." You paused. "Oh, also, your current location is being broadcast on the dark web. Did you know that? Someone in your organization is selling you out."
"They're—what—"
"Yeah, there's a tracker on your shoe. Probably from that new guy—what's his name, Dennis? He's actually an undercover GCPD officer. Did you not vet him before hiring?"
Joker looked at his shoe, then back at you, then at his henchmen. "Dennis?"
Dennis, who had been standing in the corner, went pale. "Boss, I can explain—"
"You're a COP?"
"This is awkward," you observed.
What happened next was chaotic. Dennis ran. Two of the other henchmen chased him. Joker was yelling. Someone pulled a gun.
You took the opportunity to slip your restraints, they'd tied them loose, amateurs really, and move toward the exit.
"Where do you think YOU'RE going?" Joker grabbed your arm.
And here's where you made a decision that was either very smart or very stupid.
"Jack Napier," you said clearly. "Also known as the Joker. Born in 1962, grew up in Gotham's East End. Your mother's name was Maureen. You had a younger brother who died when you were twelve. You worked as a chemical engineer before the accident. You have a documented phobia of bats stemming from a childhood incident at Robinson Park."
Joker's grip loosened. He was staring at you with something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite fear, but was definitely unsettled.
"How," he said slowly, "do you know all that?"
"I read. A lot. And I'm very good at connecting information." You met his eyes. "I know things about you that even Batman doesn't know. I know about your first crime—the one you got away with when you were seventeen. I know about the girlfriend who left you right before the accident. I know about the deal you made with Falcone in 1989 that you've kept secret ever since."
"You—" His face was doing something complicated. The grin was gone, replaced by something almost human. Almost vulnerable. "You can't—you shouldn't—"
"I'm not going to tell anyone," you said. "Your secrets are safe with me. I'm just saying... I know things. And I don't think the whole hostage situation is really your style anymore. You've evolved past that. You're more interested in the psychological game now, right? The chaos? Hostages are so 1990s."
Joker laughed. It started small and built to something manic. "Oh, you're good. You're really good. Batman didn't send you, did he?"
"Batman doesn't know I'm here. Neither does anyone else yet. They will soon—I activated my tracker when your guys grabbed me—but right now, it's just us."
"And you're not scared of me."
"I'm appropriately cautious. But no, not really scared." You paused. "You're a man who fell into a vat of chemicals and came out changed. You've built an entire persona around chaos and unpredictability. But underneath it all, you're still just a person. A very damaged, very dangerous person, but a person."
For a long moment, Joker just looked at you.
Then he started laughing again, but this time it was different. Less manic, more genuine.
"Oh, Batsy is going to HATE you," he said, delighted. "You're completely fearless and entirely too smart for your own good." He released your arm, stepping back. "You know what? Go. Just walk out. This—" He gestured around. "—isn't fun anymore. You've ruined it by being interesting."
"So I can just... leave?"
"You were never really in danger. Well, maybe a little. I hadn't decided yet." He waved dismissively. "But now I'm bored and you're creepy and I need to deal with Dennis the traitor. So shoo."
You started backing toward the door. "This is the weirdest kidnapping I've ever been in."
"How many have you been in?"
"Just this one, but still. Weird."
"Get out before I change my mind!"
You got out.
You made it about three blocks before the Batmobile pulled up and Bruce practically fell out of it.
"Are you hurt? Did he—what happened—"
"I'm fine. Joker let me go."
Bruce stopped. "He what?"
"Let me go. We had a conversation. It was educational."
"You had a CONVERSATION with the JOKER?"
"Is that not normal?"
"NO, that is NOT NORMAL—"
The rest of the family pulled up in various vehicles. Dick practically tackled you in a hug. Jason was doing a perimeter check. Tim was scanning you for injuries. Damian was glowering at the warehouse like he could set it on fire with his mind.
"What happened?" Dick demanded. "We got your tracker signal, we were on our way—"
"Joker kidnapped me. We talked. He let me go." You frowned. "Also, he has a mole in his organization. You might want to look into that."
"You TALKED to him?" Tim looked somewhere between horrified and impressed. "What did you talk about?"
"His government name, mostly. And his childhood. And his career trajectory." You paused. "He seems like he's going through something. Very unstable. More than usual."
"She KNOWS HIS GOVERNMENT NAME?" Jason's voice had gone up significantly.
"It's in the archives—"
"THOSE ARE SEALED—"
"Not very well," you pointed out.
Bruce made a sound like a teakettle about to explode.
"Also," you added, "I told him about the mole. And his mother's name. And his fear of bats. He didn't seem happy about that last one."
"You told the Joker we know his secret identity?" Bruce's voice was very, very calm. Which was more terrifying than yelling.
"I mean, you didn't know it. I knew it. So technically I told him that I know his secret identity." You thought about it. "Does that make it better or worse?"
"WORSE," everyone said simultaneously.
"Oh. Well, in my defense, it did get him to let me go without any violence, so tactically it was sound—"
"No," Bruce said. "No, we're going home. We're having a very long discussion about information security, tactical decisions, and why you should NEVER NEGOTIATE WITH THE JOKER."
"I mean, it worked though—"
"NOT THE POINT."
On the drive back to the manor, squished between Dick and Tim in the back of the Batmobile, you reflected that maybe you should have played up the damsel in distress thing more.
But where was the fun in that?
The "very long discussion" turned into more of a family intervention.
"You can't just TELL villains their secret identities!" Tim was pacing. He'd been pacing for twenty minutes.
"Why not? He already knew I knew things. It established credibility."
"It established that you're INSANE," Jason said, but he was grinning. "I mean, I respect it. But you're insane."
"The Joker is not someone you negotiate with," Bruce said for the fourth time. "He's unpredictable, violent, and extremely dangerous—"
"Yes, but he's also dramatic and appreciates a good psychological play. I read his profile." You were sitting on the Batcave's medical cot, having been forced to submit to Alfred's examination despite being completely uninjured. "He responds to intellectual challenge. So I challenged him."
"By telling him you know his deepest secrets," Dick said slowly. "Which, okay, definitely a power move, but also INCREDIBLY RISKY."
"It worked though."
"THIS TIME," Bruce said loudly. "It worked this time. Next time, he might decide to kill you instead of being impressed."
"Then I won't get kidnapped next time."
"THAT'S NOT THE SOLUTION—"
"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted calmly, "perhaps we should focus on the fact that the young miss is safe and unharmed, rather than the methods she employed to achieve that state."
"Alfred, she told the Joker his government name—"
"Which you didn't know," you pointed out. "So really, I gathered intelligence—"
"BY TELLING A SUPERVILLAIN YOU'VE BEEN INVESTIGATING HIM!"
"When you put it that way, it sounds bad.
Damian, who'd been silent up until now, spoke up. "I find her tactics sound. Psychological warfare is a valid strategy."
"Thank you, Damian—"
"However," he continued, "employing such tactics without backup or extraction plan was foolish. Next time, inform someone of your strategy before implementing it."
"There won't BE a next time," Bruce said firmly.
"Statistically unlikely," you said. "I live with vigilantes. The kidnapping rate is probably going to be higher than average."
Jason was laughing again. "Oh man, B, she's got you there."
"This is not funny—"
"It's a little funny," Dick said. "I mean, she outplayed the Joker in a psychological game. That's kind of impressive."
"It's terrifying," Tim corrected. "She's seventeen and she made the Joker uncomfortable enough to let her go. Do you know how insane that is?"
"I prefer to think of it as effective communication," you said.
Bruce sat down heavily in his chair, looking about twenty years older than he had that morning. "We need rules. Clear, explicit rules about acceptable behavior."
"I follow rules," you protested.
"You hacked our classified files."
"That's not against the rules. You never said I couldn't."
"IT'S IMPLIED—"
"Implications aren't rules, Bruce."
Dick was trying very hard not to laugh. Jason had given up and was openly cackling. Even Damian looked amused, though he was hiding it better.
"Okay," Bruce said, clearly trying to regain control of the situation. "New rule. No engaging with supervillains without explicit permission and backup."
"What counts as engaging?"
"Talking to them. Negotiating with them. Telling them their secret identities—"
"Okay, but what if they kidnap me again? Am I allowed to talk then?"
"If you're kidnapped, your priority is escape, not conversation—"
"The conversation facilitated the escape—"
"Okay, everyone out," Alfred said firmly. "Master Bruce needs a moment. And the young miss needs rest, despite her protests of being fine."
"I am fine—"
"You were kidnapped by a homicidal clown. You are going to your room, drinking the tea I prepare for you, and resting. Non-negotiable."
You knew better than to argue with Alfred. Nobody won arguments with Alfred.
As you headed upstairs, you could hear the family still debating in the Cave.
"We should train her properly," Dick was saying. "If she's going to be in these situations anyway—"
"Absolutely not—"
"Bruce, she's already involved. Better to give her the tools to handle it—"
"She's seventeen—"
"I was younger when I died," Jason pointed out, which shut everyone up real quick.
You kept walking. You'd let them figure it out.
In your room, you pulled out your laptop and added some notes to your personal files.
Joker responds to intellectual challenge. Uncomfortable when confronted with personal information, particularly pre-accident identity. Possible leverage for future encounters? Note: Do not mention to Bruce. He will have an aneurysm.
Also: Need to investigate the Falcone connection more. There's something there.
Alfred appeared with tea, as promised. "You gave them quite a fright."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone."
"I know. But perhaps in the future, try to worry them slightly less?" His eyes twinkled. "Though I must admit, the image of you lecturing the Joker on his career trajectory is rather amusing."
"You're not mad?"
"My dear, I've been managing this family for decades. It takes quite a lot to truly upset me." He set the tea down. "Though I would appreciate if you'd avoid being kidnapped in the future. It's terribly inconvenient."
"I'll try."
"That's all I ask." He headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, you did well. You kept your head, used your intelligence, and got yourself out safely. That's more than many could say."
After he left, you drank your tea and thought about the day's events.
You'd been kidnapped by the Joker. You'd psychologically outmaneuvered him. You'd walked away unscathed.
And you'd somehow managed to give the entire Batfamily a collective heart attack in the process.
All in all, a pretty average Tuesday.
Your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
You're interesting. Let's not do this again. I prefer my chaos unpredictable. - J
You deleted the message and made a note to mention it to Barbara. Joker having your number was probably something they should know about.
But maybe not right now. Bruce was already stressed enough.
You'd tell them tomorrow.
Probably.
"So," Stephanie said, sliding into the seat next to you in the Manor's library, "I heard you made the Joker so uncomfortable he just let you go."
"News travels fast."
"You're a legend now. 'The Girl Who Psyched Out the Joker.' It's got a ring to it." She grinned. "Tim's still not over it, by the way. You solved his case AND outsmarted his nemesis in the same month."
"The Joker is Batman's nemesis, not Tim's—"
"Semantics." She pulled out her phone. "Also, you're trending on the dark web. Villains are taking bets on how long you survive."
"That's morbid."
"That's Gotham." She showed you the forum. "You've got pretty good odds, actually. Lots of money on 'she'll talk her way out of anything.'"
You scrolled through the comments. Most were some variation of impressed or terrified. A few were planning to test you themselves.
"I should probably tell Bruce about this."
"Probably. He's going to love it." Steph's grin widened. "So, when are you joining the team officially?"
"What team?"
"Uh, the Bat team? The vigilante squad? The family business?"
"I'm not a vigilante—"
"Yet. Give it time." She stood up. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be great at it. You've already got the most important skill."
"Which is?"
"Driving Bruce crazy while somehow making him proud at the same time." She winked. "That's practically the family motto."
After she left, you went back to your book. But you couldn't focus.
Because maybe Steph had a point. Maybe you were already part of this, whether you'd planned to be or not.
You'd solved their cases. You'd survived a Joker kidnapping. You'd somehow become part of the family dynamic.
And honestly? You kind of liked it.
Even if you did give them all heart attacks on a regular basis.
Especially because of that, actually.
After all, what was family for if not shared chaos and collective anxiety?
Your phone buzzed again. The family group chat that Dick had added you to.
Dick: Family movie night! Mandatory attendance!
Tim: I'm working on a case—
Dick: MANDATORY
Jason: I'm dead. Can't attend.
Dick: You're literally texting from the Manor right now
Jason: My ghost is texting. Very tragic.
Damian: This is frivolous.
Dick: MANDATORY FAMILY BONDING
You: What movie?
Dick: See? She gets it!
Bruce: I have work—
Dick: ESPECIALLY mandatory for you, B
Alfred: I'll prepare popcorn.
Dick: Alfred is the only one who understands family values
You smiled and put your phone away.
Yeah. You could get used to this.
Even if it meant occasionally getting kidnapped by clowns and giving the world's greatest detective a stress migraine.
Maybe especially because of that.
After all, you'd always preferred chaos to boredom.
most people on base know that if anyone on the 141 start getting handsy with each other, to leave the area as fast as possible because theyre not stopping.
then comes reader. soap starts groping at gaz in the common room, and suddenly its entirely empty, save for reader. whos just casually playing a game on their phone on the couch, not a care in the world. even when the boys start giving each other handjobs, they barely spare more than a glance.
and because our boys are Freaks, once it happens twice and a third time, they start seeking reader out. finding them reading a book and just casually having a sloppy makeout sesh next to them. and reader just doesnt give a shit at all until price takes it as an invitation to point reader out, calling them over to give ghost a quick handy, since theyre right there.
- 🪶 (in a cardboard box at work rn)
God dammit 🪶 EVERY ONE OF YOUR ASKS MAKES ME EAT THE BARS OF MY CAGE!! I won't have any metal left to eat sooooon this is so good
You hadn't noticed when Johnny and Kyle started grinding on each other, or when the room was suddenly empty of all of your other coworkers. You were drawn into your book, pulled out of the immersive experience when you hear the sound of slick skin and moaning.
You glance up, a little surprised to see Johnny and Kyle jerking each other off side by side. Their eyes were locked on you, either getting off on your presence or your indifference. You didn't care which one, turning back to your book and continuing to read.
Kyle shudders at your indifference, his hips jumping into Johnny's hand as he cums onto his stomach. Johnny wasn't far behind, eyes rolling back in pleasure as Kyle kept overstimulating him. "Kyle, Kyle, slow down!" He pleas, but Kyle is more focused on getting your attention again.
You knew that a team of soldiers were probably going to be horny mutts, but you hadn't expected them to be on each other so often. If you were watching a movie in the rec room, Simon would pull Johnny beside you. You could hear the slapping of skin on skin and Johnny moaning like a cat in heat, bit you only spared them a glance or two.
In the kitchen, you might see Kyle on his knees for his captain, deep throating his superior during breakfast. You didn't seem to mind the sounds of gagging from under the table as you ate your toast and jam. You didn't really care what your team got up to or where they did it. They had something going, and you weren't interested in kicking up a fuss about it.
They were frequent fuckers. It seemed like every time you settled down for a bit, one or two of them would find their way over. Hot heavy touches, wet mouths, nearly pornographic moans, you didn't really mind it. The sound of Price clicking his tongue got your attention from your book.
"Y/N, you want to sit here and look pretty. Come put your mouth to use." You don't know if it was his commanding tone or the sounds of sloppy make outs around you, but you obey immediately. You set the book aside, dropping to your knees and crawling between his thighs.
"That's it. Open wide." John coos softly as he unzips his pants, pulling himself free. You open your mouth immediately, groaning when the taste of him hits your tongue. You'd may not have minded Kyle sucking John off, but you had always wondered what it would be like to be in his place.
You gag slightly when he hits the back of your throat, whining nervously when he pulls your head back. "Don't worry, love. I'll make it fit." He chuckles as he adjusts his grip on your head. "Just open wide. You've seen Kyle down here enough to know what to do."
